Page 33 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“They’re checking Debrett’s, I’d wager.” Jack tweaked the nose of a marble statue and Oliver swatted his hand away.
When the butler returned and bade them follow him to the morning room, Jack murmured, “I ought to always have an aristocrat when I want to look into other people’s houses. It’s a hell of a lot easier than climbing drainpipes and shimmying through garret windows.”
That, Oliver knew, was the closest he was going to get to an expression of thanks. Which was fine, he supposed, since all he had done was get fathered by a peer.
They found Mrs. Lewis bent over her embroidery hoop. She glanced up at the two men with sharp black eyes. She was older than Oliver had expected—closer to thirty than twenty—and visibly with child. Oliver supposed she was pretty enough, but not agreeable-looking. She pressed her narrow, pale lips together in a way that suggested habitual disapproval. Her dark hair had been dressed in an aggressively fashionable manner, with an abundance of ringlets and twists.
Oliver made the usual apologies about dropping by uninvited and without an introduction, and then launched into his story. This time he couldn’t use the story about Charlotte’s fictitious friend—Lady Montbray being unlikely to make the acquaintance of a mill owner’s wife—so he and Jack had come up with something else.
“I’ve come to Yorkshire with my man of business to find a location for a home for wounded soldiers.” He knew she would infer that he was also after a donation for this fictitious charity. “The vicar mentioned that you might be capable of helping with this endeavor.” Something flickered in her expression that made Oliver think he had hit his mark with that bit of flattery.
“You would need to speak to my husband about any charitable interests, Mr. Rivington.” Her voice was flat and unapologetic.
If they really had been collecting for a charity they could hardly have done better than the Lewises. Plenty of money here. No expense had been spared in furnishing this house, and it was all done in the latest fashion. A trifle vulgar, this strict adherence to fashion, but nothing outlandishly crass. Oliver guessed Mrs. Lewis had redecorated the place soon after her marriage.
“When is Mr. Lewis expected home?” Oliver asked.
“Not until teatime at the earliest.” She flicked a glance at the embroidery hoop that still lay on her lap, as if longing to get back to her work.
“Is he ever in London? I can make arrangements to see him there.”
“London?” Her dark eyes went wide before narrowing again. “No, he never travels that far.”
Oliver thought she was suspicious, but also thought she would err on the side of humoring the Earl of Rutland’s son.
A footman came in with tea and nearly dropped it when startled by the emergence of an angry little dog from under Mrs. Lewis’s chair. What ensued ought to have been one of those trifling domestic farces that happen in all households—absurdly tiny dog endeavors to defend mistress from tea—but instead it was a tense moment. The footman was highly nervous and apologetic, Mrs. Lewis was plainly irritated, and out of the corner of his eye Oliver noticed Jack watching the scene carefully.
Oliver did his best to engage Mrs. Lewis in conversation that might be of use in the investigation. He complimented the lady’s embroidery, made a remark about the unusually cool summer—all the mainstays of drawing-room conversation. But he couldn’t quite draw her out. She regarded him with that wintry little smile and said as little as possible.
There was something oppressive about the room, despite the care that had been taken in furnishing it. Oliver was almost nauseated. Was it the bilious shade of yellow in the wallpaper, or was it the heavy scent of rose water? And why did the figurines on the chimney piece look quite so . . . menacing?
Mrs. Lewis started glancing at the gilt clock that sat on the chimney piece, and Oliver decided to end the performance.
On the way to the front door Oliver watched in astonishment as Jack, pretending to be lost in admiration of the friezes, walked directly into a housemaid who had been polishing furniture. Both the maid and the footman who was escorting them to the door went quite pale, and then the girl rushed away close to tears.
“What was that about?” Oliver asked Jack after they were in the curricle, speeding down the gravel drive.
“The Lewises are terrors to work for. All the servants we saw were jumpy. Everyone in that house was strung too tight for comfort.”
Oliver couldn’t see what that had to do with Mrs. Wraxhall, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Jack looking very smug. “Do you think she’s the blackmailer, then?”
“I don’t think she’d hesitate to blackmail,” Jack said immediately. “She’s ruthless. I’d have hated to work in that house.”
“I’m glad you got your dose of sordidness.”
“Christ, so am I.” And he sounded like he meant it. “But whatever she’s capable of, she didn’t take our client’s letters.”
Oliver heard that “our” but decided it would be unwise to comment on it. “Why? Because she doesn’t travel to London? I don’t suppose a woman in her condition would make a very effective burglar.”
Jack shook his head. “No, no. Because she cares too much for her reputation to want to expose an affair her husband had before marrying her. You saw how her face lit up when you said the vicar mentioned her.” He spoke with the threadbare patience of a man used to the rest of the world being two steps behind him. “Lewis himself would appear to be an unlikely culprit for the same reason.”
“Wouldn’t the Lewises have a reason to steal the letters and then destroy them, to prevent their contents from being known?” Oliver asked.
“Yes, absolutely. But why leave a blackmail note, then?”
“Unless Mrs. Wraxhall was lying about having received a blackmail note,” Oliver suggested.
Jack cast him an approving glance. Oliver felt his cheeks flush, and then heard the other man’s soft rumble of laughter.
