Page 10 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Also,” Rivington added, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, “I have reason to believe that you used your own funds to satisfy some of Montbray’s less-savory creditors, without letting my sister know of their existence.”
Gaming debts and whorehouses, he meant. Jack sighed with disappointment at the euphemism. “His lordship settled those bills himself. I only eased the process along.”
“Which means precisely what?” One side of Rivington’s mouth curled up in the beginnings of a sneer. But he didn’t look away from Jack, even though from his seated position he had to crane his neck back.
“I took the liberty of selling some of Montbray’s trinkets and using the proceeds to settle his accounts.”
“Are you saying that you stole from my sister’s household?” He sounded incredulous, as if he hadn’t insisted only two days earlier that Jack was a crook. What in hell did he expect crooks to do, if not steal?
Jack knew he ought to keep his mouth shut, but watching Rivington’s coolness and reserve go up in flames like this was too good a spectacle to be missed, too tantalizingly close to other forms of passion that Jack shouldn’t be thinking of right now. “Well, I suppose if you want to be technical about it, then yes, I did.” And from a good number of other households besides. “You could call it one of the key services I render my clients.” He waved his hand airily. It was true, though. The Montbray predicament had been the first time Jack had stolen for anyone’s advantage but his own, but since then he had sort of gotten into the habit.
“Do explain.” The muscles of Rivington’s jaw clenched. How much longer before his cheeks reddened?
“Well, I sell some candlesticks or cuff links or what have you, and use the proceeds to pay people who are owed money—servants or tradesmen, usually. That way, those who are owed get what’s theirs, and the gentleman gets to stop being a thief.”
“Gets to stop being—” He stopped and fixed Jack with a hard stare. “You’re having me on.”
Jack opened his eyes wide and put his hand over his heart. “Me?” He let his voice drip with facetiousness. But he had told the truth. He always warned his clients that he would solve their problems the way he thought best, and if that included making them—or, more likely, their husbands—honest, however briefly, he considered it an excellent day’s work. If that wasn’t justice, he didn’t know what was.
He decided his highborn visitor was overdue for an education. “Do you know that your brother-in-law owed money to his tailor and most of his servants?” That wasn’t even mentioning the bills his mistress had run up. “But instead of giving them what they were due, he paid a gaming debt to the Marquess of Rotherham and then bought a racehorse.”
Rivington was silent for a moment. “Did you break into my sister’s house? To steal the items, I mean.”
Jack realized then that Rivington still had no idea that Jack had been Montbray’s valet at the time. Nicking a couple of snuff boxes and cravat pins had been no trouble at all. That had been before he opened this business—right before, in fact. “Oh, I have my ways,” he said.
“Is that supposed to pique my curiosity?” Rivington’s demeanor was once again cold and bored. Jack hated that distant refinement, that cool bloodlessness that spoke of generations of breeding and piles of money. He wanted to replace that chilliness with anything else.
“No, it’s supposed to make you bugger off,” Jack said, hoping to provoke him.
But Rivington didn’t take the bait. Instead he sighed and rose to his feet, apparently with some effort. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a sheaf of banknotes.
Somehow, Jack hadn’t realized that Rivington was so tall. He wasn’t used to the sensation of having to look up to meet someone’s eye. With one arm he reached out and swung the door shut, never taking his eyes off Rivington. He heard the gentleman’s quick intake of breath,
“No.” Jack gripped the other man’s forearm to stop him from offering the money.
Rivington froze the moment Jack’s hand touched his sleeve. Oh, that bored look was quite gone now. In its place was something dark and intent. Jack liked it very, very much. He took a fraction of a step closer and watched the other man’s eyes go wide, his lips parted.
“Giving me money doesn’t change the fact that your sister did business with me.” Jack slid his fingers up Rivington’s sleeve, enjoying the feel of sinewy muscle under expensive wool, enjoying even more the hungry look in the other man’s eyes. “It only means that you’re doing business with me as well.” Rivington’s cheeks went a satisfying shade of pink, and this time Jack suspected the flush was not from anger. “The question is, though, what kind of business you want to do with me.” He had let his voice drop to a murmur. “There are so many possibilities.” Jack slid his voice even lower, Rivington’s eyes going darker by precisely the same measure, as if one man’s voice and the other’s eyes were connected.
Still Rivington remained motionless, rooted to the ground, his gaze fixed on Jack’s face. Under ordinary circumstances, Jack would not have considered torturing a man by pretending to offer his body for sale. That sort of transaction was—not to put too fine a point on it—rather too close to what had once been the case. But he felt like he would say anything, no matter how ill-advised, to watch Rivington’s cool facade crumble completely away, and stark, honest desire take its place.
Seized by the rash urge to make that happen, he reached up and traced Rivington’s perfect mouth with his coarse thumb. Oh, he took his time with it, sliding his thumb slowly along that soft lower lip, letting himself imagine what the man’s mouth would feel like—
Rivington made a barely audible sound, the merest hiss. Jack felt it on his hand more than he actually heard it. For a moment Jack thought he was going to get punched, or arrested, or who knew what. But then Rivington darted out his tongue and licked Jack’s thumb.
Jack pulled his hand back as if he had been scalded. Fuck. His breaths were coming fast and heavy. When the hell had he started to pant, for God’s sake?
They simply stared at one another. After a moment of thick silence, Rivington eased his arm away from Jack’s touch, as coolly as if he had accidentally bumped into a piece of furniture, and silently took his leave.
“Please tell me you’re going home to change before dinner, Oliver.”
Oliver suppressed a groan. He had barely managed to haul his body up the steps to Charlotte’s drawing room and cast himself into this profoundly uncomfortable chair. Going back home, changing, getting into a carriage and then climbing these godforsaken stairs once again would be the end of him, he was sure of it. He was staying in this awful chair until he died or the butler announced dinner, whichever came first.
“Do I look that bad?”
Charlotte’s gaze swept over him. “You absolutely must get new clothing. What you are wearing simply does not fit. It’s very fashionable and Byronic to be thin, but you cannot go about in clothing that hangs off you. Besides”—she eyed him with distaste—”Are you sweaty?”
“I was fencing.” And licking the thumbs of confidence artists.
