Page 3 of The Ruin of a Rake
Julian wanted to leap at the chance to be useful, to be busy, to be at all relevant to Eleanor. “Anything,” he said.
“It’s Courtenay—”
“No.”
Eleanor sighed. “The Brigand Princehas been the final nail in the coffin of his reputation.”
“I should have thought that Courtenay’s reputation was long dead and buried. Well beyond the point of coffins and nails.”
“You know how it is when people see a thing in print. They take it as the word of God.”
“The book doesn’t exactly specify that it’s about Courtenay,” Julian said, focusing his attention on the swirling pattern of the carpet. While he didn’t quite like the idea of people believing all the nonsense in that silly novel, seeing Courtenay in Eleanor’s study this morning, in disordered evening dress and rumpled hair, and havingquiteclearly spent the night, he felt that the man deserved everything that was coming to him.
“It hardly needs to, and you know it. The trouble is that Lord Radnor readThe Brigand Princeand now won’t let Courtenay see his nephew.”
“Radnor is one of your friends. Surely you can persuade him to your way of thinking,” Julian said doubtfully. “I can’t see that there’s much I can do about it.”
“I’m very cross with him, but he only wants to keep Simon safe from what he thinks is a corrupting influence.”
“I daresay Radnor has the right of it. If I had a nephew, I wouldn’t want him anywhere near Courtenay either.”
“Well, you’re not in any danger of getting a nephew, are you?” Eleanor was nearly shouting, and when Julian gestured for her to lower her voice, she only got louder. “Courtenay has been a friend to me.” Julian resisted the urge to respond that the two of them seemedveryfriendly indeed. “He practically raised that child. And now he can’t even visit him. You’re always looking to interfere with things that aren’t your concern. Why can’t this be one of them? Why can’t you fix things for Courtenay?”
It was becoming increasingly clear to Julian that Eleanor was beside herself. He desperately wanted to suggest to her that she leave London and spend a few weeks at some quiet seaside resort that catered to overwrought gentlewomen. But he knew his sister far too well to make so disastrous a suggestion. “I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupted. “You’re invited everywhere, you’re acquainted with everyone. Bring him about with you. Let people see that he’s harmless.”
Julian nearly reared back in astonishment. “Bring him about with me,” he repeated in tones of incredulity. “Like a pet monkey or a parrot?”
“Let him borrow some of your respectability. Let a bit of your polish rub off on him.”
Julian wanted to protest that this wasn’t how respectability worked. He had spent years acquiring the shine of gentility that one usually had to be born with. But the truth was that he had helped himself to other people’s respectability—he had finagled invitations and then gradually insinuated himself into higher and higher social circles. He had borrowed and stolen and finally hoarded up respectability until now he had more than he knew what to do with.
“What, do you expect me to get him vouchers to Almack’s? Nothing doing, Eleanor.”
She appeared to seriously be considering the question. “No, perhaps not Almack’s—”
“Not anywhere. I’ve worked too hard to throw my good name away by spending time with the likes of Lord Courtenay. You have your title even if you choose to consort with every rake and scoundrel in Christendom.” Without his good name, Julian was a merchant from the colonies, a man with tastes that wouldn’t bear looking into. Eleanor knew this. And she was asking him anyway.
“For me, Julian,” Eleanor said, and now she was almost begging.
“A bit rich to ask me to parade your lover around town. Badton, Eleanor.”
“He’s not my lover,” she sniffed, “but I thank you for your concern for my virtue, brother.”
“I don’t give a damn about your virtue. I care about whether you’re happy.” And it was true, he realized. He’d rather his sister not be the subject of malicious gossip, but more than that he was worried about her. “Dash it, Eleanor. What am I supposed to think with all this going on?” He gestured vaguely to indicate the house and its inhabitants. “You’ve, ah, had a bit of a turnabout in the past few months.”
She had a smudge of ink on her jaw, and he wanted to wipe it away, the way he used to when they were young and ambitious. “Courtenay and his friends are amusing. They sing and play charades and tell droll stories. They fall in love and fall out of love and when I’m near them I feel alive. You won’t begrudge me that, will you?”
When she put it like that, he wouldn’t begrudge her anything. She was his older sister, his best friend, his accomplice, and more than anything he wanted to make things right with her. He wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, the way they were supposed to be, but if that wasn’t possible he’d settle for whatever she was offering. She had the upper hand in this negotiation.
If helping her lover, or whoever Courtenay was to her, was what she required, then he would agree. “All right,” he conceded. “I’ll help him.”
Before Courtenay reached the kitchen stairs, a door swung open. It was Eleanor’s dull brother, a prim sort of fellow who always looked at Courtenay as if he were a fly in the pudding. Courtenay knew the type well: stuffy, smug, and terribly concerned about what everybody else thought about him.
Courtenay didn’t have the patience for this. He wanted to settle things with Eleanor’s cook, get some sleep, and... well, that was as far as his planning took him. Surely Medlock had someplace else to be. His club. A middling tailor. Some kind of chapel. Whatever normal gentlemen did with their time, and which Courtenay had never bothered with—and had never been asked to participate in.
“Come in here.” Medlock gestured imperiously to an open door. “Please,” he added, and somehow made it sound like an insult.
