Page 1 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
CHAPTER ONE
Jack absently skimmed his finger along the surface of his desk, tracing a swirl through the sand he had used to blot his notes. Another case was solved and done with, another gentleman too drunk on his own power and consequence to remember to pay servants and tradesmen, too dissipated to bother being faithful to his wife. Nearly every client’s problems were variations on that theme. Jack might have been bored if he weren’t so angry.
A knock sounded at the door, a welcome distraction. His sister always knocked, as if she didn’t want to interrupt whatever depravities Jack was conducting on the other side of the door. She did it out of an excess of consideration, but Jack still felt as if she were waiting for him to do something unspeakable at any moment.
She was right, of course, but still it grated.
“Come in, Sarah.”
“There’s a gentleman here to see you,” she said, packing a world of both disapproval and deference into those few words.
Really, it was a pity she hadn’t been born a man, because the world had lost a first-rate butler there. The butlers Jack had served under would have been put fairly to shame.
“Tell him to bugger off.” Sarah knew perfectly well he didn’t take gentlemen as clients. He tried to keep any trace of impatience out of his voice, but didn’t think he quite managed it.
“I have customers downstairs and I don’t want a scene.” She had pins jammed into the sleeve of her gown, a sign that she had been interrupted in the middle of a fitting. No wonder her lips were pursed.
“And I don’t want any gentlemen.” Too late, he realized he had set her up for a smart-mouthed response. Now she was going to press her advantage, because that’s what older sisters did. But Sarah must have been developing some restraint, or maybe she was only in a hurry, because all she did was raise a single eyebrow as if to say, Like hell you don’t.
“I’m not your gatekeeper,” she said a moment later, her tone deceptively mild. But on her last word Jack could hear a trace of that old accent they had both worked so hard to shed. Sarah had to be driven to distraction if she was letting her accent slip.
“Send him up, then,” he conceded. This arrangement of theirs depended on a certain amount of compromise on both sides.
She vanished, her shoes scarcely making any sound on the stairs. A moment later he heard the heavier tread of a man not at all concerned about disturbing the clients below.
This man didn’t bother knocking. He simply sailed through the door Sarah had left ajar as if he had every right in the world to enter whatever place he pleased, at whatever time he wanted.
To hell with that. Jack took his time stacking his cards, pausing a moment to examine one with feigned and hopefully infuriating interest. The gentleman coughed impatiently; Jack mentally awarded himself the first point.
“Yes?” Jack looked up for the first time, as if only now noticing the stranger’s presence. He could see why Sarah had pegged him straightaway as a gentleman. Everything about him, from his mahogany walking stick to his snowy white linen, proclaimed his status.
“You’re Jack Turner?”
There was something about his voice—the absurd level of polish, perhaps—that made Jack look more carefully at his visitor’s face.
Could it—? It couldn’t be.
But it was.
“Captain Rivington,” Jack said with all the nonchalance he could muster. “What brings you here?”
Jack saw Rivington’s eyes go wide for one astonished instant before he gathered his wits. That was faster than most people, and Jack had to give him credit.
“Have we met?” the other man asked, his voice indicating exactly how unlikely it was that he would ever have met the likes of Jack Turner.
“Not exactly,” Jack said, holding back the details as a matter of principle.
The truth was that a man would make a poor go of it in this line of work if he couldn’t remember a face like Rivington’s. Though the last time Jack had encountered this pretty specimen of the English upper classes, the man had been a few years younger and didn’t have that limp.
Nor that murderous look in his eye, for that matter.
What he’d had was his cock in the mouth of some other lazy young fool at his father’s house party. That had made Rivington of particular interest to Jack. There were few enough men who shared Jack’s preferences—let alone sons of earls—that he certainly wasn’t likely to forget a single one. Jack had added that fact to the stockpile of secrets he kept, never knowing when he might need to avail himself of some especially unsavory truth.
Jack kept his gaze fixed expectantly on the other man’s face. The fellow was handsome, Jack would hand him that. Fair hair, bright blue eyes, very tall, very thin. Not Jack’s type, but nothing to sneeze at either. A pity about that limp.
“May I ask what type of business you run in this establishment?” The brusqueness of Rivington’s tone suggested that he expected an answer.
And just for that, Jack decided he wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m not taking gentlemen as clients at the moment.” It was always an unexpected pleasure when the truth aligned with what he wanted to say.
