Page 20 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
But that ship had sailed around the time he resolved to hire Turner to commit a crime. There was a part of Oliver that didn’t give a damn whether what he was doing was right as long as it kept Charlotte and his nephew safe. But Oliver knew only too well how important it was to keep that part of him—of anyone—well in check.
The food came shortly thereafter, though, and all other thoughts were driven from his mind. All he could do for a moment was savor it. The roast was seasoned with—honestly, he had no idea what. Unicorn tears? Fairy dust? And the soup. He nearly moaned. Turner hadn’t been exaggerating—and Oliver hadn’t enjoyed food so much in ages.
“I told you.” Turner refilled both of their wine glasses. He was watching Oliver with evident satisfaction, a wolfish smile playing on his lips. How had Oliver gotten the impression that Turner was ordinary-looking? Because when the man smiled he was paralyzingly gorgeous. “Wait until she brings out the pudding.”
“She said she only had roast and soup.” Oliver found that he wanted his pudding as badly as any child in the nursery.
“She lied. She’ll come up with something. Meanwhile . . .” Turner gestured to the door, and Oliver reached out with his walking stick to push it shut.
“Lord Montbray has returned.”
Turner went still for an instant, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. “Oh he has, has he?”
“My sister wishes to engage your services.” Oliver hoped the other man would not ask him to spell out exactly what services he required.
“Why didn’t she contact me herself, then?”
“She’s staying at friend’s house in Richmond.”
“Good. But first—” He cut himself off and glanced at Oliver, his expression going hard. “I was his valet, you know.” His voice held a challenge.
“Montbray’s?” Oliver was astonished to think that this gruff rogue had been anyone’s valet. Servants were usually so meek, so mild, nearly invisible. Turner was about the farthest thing from invisibility Oliver could imagine. He seemed the only thing in the world Oliver could manage to think of.
Turner was looking closely at Oliver, as if waiting for him to react. “For a few years. I saw how cruel he was to your sister after they were married, and once things reached a certain point I offered to help.”
“Help,” Oliver repeated. Turner made it sound so innocent.
“It was only a question of my paying an acquaintance of mine to hit your brother-in-law on the head. That, and drag him onto a ship.” Turner spoke as if he were describing how he brewed a pot of tea or some other everyday task. “I imagine Montbray bribed or thwarted the man I employed. This time I believe I’ll hire two such men.”
Abduction was certainly a crime, but not as serious as murder. That sort of balancing was repellent, but still he was relieved. Had he truly been ready to tacitly agree to something worse?
“In the spirit of full disclosure”—Turner shot Oliver a faintly mocking smile—”it was when I was Montbray’s valet that I learned of your preference for gentlemen. I saw you in the orangery at Alder Court with . . .” He tapped the table. “I can’t remember his name.”
Oliver groaned. He had been home on leave, staying with his father at Alder Court. Charlotte had been there, too, along with her husband. Turner, as Montbray’s valet, would have come with his employer as a matter of course. He was mortified to think that Turner had witnessed one of the few times he had thrown caution to the wind and indulged himself at his father’s house. He wanted to sink into the earth.
“It felt like the sort of thing I ought to share with you in the name of honesty. Or something to that effect. It’s not often I’m moved to honesty, Mr. Rivington, so when I feel the urge, I tend to obey it.”
Oliver had no response to make, opting instead to drain his wineglass. When he dared look at Turner he saw that the man was returning his gaze. There was more than a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw and some equally dark hair revealed by his open collar—he had hardly gotten himself dressed and tidied at all, only throwing the shirt over his head and tossing a waistcoat and coat over it. He still had dried blood on his face. In short, he was a shambles.
And Oliver wanted him nevertheless, or maybe because of that.
It was the sense of possibility more than anything else. To be sharing a meal with a man he wanted to bed—and to know that feeling was shared—felt like a gift.
“Oh, don’t start with that.” Turner jerked back in his chair so abruptly that Oliver could hear the wood creak. “Don’t look at me like you’re going to start leaving posies by my door.” It was the tone one would use to scold a cat who had dropped a dead animal at one’s feet. “Did you miss the part where I admitted to being habitually dishonest and told you that I used to be a servant in your sister’s house? And when I wasn’t a servant, I was a thief. Sometimes I was both at the same time. Sometimes I was a good deal worse than any of those things.”
Oliver kept his gaze on the table. “Posies don’t enter into it,” he whispered, and then he felt his cheeks get hot.
Turner must have noticed his blush, because he fell silent for a moment. When Oliver did look up, he found Turner’s eyes dark and intent.
“There’s more disgrace in my family than you can even wrap your honorable little mind around. My father was a petty crook and a confidence man and my mother was . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What was your mother?” Oliver tried to make it sound like a normal bit of conversation. He didn’t care what Turner’s mother had been. Likely the man came from a long line of scoundrels and worse. But Oliver found that he cared very much about the fact that Turner was telling him something about himself, something important enough to make the man hesitate.
“A different kind of criminal.” He had shaken off that air of intimacy and reverted to his usual distant terseness. “My point is, since you’re the type of gentleman who needs this sort of thing spelled out for him, I’m more than game for a roll in the hay, a mutual scratching of backs, as early and as often as you like, but I’m not interested even slightly in, ah, an affair of the heart.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver managed to say. All Oliver wanted was to drink in the possibility of the moment, and Jack seemed intent on making even that much into something seedy.
The door opened then, and Oliver thought this must be the arrival of the sweets. Too bad his appetite was quite gone by now.
