Page 5 of The Ruin of a Rake
Julian would never get over the strangely illicit thrill of being granted access to the drawing rooms of people like Lady Montbray, people who had titles and pedigrees stretching back centuries and money from vague sources that nobody ever mentioned.
It felt like an accomplishment but also—and surely this said no favorable things about Julian’s character—deliciously fraudulent, even though the drawing room belonged to somebody he had called a friend for years. Well, perhaps not a friend. He wasn’t entirely certain that he had friends, apart from Eleanor, and even that seemed doubtful these days. Friendship and rampant social climbing did not mix. Or more to the point, friendship and Julian did not mix: he was cold and guarded, composed of layers upon layers of secrets, each painted over with a polite lie. That was the way he liked it: he preferred the smooth, sleek varnish of falsehood to the unpleasant truths beneath. He didn’t want to think about the torpor of helpless days confined indoors, nor about sisters with troubling new appetites for vice. Why the devil would he invite a person into his life to get a closer look at precisely the things he avoided dwelling on? That was what friends were, people who could look at one’s inner nastiness the way Eleanor looked at pond scum under her microscope. No thank you.
He smoothed his hand down his waistcoat—dove-gray silk embellished with only the most tasteful suggestion of a stripe—and waited for Lady Montbray’s response.
Lady Montbray looked momentarily as if she might deny any knowledge of Eleanor’s recent foray into disrepute. When she spoke, she looked at Julian with the shrewdness of a card player trying to understand why an opponent had put down an unexpected hand. “I had always thought that if Lady Standish wished to disgrace herself,” she said slowly, “she’d do it by wearing trousers in public or setting fire to her house during one of her scientific misadventures. I certainly hadn’t expectedLord Courtenayto figure into it.”
Julian sighed with unfeigned relief. A lesser person might have made him explain the entire mess in excruciating, incriminating detail. “I knew you’d understand. Nobody could have expected Courtenay to be in England, much less to have taken up with Eleanor.”
“I take it they are...” She decorously let her voice trail off into polite vagueness.
“It hardly matters.” No answer Julian gave would stop gossip from circulating, and besides, one never looked more ridiculous than when protesting that salacious gossip was untrue. It spoilt everyone’s fun.
Lady Montbray’s deceptively innocent eyes grew bright with suppressed mirth. “I should think it matters a good deal to her. Is he as handsome as his portraits?”
Courtenay had left England when Lady Montbray was still in the schoolroom. She and Julian had both had their first London season six years ago: she as the wealthy and marriageable daughter of an earl and he as the heir to a shipping fortune and brother to a newly married peeress. Neither of them had met Courtenay before his exile, but the stories of his misdeeds had been whispered by ladies behind fans and celebrated by gentlemen in smoky clubs.
“I daresay he is,” Julian acknowledged. He was assailed by the image of Courtenay sprawled in the chair in Eleanor’s study. Handsome hardly covered it. Julian felt about Courtenay’s looks the way radicals thought about money: that it was deeply unfair and problematic for one person to possess such a disproportionate share. “His hair is shockingly long. Almost to his shoulders.” It was almost as if hewantedeveryone to know he didn’t hold himself to decent standards.
“I understand that he’s in with a rather artistic set,” Lady Montbray offered. “Louisa Norton’s youngest son, I believe.”
He nodded grimly. “And now Eleanor wants me to rehabilitate Courtenay’s reputation. I told her it wouldn’t be possible, of course.”
She glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. “I should think not.”
That was not precisely the reaction he had hoped for, even though it echoed his own doubts. He took another sip of tea. “I’ll give it my best, though. Eleanor dearly wants this.”
A shadow crossed her face. “I see.” After all, she knew about misbehaving siblings. Her brother had been entangled in some or another sordidness—gambling away his fortune and consorting with low company, Julian gathered, although it had all been nicely hushed up—that led to the man not being widely received by people of quality, and instead living in a quiet sort of way. “But what’s in it for you?”
He nearly flinched. “It’s not like you to be so mercenary.”
“But it is like you, Mr. Medlock.”
“Touché.” He felt his cheeks start to flame. These days, most people didn’t refer to his origins, at least not to his face.
“That wasn’t an aspersion on your parentage, only a statement of fact. You aren’t one to hold your good name cheap, sister or no sister.”
Medlock felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. “Well, if I can clear Courtenay’s name a bit, then that will stop Eleanor from being tarnished by association, which in turn will help me.” He hesitated. “I do have a proposition that might interest you.”
“Do you, now?” A fine blonde eyebrow slanted upwards.
“Are you planning to attend the opera tomorrow?” When she didn’t immediately respond, he added, “I promise to make it worth your while.”
She hesitated. “What would I wear? None of my opera gowns are in mourning colors.” She was supposed to be in her last months of mourning for the late Lord Montbray, but never had Julian seen a lady make such a halfhearted observation of mourning conventions. Today she wore a rose muslin day gown, not a stitch of black on her, nor even gray or lavender. Not that he could blame her; the late Lord Montbray hadn’t merited much in the way of mourning if half of what one heard about him had been true.
And that was just the devil of it. Lady Montbray had been delighted when her old sot of a husband had decamped for foreign shores, and likely even happier when he broke his neck. When Julian and Eleanor had left India and established themselves in London, Julian had expected Eleanor’s husband to follow. But when he didn’t, Eleanor hadn’t seemed too cut up about it, so Julian assumed she was one of the many ladies who were only too glad when their husbands made themselves scarce. Julian realized now that he had been wrong. Eleanor was unhappy, and likely regretted ever having come to England and wished Julian at the devil. It had been six years, though, six years of not talking about her happiness or her marriage or what she wanted, and he couldn’t simply waltz up to her and ask her whether he had ruined her life. But it had also been six years of improving health for Julian, six years of gradually getting used to the idea that he wasn’t going to die anytime soon, and six years of the sneaking suspicion that Eleanor had paid the price for his life. No, he couldn’t talk to her about this. It was always best not to ask questions if one didn’t want to know the answer, best not to acknowledge problems that had no solutions.
“You have your white silk,” he said, glad to have a problem he could solve. “That’s perfectly proper.”
“And you’ll escort me? I take it that’s your proposition? That’s good of you, Julian, but—”
“No. I’m going with Lord Courtenay.”
“Goodness,” she breathed. “I’ll be sure to polish off my opera glasses so I can watch the entiretongo into a frenzy. And so I can get a good look at the man himself. But, Mr. Medlock, are you quite certain this is a good idea?” Concern flickered across her face. “I’d hate to see Lord Courtenay embroil you in any kind of scandal.”
At the thought of the sort of scandals that Courtenay usually found himself embroiled in, a wave of heat washed over Julian’s body. Embarrassment but also something much more dangerous. “I’m quite certain it’s a terrible idea,” he admitted. But he wasn’t only talking about his good name being sullied. He also thought of the way Courtenay’s voice was an insinuating purr, the way he had leaned toward Julian in Eleanor’s parlor.
A terrible idea, indeed.
