Page 2 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“What the devil does that mean?” Rivington’s hands were clenched into fists.
“My clients are ladies and other sorts of people who need help solving problems. Wealthy gentlemen seldom need the kinds of services I offer.” That, and Jack would sooner have gouged out his eyeballs than work for an aristocratic man ever again.
Not to be trusted, that lot.
“Well, I certainly have a problem and you would seem to be the man to fix it,” Rivington all but spat. “My sister paid two hundred pounds to someone of your name at this address.”
Lady Montbray. Of course. The usual arrangement was for ladies to pay through Sarah’s dress shop, so the expense would pass unnoticed by suspicious husbands or fathers. But Lady Montbray had quite a bit of her own money and had been moved to displays of extreme gratitude by the services Jack had rendered. She’d paid Jack directly, not to mention generously.
Not that Jack was going to tell this amusingly irate toff any of that. “Did she now?” he murmured. God, he wished he had someone here to admire how well he was getting this fellow’s dander up. The poor sod’s pretty face had practically turned red.
“You very well know that she did,” Rivington said in tones that were clipped with barely restrained fury. “I’d like to know precisely what services you render, for such a fee.”
Jack bet he would. Really, he ought to leave the matter there and refuse to say anything else. He half wanted to see what this fine gentleman would do if he got any angrier. But he also didn’t want Rivington talking to magistrates or Bow Street Runners about him. The success of this operation depended on Jack’s relative invisibility. He would have no clients at all if his business were exposed in the newspapers.
“As I said, I help people with problems. If a lady is wondering whether her servants are robbing her or whether her husband is playing her false, I find out. And I fix it.” There were other situations he helped with, but he certainly wasn’t discussing those predicaments today.
Not ever. Not with this man.
“You’re saying that Charlotte—Lady Montbray—called upon you to solve some sort of domestic dispute?” Rivington shook his head, plainly incredulous. “I don’t believe it. It’s a ruse. Two hundred pounds! My God.” His face was dark with a degree of anger that Jack guessed did not come readily to him. “I think you’re a crook, Turner.”
Jack gave the man his due for knowing a crook when he saw one, even though he had been more or less on the right side of the law as of late. “If any of my clients think I’ve defrauded them or failed to uphold our bargain, they can bring an action against me. But your opinion doesn’t enter into it.”
That was the whole point. This prig’s opinion didn’t matter. Two years earlier, Jack had set up this business to make himself independent of men like Rivington, and to do something to get other people out from under the thumbs of wealthy, highborn men. And there Rivington stood, carrying a beaver hat that a younger Jack would have pinched just on the principle of the thing. With a curl to his lip, Rivington surveyed Jack’s shabby little study like he owned the place. Like he owned Jack.
But then the man helplessly scrubbed a hand through his pale hair. At the same time he shifted his weight onto his walking stick.
Jack stilled. It would never do to feel anything like compassion for this man, but then Jack was a practiced hand at overcoming any stray decent impulses. More worrisome were the decidedly indecent impulses he was feeling towards Captain Rivington. Even after four years, Jack had never quite been able to rid himself of the image of the young gentleman in the throes of passion, all that restraint and hauteur gone up in smoke.
Mercifully, there was a brisk rap on the door. “Come in, Sarah,” Jack called.
“And now there’s a lady here to see you. I’m sending her up. I have two ladies downstairs for fittings and heaven only knows where Betsy has gotten to,” she said, already heading back down to her shop.
“If you’ll excuse me, Captain Rivington, I need to meet with a client. I’m sure you’ll understand the need for privacy.” He could hear the lady’s steps coming up the stairs.
Rivington made for the door before hesitating, then turning back to Jack. “No, I think I’ll stay,” he said, his voice thoughtful, his feet planted firmly on the floor.
“Not possible.” There was no time for this nonsense. But Rivington didn’t budge. “Good day, sir.”
Rivington, blast him, raised a single eyebrow. Worse, his mouth quirked up in the beginnings of a smile. Oh, he knew perfectly well that he had the whip hand in this situation, did he? There was nothing Jack could do to get rid of him without risking a scene that would frighten off Sarah’s customers or his own client. He certainly didn’t want to turn their landlord’s eye more closely to what was occurring on these premises.
Jack sighed, resigned. “Then stay, on the condition that you swear not to breathe a word of anything you see or hear in this room.” Besides, if Rivington ever tried to breach a client’s confidence it wouldn’t take much for Jack to ruin him.
A comforting thought, as always.
Rivington regarded him for a moment. “I swear it.”
The earnestness in his face was almost laughable. Ever so honorable, these gentlemen. Always so eager to uphold their oaths, to value their word. It was one of the few things they actually managed to get right, and maybe they ought to be encouraged, but it wouldn’t be by Jack.
“Then sit over there.” He gestured to an empty chair in a shadowy corner of the room. “And don’t speak.”
As Rivington sat, a spasm of pain crossed his face. It was brief, just as soon replaced with more bland aristocratic chilliness.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked, before he could remember that his official stance was not to give a damn about Rivington. But how the hell badly was the man’s leg injured? Small wonder he had turned up ready for bloodshed after climbing that steep flight of stairs.
Jack wasn’t ready for the smile Rivington shot him. Fuck. A startled flash of perfect teeth, accompanied by a choked laugh. Was that all it took to dismantle Jack’s composure these days?
“Christ,” Rivington said, “I must be in bad shape if I have career criminals asking after my welfare.”
