Page 22 of The Ruin of a Rake
Eleanor had mentioned that Radnor was having a hard time finding a house to let somewhere in the vicinity of Harrow, so as to be near Simon when he started school. Courtenay’s house would do quite well. It didn’t matter that it was currently inhabited; indeed, he took a vicious satisfaction in writing to Mrs. Blakely, informing her of Lord Courtenay’s intentions to let Carrington Hall.
Next he wrote to Radnor’s secretary. This was a Mr. Turner—or so he claimed—who had at some point been a sort of confidence artist. Julian had debated telling Radnor that his secretary was probably up to no good, but decided that polite, proper Mr. Medlock wouldn’t discuss such a thing. So instead he wrote Turner a very cordial letter informing him of a house that might meet his employer’s requirements.
This plan had the added benefit of putting Radnor in Courtenay’s debt. Julian would see to it that Courtenay’s house was offered to Radnor at well below the cost of similar houses in the neighborhood. Even better, he’d persuade Courtenay to allow Radnor to explode the conservatory or build canals in the rose garden or whatever other lunacy his scientific pursuits might require. They’d never find another owner willing to allow that.
He was perhaps overstepping by offering the property to Radnor without mentioning this fact to Courtenay, but if anything was clear, it was that Courtenay couldn’t manage his own affairs. He paid his debts on time, which was so unusual a practice among gentlemen as to be nearly eccentric, and gave money to whoever asked him. Really, he wasn’t fit to go outside on his own, let alone manage a complicated estate.
With the income from the rent of the Stanmore property, Courtenay would be able to properly staff and live in his London townhouse. And if Courtenay’s own funds fell slightly short, Julian would quietly deposit some of his own money into Courtenay’s account to make up the difference, and nobody needed to be the wiser. At the prospect of creating a budget and finessing the numbers until they were behaving themselves, he nearly rubbed his hands together in glee. Lord, he had been bored. His brain had been turning to rot these past months. This was the problem with living in the space between illnesses, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He couldn’t do anything more meaningful than arrange for Eleanor’s furniture to be reupholstered.
And, well, he had done a bit more than that last fall while recovering from his last illness, although he tried not to think about it, as one always tried to avoid dwelling on one’s lapses into vulgarity.
But the sad fact of the matter was that he had written a novel, for God’s sake. A half-demented sensational novel. Julian had regretted it almost as soon as he had deliveredThe Brigand Princeto the printers. No doubt it had been slightly shabby of him to have used Courtenay as a model for his villain, but he had written the manuscript before even meeting Courtenay. Only later had he gone back to map Courtenay’s looks and mannerisms onto the villain. At first he had though it rather Courtenay’s own fault for behaving precisely as one expected an evil mastermind to do. All that lurking and brooding and sultry staring.
The truth was more complicated, though. Julian had poured everything into that book that he couldn’t have in the real limits of his life. At a time when he was confined to his bed, he had written pages and pages of adventure. He, a man who hid his desires and obfuscated his background, created a hero and heroine who had no need for artifice or dissembling, so pure of heart and motive were they. He had given his sweet, dull-witted Agatha a clear purpose in life and an ally with whom to achieve it. At the end, they lived happily ever after.
He had filled the pages of that book with everything he could never have, would never let himself admit he wanted. Courtenay—beautiful, dangerous, and indifferent to censure—had to go into the book as a matter of course.
Well, nobody would ever know he had writtenThe Brigand Prince, least of all Courtenay. Perhaps if he used the proceeds from the book to right Courtenay’s ship, that would be restitution enough. He could use the money to hire some staff for the Albemarle-Street townhouse. That way at least Julian wasn’t actually profiting off Courtenay’s shaming.
The trouble was that now he had allowed himself a taste of one impossible thing, he worried that he might keep wanting more. He’d want honesty. He’d want to be known for who he really was. He’d want to let people see past the carefully polished exterior to the man within.
It would bedreadful.
He was going to think only about Courtenay’s money, or lack thereof, and not about the man himself. He would keep his mind busy, filled with things that were not memories of Courtenay’s hands and mouth and the words he had spoken. He would not itemize and catalogue the ways in which their encounter had differed from the sort of discreet and cordial interlude he used to prefer—no, which he still preferred, because last night had changed absolutely nothing. If he went long enough without thinking about it, the memories would fade, or at least be covered up by more layers of protective varnish, and it would be like it never happened in the first place. He’d go back to his calm, friendly encounters and he wouldn’t feel that his life was any poorer for it.
The morning post brought a stack of bills and a single letter. Courtenay didn’t even bother opening the bills. He simply tossed them into the trunk with the rest of the lot for Medlock to deal with and tore open the letter. A quick glance at the signature told him it was from Radnor’s secretary. Radnor hadn’t even bothered to pick up the pen himself, which meant the letter could contain no good news. Indeed, it was terse and uncompromising, worded to cut him to the quick. Courtenay was kindly requested to direct all future correspondence through his lordship’s solicitors, Messrs. Winston and Haughton, Lincoln’s Inn. It was as efficient a dismissal as Medlock’s had been in the early hours of the morning.
He balled up the letter and threw it in the trunk with everything else he didn’t want to think about. The trunk was getting damned full.
He grabbed his hat and walked to Eleanor’s house. She was home, thank God, because he didn’t feel equal to spending the day on his own. The house was quiet, empty, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the cool marble of the vestibule. It was a grand house, richly furnished with the best of everything. A good many people would envy Eleanor, and for good reason. But, walking through the barren corridors, he thought he had been happier in that Florentine debtors’ prison than Eleanor was in her fine house.
He found her in her back parlor, and it struck him that he hadn’t seen her outside this room in more than a week. She wasn’t going to lectures or salons, she wasn’t attending the theater or any of the events that were beginning to be held even this early in the season. Watching her bent over the letter she was writing, he had the sense that her melancholy was spreading through her like a cancer.
He shut the door and, when Eleanor didn’t look up from her work, he opened it and shut it again, this time loudly.
“Oh, good day, Courtenay. Did you come for luncheon?”
“Shouldn’t you be going out to luncheons with your lady friends?”
“I could ask you much the same thing.”
“I ought to go to luncheons? Not likely.”
“You ought to be with lady friends. Or, any friends at all, really. As for me, you call on me every day. So does Julian. That’s enough.”
She madeenoughsound like a terrible fate. “Oh, Eleanor,” he said. “I really am worried about you.”
“I have my health and a good deal of money,” she said crisply, “and with any luck I’ll have a patent on a telegraphical device before midsummer, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Her voice faltered on the last few words. And then she burst into tears. He took her hand and drew her up into an embrace.
“I’m trying to figure out a way through the next few decades of my life,” she said, wiping her eyes on his waistcoat, “but I haven’t done it yet.”
“You will,” he said into her hair.
“I know, but it’s nothing like how I thought it would be, and it’s taking my mind some time to recalibrate, I think.”
Courtenay had never had any vision of his future. He had always played the hand he was dealt without too much concern over the next round. But he understood what it meant to look around at your lot in life and be sorely disappointed.
“Got a letter from Radnor’s secretary,” he said, thinking some outrage might distract her. “Basically told me to sod off in the most polite language.”
