Page 4 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Another pause from Turner. “Did anyone other than you and the gentleman in question know about these letters?” Turner asked. “Your maid?”
“No. I always get my own jewels out of the case and I keep the key to myself.” The lady mercifully put her handkerchief aside and began to pick apart the string of her reticule.
“And you never told anyone of the liaison at the time? Your mother or a sister, perhaps?”
“I have no sister.” She hesitated before continuing. “My mother knew to expect an engagement between myself and Mr. Lewis, but did not know about the letters.”
“How did you receive these letters without your parents or servants knowing about them?”
“We had a secret location. It was the place where we . . . met.” Color rose into Mrs. Wraxhall’s pale cheeks, and Oliver felt his own cheeks flush in sympathy and mortification. He was no stranger to illicit rendezvous and it was only by the grace of God that he had never been caught out. Now he felt even worse that this lady was desperate enough to go to a scoundrel like Turner. “We left letters and presents there as well,” she said faintly.
Turner drummed his fingers on the desk. “May I ask who sent you to me?”
“It was my lady’s maid, Mary Wilkins. She doesn’t know the details of my problem, only that I’ve been distressed, and she told me that you had handled a situation for her former employer.”
Turner nodded. “Tell me about your house.”
“My house?” She looked curiously at Turner. “All right. It’s on the south side of Grosvenor Square. We’ve lived there since we married, at the beginning of last year. We have a place in Kent as well, but we haven’t been there since the Season started.”
Grosvenor Square? That was quite an address, right around the corner from Charlotte and half the ton. Oliver leaned forward in his chair, ignoring the throbbing in his leg. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Charlotte had some sinister goings-on with Turner, now it seemed ladies all over Mayfair turned to him for help? Oliver hardly knew what to think. For a moment, he wasn’t in the heart of civilized London, but rather in a stinking battlefield in Spain, where decent people were revealed to be monsters.
And what Turner said next only made it worse.
“I’m sure Miss Wilkins explained my terms to you, but it bears repeating. I am not a Bow Street Runner, nor am I a magistrate.” He spoke with the air of one who had delivered the same speech too many times to remember. “I solve my clients’ problems in the way I deem best. I won’t ask for your approval before acting and I won’t keep you apprised of my progress. It may come to pass that I won’t tell you who took your letters or why. You pay me, I make the problem disappear, and that’s the end of our arrangement. If you have any misgivings, I’ll throw my notes on the fire and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Oliver felt the blood drain from his face. This scoundrel was taking money from ladies and acting with blatant disregard for law and order? Oliver clenched his teeth to keep from speaking. This was anarchy. He had witnessed firsthand what happened when people felt entitled to deliver their own justice, and he absolutely wouldn’t stand for it happening in his own country, within a stone’s throw of his house.
But Mrs. Wraxhall was evidently not a student of recent history, because after sitting silently for a moment, she spoke in a calm, clear voice. “Yes, that’s fine.” She smoothed her mangled handkerchief across her lap.
He wondered if the French Revolution or Bonaparte’s rise to power had been planned in places like this, little rooms with worn furnishings and sparse light. A single window let in whatever daylight managed to make its way through the clouds that had blanketed London since Oliver’s return earlier that spring. There were few objects beyond a shelf of books, some unlit candles, and the supplies necessary for writing.
It didn’t take much more than that to sow disorder, though.
Christ, the hellish aftermath of Badajoz had been accomplished with even less. Piles of bodies, his own soldiers doing unspeakable—
But no. He had to stop that line of thought. He was not at war any longer. The war was over and he was home.
What he was witnessing was at worst petty crime, nothing involving bloodshed or mayhem. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest.
“Have you had any house guests? Any dinner parties?” Turner’s voice cut through his thoughts and Oliver dragged his attention back to the present.
Mrs. Wraxhall shook her head. “We hardly entertain.”
Now, that didn’t make any sense. Why live in Grosvenor Square if you weren’t going to entertain? What was the point of such a lofty address, then?
Some of his consternation must have shown on his face, because when he raised his head Turner was looking in his direction. One corner of his mouth had lifted in a half smile, as if they were in on the same joke. Oliver shot back a smirk before he could remember that it was unwise to fraternize with this sort of unsavory fellow.
Turner had noticed that the lady’s story didn’t make sense, had he? Well, by all rights he ought to, if he was charging these ladies a princely sum to solve their problems. For two hundred pounds he ought to do all but read their minds.
Oliver held on to that thought as Turner rose to escort Mrs. Wraxhall downstairs. When he came back, he shut the door with a flick of his wrist, not even breaking stride as he strolled over to where Oliver still sat. He came to a stop altogether too close to Oliver’s legs.
“I trust that you’re satisfied I truly do what I said I do, and that I haven’t defrauded your sister.” He sounded offended, which was rich coming from a man who had all but admitted to playing fast and loose with the law. “And now you may leave.”
Turner was looming over him, blast the man. If Oliver were to stand, his shirt front would nearly brush Turner’s, and it wouldn’t do at all to dwell on how that prospect appealed to him.
Turner’s posturing was a primitive display of aggression and Oliver knew it. The right response was to get to his feet, shouldering the man aside if need be.
Instead, he felt transfixed by the darkness of Turner’s glare. They had been almost cordial in that moment before Mrs. Wraxhall entered. Perhaps even more than cordial, although he would do best to put that notion clear out of his head. He hadn’t come here to provoke the man, only to get to the bottom of why Charlotte had paid him such an obscene sum. And if he left now, he’d never find out. Nor would he be able to help poor Mrs. Wraxhall—for surely there had to be a way for that lady to get her letters back without resorting to Turner’s methods. Oliver had to believe that there was a lawful solution to that lady’s distress.
