Page 51 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“That’s not what I said at all.” Oliver wished he was wearing clothing. “Forget I said anything, in fact.” He moved to the edge of the bed and lay a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I told you that topic doesn’t matter to me. And I didn’t realize about your mother—”
Jack waved his hand to dismiss that thought and shrugged away from Oliver’s touch. Suddenly, Oliver was struck with a realization. “Your mother’s killer was never punished,” he said softly.
“Of course not. Nobody cares much about dead whores.” Jack turned his attention back to his cards and for a moment Oliver thought that would be the end of the conversation, possibly the end of the evening. But then his hand stilled over one card. “Precious little was done to find out who the man even was.”
“I’m sorry.” Oliver would have asked if his mother’s death had driven Jack to pursue justice on his own terms, but he knew he wouldn’t get a decent response.
“Did you learn anything new about the Wraxhall matter?” he asked instead, trying to change the topic. He had noticed that the cards Jack examined pertained to a different case.
When Jack spoke the edge was gone from his voice, a sign that he was ready to let Oliver cajole him back to good humor. “The lady is not in London, which is why I haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”
The Season was drawing to a close and families were trickling out of London. “Yes, she invited me for a house party in Kent next week.” When Jack looked at him oddly, Oliver quickly added, “What? I’ve gotten friendly with Wraxhall.” And when Jack’s eyebrows arched in disbelief, he protested, “I get quite a lot of invitations. Don’t act so shocked that somebody wants my company.”
Jack rose out of his chair and eased onto the bed. “It will never surprise me to hear that someone wants your company,” he said in a tone that made Oliver shiver with anticipation. “But sometimes I forget that you’re on terms of intimacy with bloody everyone. You’re a regular man about town.”
“Oh, shut up,” Oliver said as Jack’s body slid over his own.
“Are you going to go?”
“To what?” Oliver was distracted by Jack’s mouth on his neck.
“To Mrs. Wraxhall’s house party,” Jack laughed into Oliver’s ear.
Oliver tried to focus on the conversation, and not on the desire that was pooling in his belly. “I hadn’t decided. It’s awkward—Montbray was no relation of mine so I don’t need to go into mourning, but I still don’t want to gad about. Do you want me to go?”
“I’d love to search that house,” Jack said in between kisses.
“Why not ask Mrs. Wraxhall? She’s paying you, after all.”
Jack propped himself on an elbow, evidently too distracted by Oliver’s obtuseness to continue with his ministrations. “Because if the letters are in her house, it’s because either she or her husband—or far less likely, one of the servants—put them there. So if I inform her that I want to make a search, it’s excellent odds that the letters will be removed elsewhere.”
“Then come with me.” He hesitated, knowing that Jack wouldn’t like what he was about to suggest. “You could pose as my valet.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Jack didn’t pull away, but he went perfectly still. “I’ve already told you that I’ll do no such thing. It’s—”
“It’s demeaning, I know. Especially given how things are between us.” He gestured at the bed, at his own naked body, as if the point needed clarification. “But I wouldn’t suggest it if I could think of something else. You wouldn’t do any actual valeting, of course.”
That suggestion was apparently ridiculous enough to amuse Jack out of his bad humor. “Oh, so the Earl of Rutland’s son will arrive at this house party carrying his own valises while his valet trots along empty-handed? Likely story.”
“Leave it to me.” He could think of a dozen ways to render his valet superfluous—he’d have his luggage sent ahead, great quantities of clothing so nothing would need to be pressed or brushed until they returned to London.
Jack lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling as if it would provide an answer. “All right,” he agreed.
Oliver climbed on top of him. “Fair warning. I will most definitely ring the bell and expect you to arrive in my chamber at odd hours of the night.”
“Taskmaster.” Jack smoothed his hands firmly down Oliver’s back. “I could sob at the idea of having to leave London again, though.”
“A little fresh country air won’t hurt you.”
“No, my love, that won’t hurt me at all.”
Oliver searched Jack’s face for some indication that those words were anything more than a meaningless endearment. He knew by now that he loved this strange, brilliant, prickly man. The thought that Jack might feel the same way seemed an impossible blessing.
But when he looked at Jack’s face he saw a raw vulnerability that reassured and terrified him at once.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
