Page 5 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Besides which, he had now been sitting for half an hour and there was no saying how long it would take to get his leg into a state fit to descend the stairs. He certainly wasn’t going to let Turner see him at such a disadvantage. It was one thing to have a bad leg, quite another to be embarrassed about it in front of thieves or confidence artists or whatever variety of criminal this man actually was.
“No,” Oliver said, dragging the word out. “I’m not done here, Mr. Turner.” He looked up to see Turner’s face scowling darkly in the half light. “I’ve hardly even started.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jack could almost feel the heat coming off Rivington’s body, almost pick up the scent of whatever eau de cologne the man undoubtedly wore. If he moved half a step closer he’d be standing between Rivington’s legs. He knew that would be a bad idea, but at the moment could not seem to recall why.
“What I don’t understand”—Rivington tipped his head against the back of Jack’s worst chair as if he hadn’t just been told to leave—”is why she didn’t destroy the letters. If she knew the contents would harm her, why not throw them on the fire?”
Ah, but the ladies never did. Not in Jack’s experience, at least. Mothers and governesses ought to spend more time instructing young ladies in the importance of destroying incriminating evidence and less time bothering with good posture and harp lessons and so forth.
Besides, that wasn’t the right question to ask. The real wonder was that Mrs. Wraxhall hadn’t kept the blackmail letter, the one clue that might lead them to her stolen letters.
Of course, people did all manner of foolish things when they were distressed, but Jack would have thought a woman who had the presence of mind to stay so tidy on such a muddy day wouldn’t do something as muddle-headed as flinging a blackmail letter onto the fire.
Jack looked down at Rivington, who still hadn’t moved. The man was apparently under the impression that they were going to sit here and discuss the Wraxhall matter, and really Jack ought to waste no time in disabusing him of that notion.
But instead Jack kept looking. A man this handsome was a rare pleasure to admire up close. He was younger than Jack had first thought—somewhere between five-and-twenty and thirty. Perhaps five years younger than Jack himself.
Yet he looked tired. Worn out. For God’s sake, his coat was all but falling off him, despite obviously having been well-tailored at one point. “Shouldn’t you be home, resting your leg?” Such a question might just be rude enough to send Rivington packing, and besides, Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a gentleman in such clear need of sleep and a decent meal.
Rivington opened his mouth as if to say something cutting but then gave a short, unamused huff of laughter. “If only rest worked.” He didn’t seem offended by Jack’s rudeness. He was, Jack realized, likely a good-natured fellow. He had arrived here in a pique of anger—and likely pain—that had since worn off. Now he had the wrung-out look of someone exhausted by an unaccustomed emotion. Jack would guess that Rivington was not a hot-tempered man. And now he was contemplating his walking stick with something that looked like resignation bordering on dread.
“They always keep the letters,” Jack said quickly, before he could remind himself that he ought to be ordering this man to go home, not engaging him in conversation.
When Rivington looked up, something flashed across his face that could have passed for relief. “Sentiment, I suppose.”
Jack stepped backwards and sat on the edge of his desk to preserve the advantage of height. “I tend to think people hang on to love letters in the event they might choose to blackmail the sender.” But then again, he never did quite expect the best from people. Maybe the lady was simply being sentimental, but in Jack’s experience of human nature, people were more likely to plot and connive than they were to indulge in sentiment. Jack’s experience with humanity was admittedly a trifle skewed, however.
Rivington’s eyes opened wide with disbelief. “I knew a man who couldn’t bring himself to sell his father’s watch, even though he had creditors banging on his door at all hours. But he kept the watch because he couldn’t bear to part with it. It may be the same with your Mrs. Wraxhall.”
Jack shrugged. “Could be.” Never having had a parent who inspired any feelings of tenderness or loyalty, or indeed any sentiment at all beyond a resentment that lingered years after their deaths, Jack mentally substituted his sister for Rivington’s example. What if Sarah had a brooch or some other trinket—would Jack hesitate to sell it in the event of a financial emergency? He doubted it. Sarah would be the first person to tell him to sell all her brooches if need be. If she had any, which she did not.
“What will you do to recover the letters?” Rivington stretched one leg before him and started rubbing the outside of his knee.
Jack knew he ought to send the man on his way, but found that he didn’t want to. Not quite yet. Maybe it was the dreariness of the day. Maybe it was the fact that this man clearly needed to rest his injured leg. Maybe it was simply that it had been a long time since Jack had been able to discuss his work with anyone. Sarah thought—correctly—that Jack’s work was too sordid to be discussed. Georgie never sat still long enough to have an entire conversation. And nobody else in all of London was to be trusted.
Or, hell, maybe he just wanted to spend fifteen bloody minutes enjoying the sight of this man, appreciating the way the slope of his nose achieved the perfect angle, the way his eyes shone a blue so bright they likely made the sky itself look cheap by comparison. How often did Jack get an opportunity to admire anyone half so fine?
He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “Care for a drink, Captain Rivington?” He poured them each a glass of brandy without waiting for an answer.
“I sold my commission earlier this spring.” A sharp edge crept into his tone again. “It’s plain Rivington now.”
Jack leaned forward to hand the man his drink, catching a scent of damp wool and pricey soap. He had been wrong about the eau de cologne. “To answer your question, I’ll likely search the Wraxhalls’ house.”
“You didn’t mention that to her.”
“No, the ‘not mentioning’ is part of the service I render. They never want to know about the dirty work, so they never find out.” He took a long sip of his brandy, regarding the gentleman over the rim of the glass. “Also, she would have insisted that the letters weren’t in the house because her servants and husband are above reproach, and I really didn’t feel like arguing the point.”
“How will you get in?”
Jack only raised his eyebrows. He would share a drink with this man but he wasn’t going to pretend to be anything other than what he truly was.
“Ah.” Rivington seemed to need a moment to accept the fact that he was drinking the brandy of a housebreaker. “Do you think the letters are indeed at her house?”
“I’d give even odds that a servant or the husband has them. Even if they don’t, I’ll find something in the house to point me in the right direction. Moreover,” he added, “I’d like to dig up some dirt on the husband to use as a bargaining chip to broker a peace with his wife in the event her letters do get exposed.”
