Page 22 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Jack considered not answering. He had given this man altogether too much information tonight. Rivington now knew about Jack’s past, about Georgie and Sarah. Hell, Jack had even mentioned his mother. But Rivington was regarding him with those clear blue eyes, as innocent as a kitten’s, and Jack wanted to tell him even more. He wanted to confess all his crimes, all his dishonor, all the sordidness that sometimes woke him up at night. He wanted to lay his soul bare and see if Rivington still looked at him like that.
Rivington—like that poor bastard Wraxhall—considered himself a man of honor, a notion that Jack usually laughed at. Honor was a luxury item, like hair pomade and snuff. Its only purpose was to show the world that you could afford to be impractical, that you had enough money to behave in a way that was compatible with some ludicrous code instead of acting out of self-preservation like the rest of humanity.
Jack remembered how squeamish Rivington had been that day he had tried to give Jack money, as if a few banknotes would untangle Jack from his family’s affairs and wash away the stain of such an association. That had been humiliating. Or, rather, it would have been if Jack could bring himself to give one rat’s ass about what a toff like Rivington thought about anything. Which, he reminded himself, he did not.
“Why do you care where I’m going?” Rudeness might do the trick. A dose of horrible manners might shake Rivington loose, might send him packing back to the drawing rooms and tea parties of Mayfair.
And yet, Rivington had waited outside Jack’s building in order to ask for help, and he hadn’t balked at taking supper in a whorehouse. He had heard about Jack’s background and not raised so much as an eyebrow. The demands of respectability had their limits, it would seem.
“Good God, man. I’m making conversation.” Rivington seemed amused rather than put off, damn him. Those eyes were fairly twinkling.
“I’m headed north,” he said, to stop his thoughts from getting away from him. “To visit the village where Mrs. Wraxhall lived as a child.”
“That’s in Yorkshire, is it not?”
“Yes. Near Dewsbury.” Unfortunately. Why could the woman not have hailed from someplace nearer to London? Perhaps Surrey. Somerset at the utmost. But Yorkshire? That meant at least two days of travel by the mail and another two back. But he had been unable to turn up anything useful in London, so he had no choice but to look farther afield.
“I was thinking of traveling north myself,” Rivington said, studying his wineglass.
An obvious lie. He had the shifty look of a man not accustomed to outright dishonesty, as if he expected to be struck down at any moment. “Were you, now?”
“I was thinking of buying a house in that area.” Now his gaze was fixed on some point on the wall behind Jack’s head. “It would be a day’s ride from my father’s house.”
“A house. What, for your wife and all the children you plan to sire on her?”
He blushed. Of course he did. Rivington’s blushes were a delight. A grown man, a former soldier no less, blushing like a bride. Georgie had been right that he looked like a Dresden shepherdess, although that wasn’t what Jack liked about these displays of embarrassment. No, what he appreciated was that a blush couldn’t be counterfeited. It was like when a pawnbroker took a piece of gold between his teeth to test whether it was the real thing. For all Rivington’s aristocratic polish, his courtly composure, he couldn’t stop those blushes.
“Would that be so strange?” Rivington protested. “I wouldn’t be the first man to marry a woman without, ah, appreciating female companionship.”
“No, indeed.” Jack wondered what it would take to get the man to speak of these matters without euphemism. “But you wouldn’t marry a woman under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses? That’s laying it on a bit thick. I have a modest income.” He scrubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “I could give a woman a good life.”
He had his eye on someone in particular, did he? A woman in straitened circumstances, by the sound of it. “So. The lucky lady is to have a house in Yorkshire. How delightful for you both.” Jack officially did not give a damn who Rivington married or for what reasons or in what county they decided to reside. He needed to go home, do something about the scrape on his face, and try to catch a few hours of sleep.
“I have a new curricle,” Rivington said, and Jack would have bet ten guineas that it was another lie. “I could drive you to Yorkshire. The curricle is sprung a good deal better than any post chaise or stagecoach. And while we wouldn’t travel as fast as the mail, I daresay it would be more comfortable.”
It wasn’t often that Jack found himself completely at a loss, but this was one of those times. On the one hand, he did not need Rivington interfering in the Wraxhall matter any more than he already had. But on the other hand, his instincts told him he ought to keep Rivington away from Montbray, lest the fellow bungle everything by approaching his brother-in-law with threats and accusations. And if that meant Jack had to spend a couple of nights with Rivington in coaching inns, so be it. He wouldn’t mind that at all.
“I could help.” Rivington leaned a bit forward in his chair. “My father is well known in the area. A good many doors would open for Lord Rutland’s son.”
Jack had to concede that there was truth in that. It didn’t even matter who his father was, the fact was that all it took was one look at Oliver Rivington, with his aristocratic features and expensively tailored coat to know that you were dealing with quality. There were people for whom costly clothes, a fine accent, and a disarming smile worked like a magical combination of skeleton key and truth serum. Jack’s own talents were more along the lines of seeing what people didn’t want seen. Snooping. Observing. He couldn’t do any of that unless he had a way in, and he didn’t know any servants to bribe in the wilds of Yorkshire.
“What would our pretense be?” Jack knew he was admitting defeat. “What’s our excuse for being in Yorkshire? For traveling together?”
“Like I said, I’m considering buying an estate.”
“No you’re not. Don’t be nonsensical. You don’t have nearly enough money to be purchasing estates.”
“How do you know how much money I have?” Rivington had the nerve to look surprised.
“Please.” Had this man figured nothing out? Jack made it his business to know everything.
“I have twenty thousand pounds! At five percent interest that’s a thousand a year. That’s more than enough to live on.”
Jack burst out laughing. Oh God. Yes, yes, a thousand a year was enough to live on. It would outfit all the urchins of St. Giles in shirts and shoes for the rest of their lives, with some money left over for bread. But when men bought curricles and outfitted themselves like Rivington did, a thousand pounds wouldn’t leave much left over for a wife, let alone children. “Yes, you’re rich,” he said, striving to compose himself. “No doubt about it.”
“You were trying to distract me,” Rivington cried, but he was smiling. “Now. Back to the matter at hand. Our pretense.”
