Page 62 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
And the Wraxhalls—a decent pair of people who were generous to their servants—were going to go back to London to be social outcasts once again.
That last bit really shouldn’t have bothered him in the least. What did Jack care for social standing? Today, of all days—he remembered the money on the nightstand—he ought to have no respect for class. And yet it did bother him. More to the point, he felt that Oliver would think he ought to do more. Oliver, whose opinion ought to be the farthest thing from Jack’s mind.
Jack found that he wanted the Wraxhalls to be happy. Because maybe, just maybe, if there could be a happy ending for such an unlikely pair as the Wraxhalls, there could be one for someone as tarnished and wrong and twisted as he was—maybe Sarah, maybe even Georgie. And if getting a voucher to bloody Almack’s was what Mrs. Wraxhall needed for a happy ending, then he’d make damned sure that she got one. Jack, for the first time he could remember, felt something like faith that happy endings could be achieved.
For lack of any better idea of what to do with himself, Oliver went to Charlotte, intending to beg use of her spare room for a few nights while he sought lodgings. It was past time for him to leave Rutland House and his father’s arrival had provided a timely motivation.
Charlotte’s house, however, was in a genteel sort of chaos as servants draped furniture in holland covers and packed silver away into the safe. Miss Sutherland absently directed him to a one of the few rooms not yet packed up, and Oliver was left to spend a restless, regretful night. In the morning he found Charlotte in the drawing room, amidst tissue paper and half-filled crates.
“Are you leaving for the country already?” he asked.
“As soon as we can,” she answered, hardly looking up from the letter she was writing, “London is a dead bore when you can’t go to parties.” Really, when she talked like that, and when one considered the state of her marriage, her widow’s weeds seemed preposterous. He hoped she put off mourning altogether once she left Town. “At least in Hampshire I can ride.”
“I’ll come in August and we’ll ride out together. Is William big enough to be put before me on the saddle?”
Before Charlotte could answer, a footman entered carrying a calling card. Oliver recognized it on sight, its edges soft and bent from careless handling. He knew without reading the boldly printed name that it was Jack’s card.
That was the last thing Oliver needed, the prospect of coming face-to-face in his sister’s drawing room with the man who until yesterday had been his lover, the man he had abandoned and insulted. Good God, it would be anyone’s guess which of them would be the most mortified by the predicament.
Then Jack was being shown into the room, Miss Sutherland on his heels. Jack’s arm was in a sling, his face weary. He ought to be in bed, but he must have traveled through the night to reach London.
The two ladies exchanged a glance. Miss Sutherland nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, and Charlotte returned the gesture. Only then did Oliver stop to wonder why, precisely, Jack had come to Charlotte’s house. He suddenly felt that he might be sick.
Miss Sutherland soundlessly shut the door behind her.
“Jack,” Oliver said, remembering his manners and rising to his feet.
Only when Jack responded with a raised eyebrow and a chilly, “Mr. Rivington,” did Oliver realize he had betrayed too much by addressing Jack so informally.
But nobody was paying any attention to Oliver.
Charlotte patted the seat next to her on the settee, gesturing for her companion to sit there. “Perhaps we ought to have tea.” Her tone of voice suggested that tea could conceivably be a viable solution to the problem that brought Jack to call on them.
“I’m here about Montbray,” Jack said, and if anyone in the room was surprised they didn’t show it. “Ought I to come back another time?” he asked. “Or is there somewhere more private—”
“No, it’s quite all right.” It was Miss Sutherland who spoke. “I can’t see what difference it makes.” She reached for the teacup Charlotte had filled for her, but when she discovered that her hands were shaking, she abandoned the effort.
“This needs to be gotten out in the open,” Jack said. “And then we can see what needs to be done.” He was even more unkempt than usual and dirty too, meaning he had likely come directly here upon arriving in London. Oliver tried to focus on Jack’s ragged appearance, the sound of his voice, anything other than the meaning of the words he was saying.
Miss Sutherland breathed out a sound that was neither a sob nor a laugh, but somewhere in between. “He was my cousin.”
“And you killed him,” Jack said calmly and so very gently. Oliver realized that Jack had spoken the words so Miss Sutherland didn’t have to. How long had he known? “You pushed him down the stairs, I think?”
“He was my cousin,” Miss Sutherland repeated. Around her shoulders she pulled a shawl that was the exact color of dust. Charlotte reached out and took her hand.
Oliver didn’t know whether she said this by way of clarifying how painful it had been to push him down the stairs, or in order to explain how she came to understand why he needed to be pushed in the first place. But it hardly mattered.
“Surely, you acted in self-defense,” Oliver suggested, dearly hoping it was true.
Miss Sutherland kept her gaze on Jack, who was leaning forward in his chair in the manner of a vicar counseling a troubled parishioner. “I came back from Richmond hoping to persuade him to leave, for good this time,” she said. “I slipped inside without anyone knowing, thinking that he’d be less likely to shout and bluster if he weren’t expecting me. He was very drunk when he came home. When he found me here, well, it became abundantly clear that I had made a mistake.”
“He threatened you, then?” Oliver asked.
Miss Sutherland hesitated, and when she spoke it wasn’t in answer to Oliver’s question. “I have three brothers, you know. I know how to trip a man. So, when he got to the top of the stairs, that’s what I did.” She choked out another strangled-sounding laugh.
Oliver’s gaze flicked over to Jack and caught there, like a burr on a rabbit. Jack was watching him back, likely waiting for some sign of outrage or revulsion.
Miss Sutherland opened her mouth and closed it again. She darted a glance at Charlotte, who then looked askance at Jack. Every single person in this room was likely wondering if Oliver was about to play the role of righteous, law-abiding English gentleman.
