Page 43 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“I’ll pack my bags,” Jack said to the messenger. “Then we’ll go back to London on the mail.” He headed up the stairs, but heard Oliver’s uneven gait behind him. So he wasn’t to be spared a scene, after all.
“You mean to go back to London without me?” Oliver asked as soon the door was closed behind them.
“I need to be there before the inquest.” That didn’t answer Oliver’s question, but Jack didn’t care. Oliver could hardly intend to leave his father’s house in the dead of night, in the company of a pair of ruffians.
“Did you do it? Montbray, I mean.” Oliver’s arms were folded across his chest, his chin tilted up in patrician displeasure.
Not meeting Oliver’s eyes, Jack scooped up his clothes and dumped them into the valise. “I’ve been with you for the better part of a week. You know I didn’t nip off to London to murder a peer.”
“I mean, did you . . . arrange for it?” There was a hint of hesitation in Oliver’s voice, as if he were embarrassed to find himself in a situation that required such a question.
Jack sighed. It didn’t matter that Oliver was wrong in this instance—it was only a matter of time before Jack did in fact commit an act that Oliver was unable to reconcile with his own standards. Jack had been waiting for this moment for days and now that it was here, it almost felt like a relief.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of arranging any murders lately.” Jack tried to sound like he didn’t care how badly Oliver thought of him. He could have given a flat denial. After all, the simple truth was that he had been totally shocked to hear of Montbray’s accident—shocked, but not displeased, of course. Oliver still looked skeptical. Jack wanted to cross the room, hold him close, swear up and down that he’d be decent and honest and good, all the things Oliver was and Jack never would be. “Oliver”—Jack’s voice held a pleading, desperate quality that he hated—”you must know by now that I’m not an outright villain, even if we don’t always agree.” But Oliver’s face remained impassive, and Jack’s heart felt like it was breaking. So much for sincerity.
“A man like Montbray simply begs for killing,” Jack said, resuming a glibness he didn’t feel. “I’d wager that the house was filled to the rafters with people who had every reason to want him dead. Footmen who were tired of having bottles of gin thrown at their heads, housemaids who resented being interfered with—oh yes, he most certainly did that sort of thing. You forget that I was his valet.”
“But he only returned to England a week ago,” Oliver protested.
“That’s long enough.” Jack could only assume that Montbray inspired instantaneous thoughts of murder most places he went.
“One more thing and I’ll leave you to your packing.” Oliver sounded more dejected than anything else. “Did my father pay you to look after me?”
“To look after—what the devil are you talking about? He tried to pay me to stay away from you, which you already know because you were listening at keyholes.”
Oliver didn’t rise to the bait. “Before that. Did you let me accompany you to Yorkshire because my father had offered you money to keep me out of trouble in London?” From the blush on his cheeks, there was little doubt as to what trouble Oliver thought his father suspected.
“Jesus Christ. Do I look like a fucking nursemaid? No, I have never taken a single farthing from your father and I never will. God damn it, Oliver. You know perfectly well why I brought you to Yorkshire and it was to fuck you senseless and use you to gain access to people’s homes.” He had to take a deep breath to tamp down his anger. “Honestly, I’m more offended by this than you accusing me of murder.”
“Good.”
“Good that I want to throw furniture at you?” Jack growled.
“Good that at least you didn’t take my father’s money,” Oliver retorted.
Jack sucked in a breath of air, trying not to dwell on that at least, that sign Oliver hadn’t accepted Jack’s word that his hands were clean of Montbray’s blood. “And really, what kind of man would I be if I accepted a commission to keep you out of trouble and then proceeded as I did?” At this reminder of precisely how they had proceeded, Oliver blushed. Of course he did. “And if you don’t know by now that I’m only here with you because I want to be . . .” He shrugged helplessly, and let his voice trail off before he started saying the sort of nonsense he had never before said out loud. When he could trust himself to speak without betraying his thoughts, he continued. “Just get out.”
That was the last he saw of Oliver that night.
Black crepe was already tied to the door of Charlotte’s house when Oliver arrived. He had driven to London as if he had devils chasing him even though there was no urgency. Montbray was dead, Charlotte was safe, and it was only Oliver’s mind that was unsettled, filled with unbidden thoughts of bloodshed, and equally unbidden thoughts of Jack’s arms around him.
He found Charlotte sitting in her boudoir, wearing a black day dress that must have been left over from the death of an aunt or cousin he hardly remembered. But she was eating cake and reading a novel, neither of which seemed to go with the mourning attire.
“Oliver!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms.
“Are you holding up all right?” he asked, not sure what the proper thing was to say to a woman whose violent, despised husband had died.
“Holding up? You must be jesting.” She pulled back to look at Oliver’s face. In a lower voice, she added, “It’s over. I can hardly believe it. I’m afraid I’m going to wake and find it was a dream.” She was nearly bouncing up and down on her toes, like a child about to have a pony ride or some other promised treat. “William and I came back from Richmond as soon as the footmen finished cleaning up blood from the hall.”
Oliver tried to blink back the image of blood puddled on the marble floor of the foyer, its metallic battlefield tang supplanting the scent of furniture oil and fresh flowers. The messenger who had ridden to Alder Court said that Montbray had fallen down the stairs in a drunken stupor. The next morning there would be an inquest. Nobody disputed that falling down while intoxicated was exactly the sort of thing Montbray was likely to do. Oliver, therefore, had no reason to doubt the circumstances either. And yet he did: it was too convenient a death.
“How are you, Oliver?” Charlotte asked, holding him at arm’s length and examining him. “I didn’t think you gave a fig for Montbray, but your eyes look—”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly.
“Only think,” Charlotte continued, her hands clasped in front of her chest, “after a year in black I can go back to a normal life and pretend Montbray never even existed.” She started to laugh and clamped a hand over her mouth so as not to be overheard. “I’m going to have to go into very deep mourning indeed, Oliver, and retire from all company. Because I don’t think I can be relied upon to hide my delight. It would never do for that to be discovered. Very bad ton.”
Oliver was disconcerted to hear his sister actually giggle when her husband’s blood was freshly mopped from the floor. But why shouldn’t Charlotte laugh? Hadn’t Oliver spent a decade purposefully killing Frenchmen who had done far less to merit death than Montbray had?
