Page 39 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Jack felt momentarily triumphant, having won this battle he didn’t want to win in the first place. Likely the amount of discomfort he was relieving was too small for the other man to even notice. But the heavy weight on Jack’s arm felt like it belonged there, as if he had been waiting years for the chance to help the son of an earl across a few yards of muddy ground. He was hit with a wave of confusion and self-reproach, and it was all he could do not to push Rivington away, abandoning him in the middle of the inn yard.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows in the Earl of Rutland’s private sitting room, blocking out the midmorning sun, but even in the dim light Oliver could see how frail his father had grown. They had arrived at Alder Court too late last night for Oliver to see his father, so this morning he had dragged himself up the two flights of stairs to his father’s apartments as soon as he received word that the earl was out of bed.
When, precisely, had his father become an old man? His eyes had once been a brighter blue than even Charlotte’s, but now they were clouded over and watery. His hair had been iron gray for as long as Oliver could remember, but now it was white.
“Harris told me you arrived with Montbray’s valet.” That was how Lord Rutland chose to greet the son he had not seen in two years. So, his mind was the same as ever, Oliver supposed.
“He hasn’t been in service for some time,” Oliver said, as if that went any distance toward explaining why Turner was here at Alder Court today. He had hoped to avoid explaining precisely how he had come to be traveling with Jack. The truth, of course, was entirely unsuitable. He couldn’t very well say that he had insinuated himself into a blackmail inquiry out of some combination of boredom, lust, and a sense that he ought to stop Jack from wreaking havoc on the lives of respectable people. He also couldn’t say that he had brought Jack to Alder Court partly out of a nonsensical desire to see his lover in the place Oliver considered his home, and partly to have another uninterrupted day of his company. So he said nothing by way of explanation and hoped his father would move the conversation to other topics.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” His father leaned forward in his chair with an expression like that of a wolf scenting its prey.
“Trouble?” Oliver asked, honestly surprised. What would make his father ask that? “Not at all.” That, at least, was the truth.
With less effort than Oliver would have expected, his father rose to his feet and started pacing the sitting room. “If it’s a question of money, I’d rather you come to me than resort to any association with the likes of Jack Turner.”
“I have no need of money.” Oliver caught a flicker of disappointment in his father’s eyes. It was an old bone of contention, that Oliver was financially independent thanks to his mother’s small legacy. The earl would have preferred to keep all his children under his thumb. Instead, Oliver’s sister had married a wealthy man, his brother had married an heiress with an estate of her own, and Oliver was content to live on his modest income.
“That’s even worse, then,” the earl said, his slippers shuffling across the thick carpet. “If it’s not money, then I’m not sure I even want to know what reason you could possibly have for associating with the man.” He looked at Oliver in the way one might examine a bad penny, or an improperly cooked roast, or anything else that could have been decent but was instead a constant source of disappointment.
Oliver felt like he’d been slapped. That was the closest his father would likely ever come to speaking aloud his suspicions about Oliver’s proclivities. “Mr. Turner is looking into a matter for a friend of mine, and since I find myself at loose ends, I offered to assist.”
“I see.” The earl’s milky blue eyes were still sharp enough to make Oliver uneasy. He tapped his long fingers together, his heavy signet ring glinting even in the feeble light. “Has Charlotte told you anything about your Mr. Turner?”
“Charlotte?” he asked, his mind reeling from the implication that his father knew of Jack’s intervention in Charlotte’s affairs.
“Don’t play the fool, Oliver. I know perfectly well that he got rid of Montbray, and rightly so.”
He fought to retain something that could pass for composure. “Did she tell you that?”
“No,” his father said, sounding impatient.
“Then how—”
“Never mind that.”
“Montbray has returned,” Oliver said, because it occurred to him that if his father knew about the cause for Montbray’s removal two years ago, perhaps he ought to be told that the man had come back. Perhaps he could even be of assistance.
The earl whipped his head around to face Oliver. “Where is Charlotte? And the boy?” His voice was low enough to be unheard by any nearby servants.
“With friends. She took William with her. They’ll stay until Montbray—”
“Stop!” he hissed. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
His meaning couldn’t be clearer: Oliver shouldn’t sully himself or his father by even talking about how this situation might be resolved. They would be debased simply by having the conversation. Lord Rutland and his son did not plan or condone abductions, let alone even worse crimes. They left that to other people, evidently.
“So that’s why you brought Turner.” The earl had resumed a conversational tone.
“No,” Oliver said slowly.
His father ignored him. “A nasty business, but Turner’s a nasty fellow. How much did you pay him?”
Oliver’s mind reeled as he grasped that his father had concluded that if Montbray needed to be removed permanently, Turner was the man for the job. He wanted to protest, but didn’t know how or even why. A few days ago he had believed the same thing, but now it seemed impossible that Jack would—what? Stab Montbray? Poison him? Throw him in a ditch? The same man who had—no. Oliver felt a surge of tenderness and affection and other unbidden, traitorous emotions.
It seemed absurd to think of Jack Turner—gentle, strong, decent Jack Turner—in the same breath as murder. It seemed absurd, even though Oliver feared it wasn’t.
