Page 45 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
He tipped his head against the back of his chair to avoid having to see the worry on his sister’s face. “I was very careful, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Rivington had a timely reminder that I’m no fit company for an upstanding gentleman.”
He expected a cutting comment to the effect that Oliver had the right of it, that Jack was a bad lot. But instead Sarah’s expression softened. “As bad as all that?”
Worse. Much worse. He met his sister’s eyes for a fleeting moment and shrugged helplessly.
“I’m sure you’re best rid of him, then,” she said quietly, resuming her stitching. The gentleness of Sarah’s voice was worse than any insult. She knew him too well. Jack should have known better than to try to hide heartbreak from a person who had known him his entire life.
He unpacked his valise and turned down his bed, but still Sarah didn’t leave. She must have decided that he needed company, or maybe only wanted to keep an eye on him. In either case he wasn’t about to stop her.
Only when they heard the downstairs clock strike nine did Sarah leave. A few minutes later Betsy poked her head in the door. “The fine gentleman is here again, Mr. Turner.”
Oliver walked through the door with his jaw set, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his walking stick as if he’d need to defend himself against marauders at any moment. Gone were all traces of the boyishly handsome man who had coaxed Jack out of his sullenness. Gone was the man who had given himself over to pleasure and passion without the slightest hint of those bloody manners.
“Very lord of the manor this evening, aren’t we, Mr. Rivington?” Jack asked, mainly to provoke the man, but also to be the first to revert to using titles. He would not have formality and station thrust upon him. For good measure, he propped his feet on the desk before him so his posture could communicate any insolence his mouth had failed to.
Once again, though, his hand drifted to the pocket that held the silver card case. To return it, he told himself. But instead he only patted his coat, assuring himself that the case was where he had put it, and took his hand away.
Oliver shut the door behind him but didn’t sit. “I want to know precisely what role you had in Montbray’s death,” he said so quietly his voice could not even be overheard by a person listening at the keyhole. Which was a show of consideration Jack found both endearing and completely ridiculous, because anyone who might be in the habit of listening at Jack’s keyhole—Sarah, Betsy, Georgie—had heard a good deal worse over the years.
Jack forcibly reminded himself that consideration couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it. Despite Jack’s assurances that he had nothing to do with Montbray’s death, Oliver had come here tonight demanding to know what role Jack had played, not whether he had played a role. Oliver was no better than his father: he thought Jack could be hired to perform any act, no matter how heinous.
“I’ve already answered that.” He wasn’t going to defend his bloody character. If Oliver wanted to despise him, then so be it, but Jack wasn’t arguing the point.
“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” Oliver looked down at Jack with a haughtiness that held the full weight of his rank and breeding. His lip curled in the beginnings of a sneer. And yet, when Jack looked at him, he saw the fear and uncertainty that lay behind the aristocratic façade. Now that he had known Oliver as a person, he couldn’t stop seeing the man behind the breeding.
“You seem awfully certain that Montbray didn’t fall by accident.” Jack hooked his hands behind his head.
Oliver barked out a bitter laugh that reminded Jack of Rutland. “I wish I did think the man died accidentally. But I should have thought Montbray had a good deal of practice in not falling down stairs while drunk.”
The same thought had crossed Jack’s mind. If it had also occurred to Oliver, then it might occur to the magistrate. That could pose a problem—not for Jack, but for whoever had done the deed. And the last thing Jack wanted was for anyone to be punished for Montbray’s death. Jack tapped his fingers on his desk, considering the issue.
With a look that failed to meet Jack’s eyes, Oliver said, “My sister was in Richmond.” There was something very much like defensiveness in his voice.
Jack wasn’t going to point out that Richmond was hardly the antipodes. But it was difficult to picture flighty, fashionable Lady Montbray ordering a carriage, contriving to get her husband to the top of a convenient flight of stairs, shoving him down, and then climbing back into the carriage and ordering the coachman to take her back to Richmond.
Difficult, but not impossible.
A lady who was both an earl’s daughter and a viscount’s wife wouldn’t be tried for murder unless she held a dripping knife. Still, this wasn’t the kind of suspicion anyone wanted hanging over them.
“I’ll look into it,” Jack said, entirely against his better judgment. “But if I find who did it, I’ll want to shake his hand. I’m not turning anyone over to a magistrate.”
Oliver sniffed. “Justice—”
“Bugger your justice.” No, Jack would not get angry, would not show how much he cared about this. “Montbray locked your sister in her boudoir and threatened to take her child away if she didn’t accede to his demands.” He had done other things besides, but if Lady Montbray hadn’t confided in her brother then it wasn’t Jack’s place to tell the tale. “And now he’s dead. If that isn’t justice, then I don’t know what is.”
Oliver waved his hand in a gesture that seemed to dismiss Jack’s concept of justice along with Jack himself. “What you’re describing is anarchy, not justice,” he said, as if his opinions on the matter were worth more than Jack’s own. “We have laws for a reason. There can’t be one person who decides who deserves to live.”
Jack tamped down a surge of irritation, as well as something fiercer than irritation. He was a fool to expect a gentleman to understand, but he wanted so badly for Oliver to know how much Jack’s work mattered to him. “You have more faith in judges and juries than I do.” He tipped his chair back onto two legs so that his posture was casual and wouldn’t belie the seriousness of his words. “But that stands to reason, I suppose. The entire system is meant to prop up people like you—”
“People like me?” Oliver’s cheeks reddened with indignation.
Good, Jack thought. Get angry, then sod off before you insult me any further. “Rich men. Gentlemen, specifically. The idea that you bloody nobs are so superior, so important—that’s why everywhere we went together, people opened their doors to us. It was as if your presence was some sort of blessing. It’s also why your brother-in-law couldn’t have been brought to any kind of justice other than the kind you look down your nose at.”
“Those are entirely different situations,” Oliver protested, his nostrils flaring.
“They really aren’t, though. The only thing that puzzles me is that you have such a high regard for the rule of law when you yourself break the law with pleasure.” He dropped his voice so there could be no mistaking what law he was referring to. “And abandon,” he added for the sheer sake of being offensive, and maybe also because it was the truth.
Oliver’s face turned crimson and his jaw went even more rigid. His blue eyes turned icy and he flashed a look of pure fury at Jack, who instinctively took his feet off the desk to ready himself in case Oliver punched him as soundly as he had in the Pickworth graveyard.
