Page 11 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Are you certain that’s wise? Doesn’t fencing bother your leg?”
Oh, wisdom hadn’t entered into this day’s events. Besides, everything bothered his leg. Sitting still bothered his mind, though. So he took the pain.
Miss Sutherland intervened, looking up from her embroidery. “Mr. Rivington will avoid this house entirely if he is chastised about his clothing and his modes of exercise every time he enters it.”
“Frankly, I don’t think Oliver has anyone else to chastise him, so if I hold back, and consequently he’s mistaken for a dockworker or stable boy, think of how upsetting that will be for him.” Charlotte turned sideways on the settee to address this to her companion, as if Oliver were not present.
“Do you ladies know a Mrs. Wraxhall?” Oliver asked, taking advantage of Miss Sutherland’s stunned silence.
“Mrs. Wraxhall?” Charlotte bit her lip, apparently going through a list of names in her head. “Wraxhall. Anne, can you think of anyone?” But before her companion could answer she cried, “Wait! You cannot mean Lydia Wraxhall. Good heavens, Oliver. What can you possibly want to know about her?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you looking for a mistress? You can’t really expect Anne and me to screen your lady loves.”
“No, I am not looking for a mistress, Charlotte,” he ground out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Sutherland pursing her lips. He was glad at least one person in this room had a sense of delicacy. “I met Mr. Wraxhall earlier this week and realized I knew nothing of his wife. That is all.”
Charlotte regarded him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “There was something dubious about her marriage, was there not, Anne? She was found with Wraxhall out on a balcony or behind a shrubbery and he had to marry her. Or maybe that was some other poor gentleman and some other enterprising heiress.”
“Her father was not quite a gentleman, I believe,” Miss Sutherland supplied. “He earned his money in some way or another. A good deal of money, but the family has no background at all.”
“You don’t recall what type of trade?” Oliver asked.
“How on earth would we know?” Charlotte was plainly bemused that her brother thought she would know the details of how some nobody made his money.
“There’s a difference between being a grocer and a mill owner,” he argued, which only caused Charlotte to open her eyes even wider. That difference did not matter at all to Lady Montbray, it would seem.
“If you say so, Oliver. Whatever the case, her manners are good. You can forget for minutes at a stretch that she has no breeding.”
Oliver was speechless.
“She’s from Yorkshire.” Miss Sutherland once again came to his rescue. “I met her at Lady Davenport’s ball last year. We talked for quite a while.” This likely meant that neither lady had anyone to dance with. “I introduced her to a few similarly situated ladies.” Other wallflowers, spinsters, and less fashionable matrons, that meant. “I had the impression that she knew hardly anyone in London.”
“Since when do you care at all about your acquaintances’ wives?” Charlotte asked.
He could not very well tell her the truth—that he was lusting after a criminal and also afraid that this same criminal would misguidedly plunge the Wraxhalls into lawlessness. Belatedly, he realized that it would have been cleverer to let Charlotte think he was indeed cultivating Mrs. Wraxhall as a mistress. That would have provided an excuse for his questions. His sister, after all, had no reason to suspect that Oliver didn’t have and never would have any interest in a mistress.
“What do you suppose they do all day?” he mused. “She has few acquaintances and no children. He has no career in politics or the church. What do they do? They wake up, they have their toast and eggs, and then what?”
Now both Charlotte and Miss Sutherland were staring at him speechlessly.
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. “In the country I suppose there’s always some boundary dispute to settle between tenants, or a horse that’s foaling or something to that effect. But in London, what does such a couple do all day?”
The ladies exchanged a meaningful glance.
“Oliver,” his sister said patiently. “What do you do all day?”
He turned that question over in his head throughout dinner and long after he had gotten into bed. What did he do? Why, in the day he fenced and boxed and took ill-advised walks. In the evening, he dined with Charlotte or other acquaintances and he went to his club.
Was that what his life would look like for the next forty or fifty years, until he died? Burning the daylight hours without any purpose, without any close friendships, certainly without anything closer than friendship. But what else was there? Returning to the army was quite out of the question. His leg couldn’t take any more of it and neither could his mind.
He thought of Turner. Now, that was a man with a purpose. Oliver felt almost sick thinking of Mrs. Wraxhall’s predicament. He knew what it meant to have a secret that could undo one’s entire life. But who was Turner to decide what laws were worth following and which were best ignored? There had to be a better way to go about helping the lady.
He thought of those last few moments in Turner’s study. He had a purpose there, too, but Oliver couldn’t tell whether the man had been bent on seduction or rather luring Oliver to commit an act that would be fodder for blackmail all its own. But how had Turner known that Oliver would be tempted by another man? Because Oliver most certainly had been tempted. He wouldn’t soon forget the feel of Turner’s calloused finger on his lips. God, even the recollection was making his heart beat too fast. How would that strong, sure touch feel on other parts of his body? But then he remembered how Turner nearly flinched when Oliver had been mad enough to touch his tongue to the other man’s thumb.
He sighed, his desire evaporating like the dream it likely was. Probably Turner had only touched him as part of some blackmail scheme, and then had been too repulsed to go through with the act. After all, London probably had far more blackmailers than it did men who wanted to look at him like they could see straight through his clothing, right into his most secret longings.
Christ almighty, the places Jack had to go to find Georgie these days. If it weren’t for the fact that Georgie had a knack for picking up all manner of useful information, Jack wouldn’t even consider going near such a place. The rookery gin palace had been bad enough, but this?
Jack stood outside White’s, unable to fathom how on earth Georgie had come to spend an evening at a conservative gentlemen’s club. Was this part of a joke Jack wasn’t in on? Could Georgie possibly be a member? Surely not, unless . . .
And suddenly, there was Georgie, dressed in a preposterously rich dinner coat and absurd pantaloons, a waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, and with hair slicked back very à la mode. First Molly, now Georgie. It would seem all Jack’s old St. Giles comrades were flush in the pocket. Jack had half a mind to nick that cravat pin just for old times’ sake.
