Page 47 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“That’s also why you’re looking into this Montbray affair. You’re up to your ears in nobs. It’s only a matter of time before you forget where your interests end and theirs begin.”
That really was the limit. “And where did Georgie Turner, revolutionary, spend last night?” he asked facetiously. “In the company of dockworkers and street sweepers?” He let his gaze linger on Georgie’s finery—dinner coat, snowy linen, highly polished top boots. “Somehow I doubt that.” Something else occurred to Jack. “How the hell did you know I was here, anyway?”
“Lucky guess. Take care of yourself, Jack. Don’t forget that at the end of the day, they don’t care whether you live or die.” Georgie slipped out of the lane and out of Jack’s sight.
Jack already knew that. What troubled him now was that he didn’t seem to mind in the least. He pushed himself away from the wall and headed home, the sunlight blinding his eyes as he stepped out of the shadows.
For Oliver, the day dawned with the unwelcome realization that he had erred. Well, maybe erred was putting too strong a spin on the thing. Jack clearly ought not to take the law into his own hands, but Oliver need not have said so in quite so insulting a manner. He had behaved badly and now he would have to do something about it.
That wasn’t quite true, strictly speaking. He supposed he could leave well enough alone, leave Jack to his own affairs and meanwhile carry on with his own life, such as it was.
At the moment all Oliver could think to do with his life was avoid Rutland House, where every post brought irate missives from his father, ordering him to return to Alder Court and cease associating with “that blackguard.” Oliver had spent the morning driving aimlessly through Hyde Park, and now he was holed up in Charlotte’s house while attempting to play spillikins with his nephew. Or, rather, play spillikins near his nephew, because Oliver seemed to be the only one with any interest in the game.
“I say, try for that one near your foot,” Oliver advised.
“Stick,” said young Lord Montbray, and reached clumsily for the stick he fancied at the bottom of the pile. “Mine,” he said proudly, as the sticks toppled.
Oliver gathered up the sticks for another round of not-spillikins, because evidently that was how he was spending his day. Charlotte and Miss Sutherland were huddled over a book of fashion plates, determining what mourning clothes they required, and neither of them had any interest in coaxing Oliver out of his bad mood. Even William seemed to be barely tolerating Oliver’s interference in his game of sticks.
One of the sticks slid under the sofa, William cried, and before Oliver could try to comfort him, Nurse materialized to whisk the child off to his nap. Oliver was left sitting alone on the floor, no real idea of where to go or what to do. He didn’t really even have any idea of how he was going to get off the floor without hurting either himself or Charlotte’s fragile-looking furniture.
“Charlotte,” he said, thinking to have her ring for a footman. But she didn’t answer, and when he looked over he saw that his sister had her arm around Miss Sutherland, which wouldn’t have been so remarkable except that the companion was sobbing into Charlotte’s gown. Charlotte was kissing her head and murmuring things Oliver couldn’t hear.
Oliver felt a pang of envy at the closeness his sister shared with her friend. He had spent so many years alone, without anyone to confide in, anyone to turn to in moments of grief or turmoil, that he had almost forgotten why people sought companionship in the first place. The comfort and affection that existed between Charlotte and Miss Sutherland were things he would never have and he desperately craved them.
It was likely delusion to think that he could have those things with Jack, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t at least try. He dragged himself to his feet and slipped from the room without either of the ladies noticing he had left.
The first thing Jack saw when he turned onto Sackville Street was Oliver’s curricle outside Sarah’s shop, the ribbons being held by a groom.
“Fuck and damn,” he muttered. What did the man want now?
But when he climbed the stairs he found his office empty. He bounded back down the stairs to demand an explanation from Betsy, only to hear the sound of a too-familiar laugh coming from Sarah’s private parlor.
He headed directly back, past the bolts of silk and muslin in the showroom, past the workroom where Sarah’s seamstresses looked up in mild consternation, and paused before the sitting room where she met with her preferred clients. He rapped smartly on the door.
Sarah opened the door, a stunned but not displeased expression on her face. On the table sat an arrangement of hothouse blooms that certainly hadn’t been there earlier.
“Come in, Jack. Mr. Rivington was telling me that he needs to see you on some matter of business, but I didn’t want to leave him upstairs alone.
Like hell she didn’t. Oliver was sitting with one of Sarah’s best china teacups in his long, elegant fingers, a stack of dreary-looking fabric samples wrapped up on the table before him. He must have mentioned that his sister was in need of a mourning wardrobe. And by the looks of things, Sarah had gone along with that plan merrily enough.
But when he saw Jack at the door he put down his cup and rose immediately to his feet. “Mr. Turner, I owe you an apology,” he said promptly, his clear blue eyes looking genuinely remorseful.
Jack thought he could actually hear Sarah’s jaw drop. For that matter, he had to consciously work to keep his own jaw decently closed.
Oliver apologized? Jack did not think he had ever received an apology from a gentleman. Not for wages that came weeks late, not for errands that had put him in the way of highwaymen or worse. Never.
“No harm, no foul,” Jack managed.
Sarah must have had a client waiting, or perhaps she understood the need for privacy, because she slipped out of the room after assuring Oliver that she would herself conduct Lady Montbray’s fittings should the lady so desire. Before leaving, she shot Jack a glance that was equal parts concern and curiosity.
“I’m very sorry,” Oliver continued, his too-blue eyes looking penitential. “I didn’t realize how wrongly I had spoken until after I had left you. I offended you and spoke poorly of the work you do, when the plain truth of the matter is that you were right.” His mouth quirked up in the beginnings of an embarrassed little smile. “I mean, it’s very high-hat of me to take issue with your practices when I myself break the law when I see fit. I apologize.”
What was this, then? Jack found himself totally disarmed, in the sense that he didn’t have a single damned defense left against this man. Helpless, he sat in the chair Sarah had vacated, and watched as Oliver sat as well. He knew perfectly well that Oliver was using his manners and his winning ways to cudgel Jack into amity, but Jack found he couldn’t protest.
He tried to force a hard edge into his voice but was afraid he sounded dazed nonetheless. “What, you didn’t realize buggery was a crime?”
Oliver’s incipient smile exploded into the real thing. “Don’t be daft.” Then the smile was gone again. “It’s only that I prefer to think that there’s some order governing the world, some absolute rights and wrongs, and I like to think that order overlaps with the law at least to some extent.”
