Page 37 of The Ruin of a Rake
“Yes,” Courtenay agreed. He hadn’t considered that perhaps that feeling of not wanting to revisit the past was a common thing; he had assumed it had to do with not wanting to dwell on scenes that had memories of his failings sprinkled liberally over the top like coarse pepper on a cheap cut of meat. Before he could think twice, he reached over and squeezed Medlock’s hand. He felt Medlock go still beneath that layer of fine kidskin. But Medlock’s fingers wrapped around his own, briefly but unmistakably, before he pulled his hand away.
Chapter Fifteen
As they approached the stable block, Courtenay realized that his heart was racing.
“Needs a new roof,” Medlock muttered, indicating the stables. “Four servants sitting idly about. Terrible use of that money you so kindly send.” Medlock’s voice was tight with irritation. Courtenay smiled, distracted momentarily by Medlock’s annoyance.
After Medlock’s coachman had turned the horses over to the stable boys, Courtenay led the way along the path that led to the main door.
Courtenay had no preconceived vision of what this visit would be like—what he would say, what his mother might look like after the past ten years, whether he would meet his mother’s husband and stepchildren. It was all a blank. So, he was entirely grateful when Medlock took the matter in hand, producing his calling card and his best manners when a footman—too young to recognize Courtenay as the exiled master of the house—answered the door.
After a wait that Courtenay found disorienting and Medlock, judging by the sad shake of his head, found grossly improper, they were ushered into a sitting room that Courtenay remembered as his mother’s morning room. And there, half reclined on a sofa, sat his mother. Her hair was the same black it had been ten years ago, unspoiled by gray. Her back was to the window, but Courtenay saw no signs of increased age on her pale face. Her gown was the soft green that she always favored because it brought out the unusual color of her eyes. Their eyes.
He was filled with the old, futile desire to please her, to do something right for once.
“Mrs. Blakely, how kind of you to receive us,” Medlock said in much the same tone he would likely use to inform a person that they had a something embarrassing in their teeth.
His mother murmured something about the visit being a pleasant surprise, in a tone that left no doubt about the visit being deeply and profoundly unpleasant. Then her eyes cut over to where Courtenay stood, slightly behind Medlock, and he saw recognition dawn slowly on her face. Just as quickly, her expression resumed its indifference.
“Jeremiah, my dear, I had no idea you were back in England.”
Courtenay opened his mouth but Medlock spoke first. “Dear Mrs. Blakely, of course you did not. Perhaps the vicar’s daughter knew, but I dare say she wouldn’t trouble you with such unwanted information.” As he spoke, he angled his body slightly, as if to shield Courtenay from the conversation. Before the lady could reply, Medlock briskly changed the topic. “I came to see if you required assistance in removing from the house before... what day was it I specified?”
As if he didn’t know perfectly well. Courtenay’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile he hadn’t thought possible in this room, in this company.
“It was Midsummer, I believe,” Medlock continued, without waiting for an answer. “And now it is halfway through April. When you supply me with the address to which you intend to remove, I can provide whatever assistance you may require.”
Courtenay watched as his mother calculated how best to manage her unwanted visitors and how to thwart their purpose. “Who precisely are you, Mr. Medlock?” she asked, not bothering to rise from her sofa or to offer the gentlemen seats. If anything, she sank even deeper into the cushions as if to signify her contempt for her visitors.
Medlock glanced at Courtenay over his shoulder. “I see you learned from the best,” he said, loud enough to be heard across the room. Much lower, for Courtenay’s ears alone, he murmured, “And I was right about your looks.” Courtenay stifled an unexpected laugh.
“You wouldn’t have heard of me, except that I’m managing your son’s business affairs. He requires that this house be emptied.” He glanced around, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Except, of course, for any property belonging to the estate.” From his coat pocket, he produced a small book and a pencil.
Courtenay hadn’t expected that Medlock would cast himself as the humble man of business, it being very close to the origins he had tried so hard to rise above.
“Lord Courtenay,” Medlock continued, “will you do me the favor of indicating which items you recall as being the property of the estate rather than your mother’s personal effects?”
That might have been the first time Medlock used his title, and it was all to remind his mother who she had cast off and that she was about to find herself without the lion’s share of her possessions if that was what her son wanted.
Courtenay nodded, helplessly borne along the current of Medlock’s wishes.
“Now, Mrs. Blakely,” Medlock said, cordiality underlaid with a core of ruthlessness that Courtenay found made him want to simultaneously take a step backwards and take the man into his arms, “against my advice, your son has decided to settle an annuity on you and to assist you in procuring a suitable house.”
Courtenay could see how this negotiation would go: every time his mother balked, Medlock would remind her of what she stood to lose by being difficult, and what she stood to gain—or retain—by cooperating. No wonder the man had been able to manage his family’s company when he had been little more than a child. He was frankly terrifying.
“I read that book about you, Jeremiah,” his mother said in a blatant effort to regain the upper hand. “It seems like you’ve had a good many adventures.”
Medlock opened his eyes wide. “What book is this?” he asked innocently. “The only book I can possibly think of is that coarse novel people like to say is about Lord Courtenay but is likely nothing but the filthy imaginings of a pamphleteer. You can’t mean that one, though.”
Courtenay watched as his mother’s green eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He knew that look. It was like watching a man reload a pistol.
“I was so relieved to hear that Simon was settled in England. All that gallivanting around Europe in such low company can’t have been wholesome.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “Have you seen him lately?” she asked, a sinister smile playing over her mouth. “I heard his father is... protective. I’m so glad that somebody is.”
Courtenay felt cold, as if an icy hand had wrapped around his neck. Being kept away from Simon was bad enough, but the fact that virtually everybody else—even his mother—thought that he was a bad influence made him want to sink into the earth. Simon had learned at least four languages by what his mother was called gallivanting, and had been happy and loved. Courtenay had been a part of making that so.
“Oh, heavens, I’m so glad you brought that up, Mrs. Blakely. I thought it was going to be devilish awkward, because nobody really wants to mention the fact that Simon doesn’t like to see you or his aunt. Sporting of you to get that out in the open. I say, my sister, Lady Standish, will be so glad to hear that her dear friend Lord Courtenay has been restored to the bosom of his family. I’ll be sure to tell her to spread the good news far and wide.”
Courtenay nearly choked at that. He realized that he was watching his mother get blackmailed, and that he was perfectly fine with it. Medlock sank gracefully, albeit uninvited, into one of the pretty fireside chairs. “Now, how about you ring for tea and we can hash out the details?” Medlock spoke with all the affability of a viper. And then he turned deferentially to Courtenay. “Is that acceptable, my lord?”
