Page 6 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Rivington paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “Are you saying that you’d blackmail Mr. Wraxhall?” Now he was regarding his glass as if he expected to discover that it was filthy, unfit to drink.
“If he’s the sort of man to mistreat his wife for having had an affair before marriage, when his own behavior hasn’t been perfect? Then most definitely.”
Jack watched as Rivington’s mouth set into a grim line. Well, that had done the trick. Jack had wanted to get rid of the man and it turned out all he had to do was tell the truth.
Rivington hauled himself to his feet and placed his mostly full glass on the edge of the desk farthest from where Jack sat. “Good day, Mr. Turner,” he said, limping to the door.
Jack heard the door close with a snick before he could think of any sufficiently cutting way to get in the last word.
Oliver did not like this one bit. It was simply wrong for shadowy figures to break into the homes of respectable people, rifle through their belongings, blackmail unsuspecting gentlemen, and perform God-only-knew what other illegal acts. Outrageous. He would not—could not—let a thing like that stand. If he had wanted chaos and disorder he would have stayed in the army, however improbable that might have been with his leg steadily worsening. He had returned to England in search of civilization, and civilization he would have, Jack Turner be damned.
He would go to his club and sit in his usual chair and think about what to do. To be fair, he had not been in London long enough to have a usual chair, but in time he would. He would make sure of it, by God.
But first he would visit his sister and get her side of this sorry story. Charlotte lived not terribly far from Turner’s Sackville Street premises. It was only perhaps a ten-minute walk, but that was about nine minutes more than Oliver’s leg could comfortably endure on such a damp day. London in late spring was always rainy, this year exceptionally so. Oliver had only seen the sun a handful of times in the past few weeks, which would be dismal enough even without a limb whose health apparently depended on decent weather. After being shot in the back of the knee, his leg was a veritable barometer.
Deep in thought, he nearly lost his footing on a slick cobblestone. Christ. Another injury was all he needed.
He was on the verge of collapse by the time he entered Charlotte’s drawing room. She had half a dozen ladies and gentlemen gathered around her, drinking tea and eating tiny cakes, as per usual. But somebody vacated a chair in time for him to drop into it, and then all he had to do was wait for Charlotte’s guests to depart before he could lay into her about this Turner business.
Small talk was not an option in this state, so he pretended to be fascinated by Charlotte’s drawing room. It was all done in shades of cream and gold that matched his sister’s coloring. His too, although that sounded an asinine thing for a man to think. But, at any rate, she had put this room together to flatter herself, and she had been successful—she looked every inch the fashionable hostess. When he had joined the army, Charlotte had been a child of twelve, her flaxen curls arranged in tidy plaits. It still came as a shock that she was now a grown woman with a house and family of her own.
“Do you have anything stronger than tea, Charlotte?” he asked when the last of the visitors had left.
“You look terrible,” she said, not mincing words. But she rang the bell and a servant materialized with brandy.
“I paid a visit on your friend Mr. Turner.”
She whipped her head around to face him, golden curls bouncing. “Oliver, I have a mind to—”
“What did you hire him to do?” he demanded.
“I had forgotten how much you like to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” she said with a little sniff. “I’ve done my own accounts since Montbray left and I was managing perfectly well. I only asked you to look them over because you seemed so bored.”
Humiliated, Oliver fought the blush he felt rise to his cheeks.
“If you must know,” she continued, her voice quiet enough not to be heard from behind the closed door, “Mr. Turner is responsible for Montbray spending his time overseas.”
It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what that meant, unfortunately. Montbray and Charlotte were estranged. And his sister, the same woman who sat before him in her impeccable drawing room, had paid Jack Turner to achieve that result. “Good God.”
“Language, Oliver,” she chided.
But at that moment Charlotte’s companion entered the room. Miss Sutherland, he recalled. She looked like a little gray mouse in the midst of the golden splendor of this drawing room. A cousin of Charlotte’s husband, she was nominally present in the house as a guest, but seemed to function as housekeeper as well as child minder. She and Charlotte were thick as thieves, that much was clear.
After a few moments Oliver could tell that his presence was extraneous. He took his leave and let a footman call a hackney to carry him the short distance to his club.
At White’s he flipped idly through the pages of the evening newspaper, but his mind kept returning to Turner’s office. The next time a waiter refilled his glass, Oliver couldn’t resist asking, “Is Wraxhall here tonight?”
“Mr. Wraxhall, sir? Yes, you’ll find him sitting near the window.” The waiter gestured discreetly.
Oliver craned around, wanting to get a look at the man whose fate was now in Turner’s hands, but the high back of the fellow’s chair was in his way. “Is he the same Wraxhall who lives in Grosvenor Square?”
“I believe so.” The waiter was too well-trained to indicate whether he considered that an odd question. “He’s Lord Hampton’s youngest son.” Hampton was a famously poor viscount. There was scarcely any money in that family, hadn’t been for generations. For Wraxhall to have a house in Mayfair and a wife as fashionably dressed as the woman who sought Turner’s help today could only mean that the money came from the lady’s side. In the ordinary course of things a man of Wraxhall’s fortune would consider himself lucky to be a vicar in Northumberland, but here was Wraxhall, sitting in a fashionable and expensive club.
It was more than simple curiosity that made Oliver haul himself to his feet, ignoring the scream of pain from his sore knee. This dread was how it felt to see a soldier in the clear path of an enemy sniper. But in this case, Oliver felt that he could do something to save the man. What, he did not know, but he had to try. He limped across the room to Wraxhall’s chair and cleared his throat. Wraxhall lowered his newspaper, revealing a pale countenance spotted with freckles.
“I say, but did we go to Eton together?” It was a trick Oliver had picked up in the army. Friendships had to be made quickly during wartime. But half the British gentry knew one another, so it was easy enough to find the requisite common ground.
“No, Harrow,” Wraxhall replied, looking vaguely apologetic.
