Page 29 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
It was simply understood that they would marry. An odd way of referring to a youthful dalliance, he thought.
Odder still when you considered what Charlotte had said about Wraxhall and Lydia Durbin having been caught in a compromising situation before their marriage. Had Lewis refused to marry her after she was compromised? Or was there some other explanation?
They were interrupted by the vicar, who entered the room without being announced by the maid. Oliver rose to greet the man and take his leave from Miss Barrow. “Thank you for tea and for giving shelter to a pair of weary travelers, Miss Barrow.”
“Nonsense,” she replied distractedly, giving Oliver her hand while looking at the vicar. “I hope you find your sister’s friend.”
He found Jack in the back garden talking with the gardener. The midsummer sun was only beginning to set, glinting off Jack’s overlong hair in a way that brought out flecks of colors he hadn’t expected to find there—gold and copper and brass and maybe even the first strands of silver.
In London they had mainly seen one another at night or indoors; Turner was a man who preferred to hide his face in shadows and darkness. This was not Jack Turner’s natural habitat, as it were, these green hills and extravagant blooms. And yet, the setting seemed to crystallize a thought that had been lurking in the recesses of Oliver’s mind for days.
It was more than attraction. Seeing Jack like this was the first inkling Oliver had that he could feel more for him than interest in a passing dalliance. Jack Turner’s face was one that could be dear to him.
CHAPTER NINE
How long had Rivington been standing there watching him? Jack scowled but received a smile in return. He had needed to leave that house with all its reminders of this world he didn’t belong to, didn’t want to belong to. In fact, he very much wanted to have nothing to do with anyone in that world, except take their money in exchange for honest—and occasionally dishonest—work. It was Oliver Rivington, blast him, who seemed to constitute the single exception to that rule.
Georgie had been right of course, but it was too late to wring hands. He had known better than to get mixed up with the son of an earl. But now he wanted Rivington, with his too-handsome face and his too-polished manners more than he’d wanted anything or anyone in a good while. And he would have him. But then he would be done with Rivington—with gentlemen—for good.
“Come on,” he said, his voice gruff, “let’s get back before dark.” He wanted to ask if Oliver would be able to make the walk home, but knew he’d only embarrass the man—and himself—with any show of solicitude. So he kept his peace, but made sure he matched his pace to Rivington’s slower one.
“Did you learn anything from the lady?” Jack asked as they walked.
“Perhaps,” Rivington said, as if considering the matter. “Are we sharing information now?”
So he was going to be like that, was he? “Oh, sod off.”
But Oliver laughed and flashed him a wicked smile before sharing what Miss Barrow had told him of the former Miss Durbin. “It turns out I have a talent for making conversation with ladies.” He gave his walking stick a twirl in the air. “It’s quite wasted on me, of course, but it’s a talent nonetheless.”
Jack would not be charmed by how proud the man sounded. “Talent, my arse.” But it was true. At every inn Rivington found a baby to coo at or an old woman to prattle with. Yesterday Jack had watched him listen raptly to a farmer’s lecture on hop yields, a subject Rivington couldn’t possibly care about. “As for your talents with the ladies,” Jack continued, “I’ve already told you that you need to watch out or you’ll find yourself married by Michaelmas. But I think you’re safe as far as Miss Barrow goes. She’ll marry Ingleby.”
“The vicar?” He sounded surprised. Would he never grasp the extent of Jack’s knowledge? “Did the gardener tell you that?”
“No.” Jack sighed impatiently. “The vicar walked into her house through the garden door without knocking, which suggests intimacy. He needs a wife—your friend Peale said the man’s been a mess since his sister died, and you can see for yourself that he needs looking after. He missed a spot on his chin when he was shaving and his coat is covered in lint and God knows what else. Those are things that anyone can see.”
Rivington made a noise of protest.
“Or, rather, that anyone could see if they looked,” Jack amended. “To those facts, I’d add the following suppositions. Miss Barrow was likely friends with the vicar’s late sister, and I wouldn’t be shocked if Miss Ingleby’s will left a small income to Miss Barrow. Ingleby clearly has connections—this parish likely gives him a good living without much work—so it follows that his sister might have had money of her own.”
Now Rivington shot him a skeptical look, as if he thought Jack was spinning a yarn. Insulting. He supposed they could verify the terms of Miss Ingleby’s will, but he wouldn’t go to that kind of trouble simply to earn this man’s respect.
“It’s too bad we didn’t learn anything about Mrs. Wraxhall’s letters,” Rivington said after a moment, in a bald attempt to change the topic. Jack did not appreciate being on the receiving end of Rivington’s bloody perfect manners.
“But we did,” Jack said. “Miss Barrow is no blackmailer. She’s utterly shiftless and was certainly a very bad governess, which goes some distance toward explaining why her charge was so wayward. Nobody that disorganized and lazy could manage blackmail. She probably can scarcely manage to order meat from the butcher.” The lady obviously spent her days reading, napping, and eating biscuits. He didn’t know whether to be disgusted or jealous. “Come to think of it, I’d lay even odds that the little maid we saw is robbing her mistress whenever she gets a chance, and I can hardly fault her. But never mind that. It’s not our affair, and besides, I expect Ingleby is the sort of man who manages his accounts with some precision, so the pilfering will stop after they are married.” He kept his gaze fixed resolutely ahead, not wanting to know what expressions were crossing Rivington’s face.
“Are you having me on? You can’t possibly know even half that much.” They had crossed the footbridge and were now in the churchyard. The sun had set behind the hills and darkness was coming fast. “Show me.” Rivington demanded. “What do you know about me?”
He should have said no, in the clearest and most expletive-ridden terms. He did not perform parlor tricks for the amusement of the aristocracy, for people who were too lazy or too inept to do what he did. But he wanted to prove himself, he wanted this man to know who he was dealing with.
He wanted to lay Rivington bare, let him know exactly how exposed he was.
He wanted to scare the man away, before it was too late.
Jack stopped walking. “Fine.” He turned to face Oliver in the middle of the graveyard. “Fine,” he repeated, as if convincing himself. “We’ve already established that you’re bored. That’s why you’re here. No, don’t interrupt. You’re lonely.”
He touched Rivington’s shoulder, as if to soften the blow. Maybe to let him know he wasn’t the only lonely one in this quickly darkening boneyard, not that Jack would ever say so out loud. “You were never particularly close with your sister,” he went on. “She didn’t tell you why she needed my services. But I know you’re fond of her because you were livid when you came to see me that first day, but since then I’ve hardly seen you anything other than calm, even when you fought off those ruffians in the alley. You’re not close at all to your older brother—you’ve never so much as mentioned him.”
