Page 2 of The Ruin of a Rake
Eleanor rose to her feet. Julian didn’t know whether to be amused or gratified that she was wearing utterly correct morning attire. It was the striped muslin ensemble they had picked out together—which was to say Julian chose it for her when she showed no interest in refreshing her wardrobe for the season. He noted that at some point in the past several weeks she had stopped wearing a cap. Courtenay’s doing, Julian supposed. A lock of her sand-colored hair, identical to Julian’s own, tumbled onto her shoulder, and he resisted the urge to reach out and pin it back up.
“You’ll not come into my house and talk like that.” Eleanor’s fists were balled at her sides, dots of pink on her pale cheeks. Julian would never get used to how pale his sister was in England, after a childhood spent under the tropical sun. Nevertheless, she looked extremely well, and the most tiresome part of Julian’s nature bitterly wondered if that was what taking a lover had done for his sister.
“Perhaps we could have this conversation elsewhere,” he suggested through gritted teeth.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Julian was aware of Courtenay looking back and forth between them like a spectator at a tennis match, when the light shifted and Julian could make out the title of the book Courtenay had open on one long leg.
The Brigand Prince of Salerno.
Left alone in the parlor, Courtenay eyed his empty glass. He very much wanted to fill it with some of that Bordeaux Eleanor had lying about, drain it, then repeat the process several times over in rapid succession. But he knew with a certainty born of vast experience that drunkenness wasn’t going to make anything better. He’d only have a rotten headache and still be no closer to fixing his shambles of a life.
It was abundantly clear that he ought not to have come back to England. There was nothing for him here—only sneering prigs like Eleanor’s brother. And the usual debt, ostracism, and the sort of scandal that had seemed thrilling at twenty but now, at a few years past thirty, was tedious. He was no longer amused by scandalizing society. But that ship had sailed long ago: London society had made up its mind to be scandalized by him, and he could hardly blame them. He seemed to drift into infamy without the slightest effort, and rumors of his extravagance and his exploits had traveled back to England long before he did.
The soddingBrigand Princewas the final straw. It had been published weeks after his return to England, and whoever had written it had drawn a perfect portrait of him. He knew this because he had been told so by several gleeful acquaintances. Every detail was precisely correct, from the length of his hair to the drawling manner of his speech to the way he tied his cravat—sloppily, he had always thought—but the villain ofThe Brigand Princespent hours berating his valet before the looking glass, so that was what Courtenay was believed to do. All the rest of Don Lorenzo’s misdeeds were attributed to Courtenay as well. He didn’t bother correcting anyone. The novel had only proven what everybody had believed all along.
Courtenay was effectively stranded in London, a city populated by people who thought him a monster. He had spent the last of his money getting here, and his affairs were in too much confusion for him to figure out when, if ever, he could expect his coffers to be replenished. He had no family to speak of; his sister was dead and his nephew far away, and it was nobody’s fault but his own.
Instead of refilling his glass, he tossed his cigarillo into the fire and rose to his feet. The cook would need to be attended to first. He didn’t consider himself a man of many talents, but years living abroad with a tight income and a spendthrift sister had given him a background in household diplomacy. No matter what, one maintained peace with the cook and trusted her to negotiate treaties with the rest of the staff. But before reaching the kitchen stairs, he heard footsteps in the foyer. He turned to find a girl struggling into her cloak, while the footman stood awkwardly by, his hands hovering midair.
“Good God, man, she’s a tart, not a leper,” he hissed into the footman’s ear. “Not to mention she’s her ladyship’s guest.” That last bit was something of an overstatement. She was one of the girls Norton had produced midway through last night’s revelries. Norton and the rest of his assembled merry makers were nowhere to be seen; the house had fallen silent upon Medlock’s arrival and had resumed its usual air of serene, chilly silence. This girl was likely the last to leave. Courtenay took the cloak from the footman and held it out for her to step into.
“Thank you, m’lord,” the girl said, flashing a crooked smile over her shoulder. Christ, but when had tarts gotten so young? Courtenay suddenly felt like a lecherous old roué. “Pleasant change of pace not to get pawed at, if you know what I mean,” she added.
Courtenay raised an eyebrow. “I trust young Norton knew how to behave himself.”
“If you’re asking whether he and his friend paid me, then aye, they did.”
That wasn’t what Courtenay was asking, but he hardly knew how to ask what he really needed to know. English was a terrible language for this sort of nuance. Add that to the running tally of grievances against the motherland. He reached a hand into his coat pocket, and was almost surprised to feel his fingertips brush against the cool solidity of a coin. A crown. Far too much if Norton had already paid, but unspeakably paltry if they had mistreated her. Either way, he could ill afford it. He handed it over to the girl anyway. At another time, another place, Courtenay would have tossed it to her with a wink and a smile and an open invitation, but now he pressed it into her palm.
She closed her ungloved fingers around his own. “I’m at the opera if you want to call on me after a show. Ask for Nan.” Her fingers were warm and contained the promise of hours spent not alone.
He pulled his hand away.
Courtenay leaned against the door frame, watching the girl descend to the street. He felt nothing more than a kindly, avuncular interest in her. How demoralizing.
After a decade of debauching himself most comprehensively, he found that he couldn’t quite muster up the appropriate enthusiasm for any of his old pleasures. London seemed haunted—by ghosts of dead friends, of bad decisions, of good times that now were tainted by the knowledge of what came later. He couldn’t enjoy himself properly with the ghosts whispering in his ear, reminding him of the price of pleasure. It was a sin and a shame to let a talent go to waste, and Courtenay had once had a genius for depravity.
Courtenay pushed himself off the doorframe and headed back into Eleanor’s house, patting the pocket where he kept the miniature portrait of his nephew.
Chapter Two
Julian glanced around the disused parlor Eleanor had led him to. “We haven’t disrupted any fornication, have we?” he asked dryly.
“Enough, Julian. Enough. Things got out of hand with some of my guests last night, but that’s none of your business,” she said primly. She tilted her chin up, just the way he had taught her. She looked like a duchess, but her eyes were furious. Julian was about to respond that it was far more than one night, but Eleanor cut him off. “No, don’t you dare argue with me. I’m a grown woman—a married woman—and if I choose to behave abominably it’s no concern of yours.”
Julian wanted to say that if she indeed chose to behave abominably, she had gotten off to a rollicking start. Instead he paced over to the hearth and started poking at the fire. “We had a bargain,” he said without turning around.We were friends, was what he wanted to say.We were allies, until Courtenay interfered.
“I held up my end of the bargain. I married well.” She broke off into an anxious laugh. “So well, my husband has kept the diameter of the globe between us in order to let me spend my fortune in peace. There’s no reason I shouldn’t live out the rest of my days doing precisely as I please.”
He never knew what to say when Eleanor alluded to her marriage. That brought them too close to discussing the actual terms of their bargain, and Julian wasn’t certain he was equal to that. “What about me?” he asked. Damn the plaintive note that had crept into his voice.
“Whataboutyou, Julian? Everyone considers you the consummate gentleman.” Julian was not certain whether he only imagined a trace of irony onconsiders.“You don’t need my cooperation anymore.”
He would always need her. “So you’ve decided to become a demondaine,” he retorted, because it was easier to be rude than it was to be honest about how abandoned he felt, how much he wished everything could go back to the way it had been a few months ago. “I came this morning because Tilbury sent word that your servants were giving notice and your household was in shambles.”
“You can see for yourself that isn’t the case. Tilbury exaggerates. But if you’re so eager to be helpful, then there’s a favor you could do for me.”
