Page 13 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
He was going to have to buy a carriage and a couple of horses, there was no way around it. It was a frightful expense, but his leg couldn’t take much more of this. Moreover, if he intended to go to dinners and balls and whatnot, he couldn’t keep arriving on foot. It was settled, then: he would go to Tattersall’s. He felt satisfied out of all proportion by the prospect of accomplishing something, even though the task itself would be an act of unmitigated self-indulgence.
The night was perfect for walking—still and moonless—and cool for early June. But his leg was tired before he even reached Piccadilly. He decided to cut down one of those lanes that sliced across the network of streets at an angle. Calling it a lane or even an alleyway was making too much of such a place—it was a sort of emptiness that occurred during the process of knocking a few buildings down and replacing them with something shiny and new.
The alleyway was empty, apart from some rubble and debris. The sound of his uneven steps and his walking stick clacking against cobblestones echoed dismally off the walls of the surrounding buildings. It was so quiet here, you wouldn’t guess that within a mile there were half a dozen balls and God only knew how many dinners going on. And that wasn’t even counting the gentlemen headed off to their clubs or in search of less refined entertainment.
It was the silence that alerted him to something being wrong, that gave him a crucial second to act. No alleyway ought to be quite so deserted. Not unless somebody was being deliberately quiet. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he saw shapes emerge from the shadows.
Three or four people appeared—he could hardly tell, they moved so fast to surround him. The wise thing to do was to hand over all one’s money and any valuables. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But Oliver had spent too long in the army to ignore his instinct to fight. He raised his walking stick, but someone must have approached him from behind, because the next thing he knew he was falling, his vision going dark around the edges.
Oh, for the love of God. Jack had half a mind to go home and leave Rivington to his fate, to let him learn a valuable lesson about venturing into badly lit lanes. That alley practically had a sign over it announcing that thieves were waiting within and would be only too happy to knock any stray gentlemen over the head and relieve them of their valuables. But then he saw that there were four thieves setting on Rivington, and one of them had something flashing in his hand. A knife. No, that would not do at all. The penalty for being a bloody fool wasn’t brutal death. And it really would be a pity for anything to happen to that handsome face.
Jack had a knife too, but this situation called for something that could be wielded with less precision. He scanned his surroundings and saw a pile of rubble that must have been left over from when they knocked down the building that used to stand here. Sticking out was a promising piece of wood. It looked like the post from a banister and felt solid in his hand.
Rivington hit the ground with a heavy thud and Jack knew he had to act quickly, while the thieves thought they were out of harm’s way. Staying close to the wall, Jack edged nearer. Right when two of the attackers were bent over Rivington, he stepped out of the shadows.
Swinging the post, he hit one of the thieves in the shoulder, hard enough to get his point across but not as hard as he could. It would be lovely to get through another twenty-four hours without blood on his hands, or at least not any more than was absolutely necessary.
Suddenly, Rivington was back on his feet. He, apparently, had no reservations about committing murder tonight, because he wasted no time in coshing one of the men over the head with that bloody great cane of his.
The scene devolved into a melee at that point. Rivington, with more strength than Jack would have expected from a man who had been on the ground an instant earlier, knocked out the man with the knife and deftly pocketed the weapon for himself.
A brute of a man Jack recognized from the old days in St. Giles landed a punch on Jack’s jaw and sent the banister post clattering out of reach.
Rivington cudgeled that man too.
Jack was dangerously close to being impressed with Rivington, but he supposed he’d get over it.
Maybe he got too distracted watching Rivington fight off his attackers. Or maybe the years were catching up with Jack and he wasn’t as fast on his feet as he once had been. Whatever the reason, Jack wasn’t prepared for the blow to his wrist. He had nearly gotten the banister post within his reach when he saw a man charging at him, wielding a broken off bottle.
Jack did not like his odds at that moment, not one bit. He chanced a look at Rivington, not sure whether he was begging for help or checking to see whether the man was all right. But Rivington didn’t hesitate a moment before tossing his walking stick to Jack.
Jack caught it, as if they had been fighting together for years. As if the two of them had practiced that move until they had it down perfectly, like a pair of dancers.
He used the stick on the man with the broken bottle and then tossed it back to Rivington, who didn’t waste any time before putting it to good use. The two remaining assailants looked at their fallen comrades, glanced at one another, and then ran.
“Well,” Jack said after he had caught his breath, “are you going to throw the bodies into the Thames? What do you usually do after you murder people in alleyways?”
“Nonsense,” Rivington countered, but he sounded shaken. “They’ll be right as rain in the morning.” He poked one of the men with his walking stick, eliciting a faint groan. “They will, won’t they? At least I hope—”
“Where the bloody hell did you learn to fight like that?”
Rivington retrieved his hat from the ground and put it back on his head. “You know I was in the army. What do you suppose we do in the army, if not fight?”
“Christ.” He pitied the French. “But your leg . . .”
He couldn’t quite see Rivington’s expression in the gloom, but thought the man was smiling. “I fought in Waterloo with my leg like this. I can handle a couple of thieves.”
“Apparently so.”
Rivington bent down to brush the dirt off his breeches. “Were you following me?”
Jack hesitated. “Only a little.”
“Oh.” Rivington’s eyes were wide. He looked like he wanted to step forward. But then he abruptly shook his head as if dismissing the thought. “If you were hoping to catch me doing anything worthy of blackmail, you’re out of luck. I’m afraid my dealings are all very boring.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Jack replied.
In truth he’d only followed Rivington a few times, partly to discover whether he knew anything of Wraxhall, but also wanting to know whether this proper gentleman frequented the establishments that quietly catered to men of their proclivities. Not out of any intent to blackmail, but rather from idle curiosity and maybe something a little . . . warmer than that.
