Page 21 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
But there were no sweets. Instead a vaguely familiar and highly dashing young man entered the room.
“Georgie, what the bloody hell?” Turner shot to his feet.
“No need for that.” The new arrival planted his hands on Turner’s shoulders in order to shove him back into his chair before bending to drop a kiss on his cheek. “I come bearing information.” He lowered himself gracefully into the seat next to Turner, across from Oliver.
Oliver was astonished by this. He had never seen gentlemen behave like this. Kissing? Lord. He also felt a mortifying but undeniable surge of jealousy.
“Don’t worry,” said the new arrival. Oliver realized with a start this comment was addressed to him. “Jack’s my brother.”
Oliver was relieved and embarrassed in equal parts—relieved to have an explanation for Turner’s intimacy with this brazen young man, embarrassed that his own envy was so obvious.
Turner seemed amused. “Rivington, this is Georgie.”
“Charmed, charmed,” Georgie drawled. “Mr. Rivington, is it?” He flicked a knowing glance at his brother before returning his gaze to Oliver. “You should call me Georgie, otherwise we’ll have too many Mr. Turners in the room and it’ll be too dreary to sort it all out.”
“Then you must call me Oliver,” he managed to say. This debonair gentleman, whom he had surely seen at a soiree or ball, and who was dressed in clothing that could have come from the same tailor Oliver himself had patronized, was Turner’s brother? Turner, who had been a valet and a thief?
“You’re quite right. I must,” Georgie said, spearing the last piece of roast off of Jack’s plate. “And you’ll have to call my brother Jack and then we’ll all be fast friends.” Oliver was not sure why such breezy familiarity didn’t seem like insolence. “See how cleverly I managed that, Jack?” Georgie asked, with a louche grin. “I’ve saved you a great deal of trouble.”
“You’ve done nothing of the kind,” Turner—Jack—replied, his voice stern. “Look at how he’s blushing.”
“I know, but he’s adorable, don’t you think? All pink and white, like a Dresden shepherdess.”
Jack only looked at his brother. “I think you’d better tell me why you’ve come before you give him an apoplexy.”
Georgie bent forward, using the candle to light his cheroot. “May I speak freely or should I invent a cunning code?”
“Mr. Rivington is aware of the matter, so you can speak freely.” Jack didn’t use Oliver’s Christian name, and Oliver didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“Mr. Wraxhall—Francis, when he’s at home—has no debts, no mistress, no expensive tastes. In short, he’s a dead bore.” Georgie took a drag from his cheroot. “His wife brought with her a sizable dowry, which came with no strings attached, as far as I can tell. The entire sum was made over to her husband with precious little left for her own use. In other words, your Mr. Wraxhall is a rich man and has no apparent need for ready money.”
“What about before he was married?” Jack asked.
“He had the usual dull career at Oxford. The family had some idea that he would go into the church but that was before he met the current Mrs. Wraxhall while at Brighton recovering from a winter cold. Marrying her quite obviated the need for obtaining some piddling post as vicar. But nobody ever considered him a fortune hunter. Before his marriage, Wraxhall never so much as set foot in London or Bath or any of the places you’d think to find a rich wife. But find one, he did.”
Oliver was not pleased to hear Wraxhall discussed in this light manner in the sitting room of a whorehouse cook. What had Wraxhall ever done to deserve this treatment, other than marry a woman who had the bad sense to get blackmailed?
“There was something untoward about the engagement,” Georgie added after another puff on his cheroot. “The happy couple was found in a compromising situation at a ball. Not so compromising as to actually be interesting, but compromising enough to require a man of honor to do right by the lady. Wraxhall, being lamentably honorable, married the lady as soon as the banns had been read three times.”
“You know,” Oliver said impatiently, “I could have told you as much.” He turned to Jack. “In fact, I think I did tell you as much and you dismissed me. Wraxhall is the most obviously decent fellow I’ve met in ages. He’s harmless.”
He found two pairs of almost identical brown eyes staring at him.
“No,” Jack said after a moment. “That is not how it works. With all due respect,” he remarked, managing to convey no respect whatsoever, “you wouldn’t know whether or not he was decent. You couldn’t, in fact. You play cards with him, maybe drink or make idle conversation. He has no power over you to be anything other than decent. It’s his wife and servants who know the truth. You would likely have thought your brother-in-law a decent fellow had you met him at your club.”
Oliver bristled at the mention of Montbray. In truth he had only met the man that one time, during that visit to Alder Court several years ago. And Oliver had spent that visit getting seduced by the Honorable Freddie Cavendish, not assessing the character of his sister’s husband. “That’s a bleak picture of marriage,” was all he could think to say.
“It’s a bleak picture of life,” Jack corrected. “And an accurate one.”
“Oh, God.” Georgie rose to his feet. “If you want to know what’s bleak, it’s all this griping when there’s pleasure to be had. I’m heading upstairs to pay my respects to Madame Louise and see what the night brings.”
And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving Oliver alone with Jack.
After finishing the jam tart, Jack could see the first hints of dawn through Mrs. Madrigal’s windows. He needed to get back to his rooms and attempt a few hours of sleep before starting his day’s work.
“Write your sister a note telling her to stay in Richmond for two weeks, or until you send word that Montbray is gone, whichever is longer.” He would need the extra time to set his plans in motion. “I’ll put out word that I have a job for a pair of men with the requisite qualifications.” The primary qualification was the ability to cosh a man on the head as hard and as often as necessary. “But the day after tomorrow I plan to leave London on another matter.”
“Where are you going?” Rivington asked, pushing bits of pastry crust around his plate, as if that would disguise the fact that he hadn’t eaten a bite.
