Page 44 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
But that was no way to think. The war was over, and the dubious ethics of war had no place in Charlotte’s drawing room. It wasn’t for Oliver to decide who deserved to live and who deserved to die.
Nor was it for Jack Turner to decide, no matter what the man might believe. Oliver sighed. The man was unscrupulous and unlawful and, worst of all, Oliver found that he loved him anyway. Because try as he might, Oliver couldn’t delude himself into thinking that what he felt for Jack was simple, uncomplicated desire. If only it were, then he could wash his hands, walk away, stop trying to tie his conscience into knots.
Miss Sutherland entered wearing a plain gray frock; there had been no time yet for her to have her clothes dyed. Her eyes were red, her face lined with weariness. Oliver was certain she had spent more time crying than she had sleeping in the last two days. Charlotte immediately wiped all traces of happiness from her expression, and Oliver recalled that the dead man had been Miss Sutherland’s cousin. And even though ten days ago she had been grimly determined to see Montbray taken far away from his wife and child, for all Oliver knew, she had been childhood playmates with the man.
“William is asleep,” she told Charlotte, her voice as weary and wrung out as the rest of her.
“You should do the same, you know,” Charlotte responded. “Take one of the sleeping draughts the doctor left.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” She sank onto the sofa beside Charlotte and the two women exchanged a glance that Oliver couldn’t read.
The mood in the room hovered uncomfortably between relief and distress, between anxiety and calm, as if none of them knew what they ought to feel or say. Oliver left, gathering that his sister and her friend would speak honestly to one another once they were relieved of his company.
He descended the stairs to the street, not sure of anything, not even which way to turn. There was nowhere he wanted to go, nowhere he was wanted. His body seemed to want to take him to Sackville Street, which only went to show that love made a man delusional.
After meandering aimlessly for a quarter of an hour, he decided to seek solace at his club. If any place could provide the illusion of a sane and well-ordered world, it was White’s. Even at this hour there were already a dozen men present, all dressed precisely the same as Oliver himself, all drinking either port or brandy, all reading one of the London papers or conversing in hushed tones. The more raucous young bucks were in the gaming rooms or still at home dressing for the evening. After a week spent insinuating his way into various households under false pretenses and chasing the threads of a mystery, it all seemed very pointless. This club might as well be a storehouse for useless gentlemen. Glancing around, Oliver realized he might be the youngest man in the room.
No, he was wrong there. Wraxhall was present, and had just caught sight of Oliver. With more good manners than interest in Wraxhall’s company, Oliver gestured to the empty seat beside him. If anything, he would have preferred to pretend Wraxhall didn’t exist. He felt that he had failed the man. Oliver had gone to Yorkshire intending to ensure that the Wraxhalls’ affairs were set right without too many of Turner’s extralegal flourishes. But those blasted letters were still missing and Oliver had been too busy falling in love with Turner to think twice about the man’s methods.
As Wraxhall approached, Oliver noticed circles under the other man’s eyes. He looked almost ill. He must have been spending enough time here for his habits to become generally known, because no sooner had he sat down than a footman arrived with a glass of wine.
“There you are, Rivington. Haven’t seen you in days. I’d wondered if you’d been unwell.”
“No, only out of town.” Oliver found that he was touched that Wraxhall had even noticed his absence.
“Why ever did you come back?” Wraxhall glanced up from his wine. “I’m dying to get out of London. Feel like I’ve been here forever. My wife’s mother arrived yesterday and we’re to travel together to Kent tomorrow.”
It took Oliver a moment to sift through his jumbled thoughts and recollect that Wraxhall’s mother-in-law was the very same Mrs. Durbin he and Jack hadn’t been able to track down in Yorkshire. His first thought was that he ought to tell Jack that the woman was this very moment in London. He’d want to talk to her, both to find out what she knew about the letters and also in case she heard that someone had visited Pickworth asking questions about her daughter.
Oliver had promised himself that he would do what he could to help the Wraxhalls, and right now that meant telling Jack where he could find Mrs. Durbin. Avoiding Jack entirely would have been so much easier, so much wiser, but Oliver was never one to shirk duty. Every minute Oliver spent with him, the further he got tangled up with the man’s shadowy way of thinking. He felt that he had lost his heart and his sense of righteousness all at once.
Aching and tired after so many hours in the mail coach, Jack returned to his rooms only to find Sarah lying in wait.
She was sitting in Jack’s chair, hemming a length of silk by the light of a single candle. “You could have left a note, Jack.”
It hadn’t occurred to him to do anything of the sort. He had been coming and going as he pleased for years and Sarah knew it. “I’m sorry.” He was too exhausted to argue the point. “I thought you’d know I had been in Yorkshire—”
“Of course I did.” She waved her hand dismissively, the needle glinting in the candlelight. “But then Georgie came around this afternoon with some tale about how you ran off with a gentleman and how it’s only a matter of time before you come to grief.”
Jack dropped his valise to the floor and tried to decide how much to tell his sister. “I went to Yorkshire on a case, and from there to Alder Court. I’m touched that you and Georgie think my virtue needs protection.”
“Alder Court.” She narrowed her eyes, probably running through the stockpile of information she stored away about potential clients. “So Georgie was right? You’re thick as thieves with Lord Rutland’s son?” She shook her head disbelievingly. “I’m only amazed that he brought you there. And that you agreed to go. What can the two of you have been thinking?”
Since Sarah was sitting in his own chair, Jack sat in what he had come to think of as Oliver’s chair. “Rivington wanted to see his father for a day or two and I could hardly refuse.” Which was nonsense, now that he thought of it. Of course he could have refused. He could have taken the stagecoach home from Yorkshire. But at the time he hadn’t wanted to deny Oliver even the slightest thing.
Sarah paused with the needle in midair, her eyes round with astonishment. “You can’t mean to say that you actually were a guest at Alder Court? An invited guest?”
“I can’t tell if you’re impressed or horrified.”
“Neither can I, to be perfectly frank.” Sarah lay down her needle and abandoned her sewing entirely. “It’s not safe for you to be carrying on like that with this gentleman of yours.”
“Rivington isn’t anything of mine.” Oliver’s name now felt out of place on his tongue, like a word from another language that he had no business attempting to speak. He caught his hand straying towards the breast pocket that held the silver card case, and he knew Sarah would have caught the movement.
“You know precisely what I mean. If the two of you are found out, you’ll be the only one to pay the price.”
“You mean that an earl’s son isn’t going to hang for buggery but plain Jack Turner could.”
“Plain Jack Turner ought to be careful. That’s all I mean.”
