Page 16 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Oliver feared there could be no happy reason for Anne Sutherland’s presence in the seldom-used morning salon at Rutland House. When Oliver had taken up residence this spring, his father—who, as far as Oliver knew, hadn’t set foot farther south than Cambridge in the fifteen years since his wife had died—had insisted that all the main rooms of the house be opened up, even though Oliver had protested that he would never use the dining room and certainly not any of the parlors. He had no intention of receiving guests—anyone he wanted to see could be found at his club or Charlotte’s house.
And yet, here was Miss Sutherland, seated on a settee that Oliver’s mother had likely chosen when a new bride, and which had not been replaced in thirty-odd years. Oliver’s elder brother’s wife would doubtless oversee a refurbishment after Father died, but meanwhile the house was left to genteelly stagnate. The Earl of Rutland had better things to do than worry about upholstery, this room said.
“What a pleasant surprise to see you,” Oliver remarked. Even more ominous than her presence in this house was that she was wearing a traveling costume. Where was she going? Charlotte had said nothing about either of them leaving town. Was there an emergency of some kind? And if so, why had Charlotte not sent a footman with a note? He reached for the bell to ring for tea.
“No, please don’t,” Miss Sutherland said. “In fact, you might want to shut the door. I know this is quite irregular.” She took a breath, apparently steadying herself. “But, you see, Lord Montbray has returned.”
Oliver didn’t see. Or maybe he didn’t want to see. He was still not entirely clear about whatever events had led his sister to hire Turner to rid herself of the man she had married, or why his return was the sort of thing only discussed behind closed doors. Whenever he tried to broach the topic with his sister, she dismissed his questions with a wave of the hand, as if he were a gnat flying around her head.
“Is Charlotte in any danger?” he asked slowly, lowering himself onto a chair opposite his guest.
Miss Sutherland pressed her lips together. “He is not a kind man.”
“Did he raise his hand to her?” But he already knew the answer. He had not wanted to think of it, but Charlotte’s actions—and Turner’s involvement—made little sense unless Montbray posed a threat.
“On a few occasions.” Her face was pale beneath her hat.
Oliver digested this. “Can she go to stay with my father at Alder Court? He would welcome Charlotte and her son making their home there.”
“Before Lord Montbray . . . departed, he once told Charlotte that if she left his house he would petition to take William away from her. William was only a baby then, and now he’s two, of course, but still too young to be in the hands of a man like Montbray.”
He was aghast. “Can Montbray do that?” One heard of such situations, but usually when the wife had left home with a lover.
“Apparently so.” Miss Sutherland’s face was colorless, her mouth tight. “Charlotte has consulted with her solicitor.”
“When did Montbray return?”
“Last night. He smelled of drink,” she said, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “I spent the morning having locks put on the doors to the housemaids’ bedchambers.”
She . . . oh. Realization dawned. Oliver felt his face flush. “Did he cause that kind of trouble before?”
“Yes,” was all she said, but her nails were digging into the faded upholstery of the settee.
There was something about her tone of voice that made him ask, “And you, Miss Sutherland? Will you be safe?”
She laughed, a dry and bitter sound. “I had three brothers, Mr. Rivington. I can handle myself. I’m worried about Charlotte and the child.”
“I don’t know what I can do.” He felt worse than useless. “Why did you come to me?”
“Would you consult with Mr. Turner?” she asked without hesitation.
“What?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Mr. Turner addressed the problem before. He promised that if Montbray returned, he would renew his efforts.”
Good God. His efforts? What did that mean, precisely? He felt a shiver go down his spine. Were they talking about murder? Was Turner to murder Charlotte’s husband? Not that Oliver had any better idea of what to do with Montbray. Hell, a younger Oliver would have volunteered to murder Montbray himself, but now he knew only too well that killing a man was the kind of transgression that lived in your soul. “Turner is a scoundrel, Miss Sutherland.”
She gave a quick shake of her head, as if Mr. Turner’s being a scoundrel was the least of her concerns. Which, likely, it was. “If you don’t go to him, then I will. In fact, I stopped by his office before thinking to come here, but he wasn’t in.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. Oliver had heard generals talk that way about battle strategy, with a detached focus on organization rather than the horror that lay beneath. “I can try again tomorrow, but I would rather be near Charlotte and William. They left before dawn to visit a friend in Richmond for the next week, and I plan to follow as soon as possible.”
“But you said Montbray won’t allow that!” The idea of Montbray taking the child from Charlotte—he couldn’t even think of it.
“That won’t matter if Turner deals with Montbray before he has a chance to act,” she said darkly. “But if you don’t want to go then I’ll find a way.”
“No, no, I’ll go myself. Of course.” He would not send Miss Sutherland to strike a bargain with Turner. If any hands were to be dirtied, they would be his own. He would go to Turner himself and find out exactly how a violent, threatening husband could be gotten rid of in ways that didn’t involve felony. Was it even possible? Whatever Turner had done last time had kept Montbray away for two years. But it hadn’t been enough.
She thanked him somberly, leaving him alone in his late mother’s parlor. For one ludicrous moment he thought he ought to marry Anne Sutherland. In doing so he would save at least one person from Montbray, and it wasn’t as if she had any other prospects. Marriage to a man with a small but safe income would be better than she could reasonably hope for otherwise. She would have a home and a place in society. Possibly she would even have children, although how he would contrive to make that happen was not something he wanted to dwell on.
Oh, what a fool he was. He had nearly convinced himself that it was his charitable duty to marry some spinster—the first one who walked through his door, in fact—just to confer on her all the status and standing and security that he had to offer. Conveniently, he had ignored those things that he couldn’t give to a wife—love, desire, passion. Well, those were things he wasn’t going to have for himself, either, so it was no wonder that he let them slip from his mind. Marriage, indeed.
