The Soldier's Scoundrel Read online

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many, many thank yous to the AFL writers for being the most tireless of cheerleaders and without whom I’d never have had the confidence to write anything. A special thank you to Margrethe Martin, for valuable critiques and also dog pictures.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  An Excerpt from This Earl is on Fire by Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Torch by Karen Erickson

  An Excerpt from Hero of Mine by Codi Gary

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jack absently skimmed his finger along the surface of his desk, tracing a swirl through the sand he had used to blot his notes. Another case was solved and done with, another gentleman too drunk on his own power and consequence to remember to pay servants and tradesmen, too dissipated to bother being faithful to his wife. Nearly every client’s problems were variations on that theme. Jack might have been bored if he weren’t so angry.

  A knock sounded at the door, a welcome distraction. His sister always knocked, as if she didn’t want to interrupt whatever depravities Jack was conducting on the other side of the door. She did it out of an excess of consideration, but Jack still felt as if she were waiting for him to do something unspeakable at any moment.

  She was right, of course, but still it grated.

  “Come in, Sarah.”

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you,” she said, packing a world of both disapproval and deference into those few words.

  Really, it was a pity she hadn’t been born a man, because the world had lost a first-­rate butler there. The butlers Jack had served under would have been put fairly to shame.

  “Tell him to bugger off.” Sarah knew perfectly well he didn’t take gentlemen as clients. He tried to keep any trace of impatience out of his voice, but didn’t think he quite managed it.

  “I have customers downstairs and I don’t want a scene.” She had pins jammed into the sleeve of her gown, a sign that she had been interrupted in the middle of a fitting. No wonder her lips were pursed.

  “And I don’t want any gentlemen.” Too late, he realized he had set her up for a smart-­mouthed response. Now she was going to press her advantage, because that’s what older sisters did. But Sarah must have been developing some restraint, or maybe she was only in a hurry, because all she did was raise a single eyebrow as if to say, Like hell you don’t.

  “I’m not your gatekeeper,” she said a moment later, her tone deceptively mild. But on her last word Jack could hear a trace of that old accent they had both worked so hard to shed. Sarah had to be driven to distraction if she was letting her accent slip.

  “Send him up, then,” he conceded. This arrangement of theirs depended on a certain amount of compromise on both sides.

  She vanished, her shoes scarcely making any sound on the stairs. A moment later he heard the heavier tread of a man not at all concerned about disturbing the clients below.

  This man didn’t bother knocking. He simply sailed through the door Sarah had left ajar as if he had every right in the world to enter whatever place he pleased, at whatever time he wanted.

  To hell with that. Jack took his time stacking his cards, pausing a moment to examine one with feigned and hopefully infuriating interest. The gentleman coughed impatiently; Jack mentally awarded himself the first point.

  “Yes?” Jack looked up for the first time, as if only now noticing the stranger’s presence. He could see why Sarah had pegged him straightaway as a gentleman. Everything about him, from his mahogany walking stick to his snowy white linen, proclaimed his status.

  “You’re Jack Turner?”

  There was something about his voice—­the absurd level of polish, perhaps—­that made Jack look more carefully at his visitor’s face.

  Could it—­? It couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  “Captain Rivington,” Jack said with all the nonchalance he could muster. “What brings you here?”

  Jack saw Rivington’s eyes go wide for one astonished instant before he gathered his wits. That was faster than most ­people, and Jack had to give him credit.

  “Have we met?” the other man asked, his voice indicating exactly how unlikely it was that he would ever have met the likes of Jack Turner.

  “Not exactly,” Jack said, holding back the details as a matter of principle.

  The truth was that a man would make a poor go of it in this line of work if he couldn’t remember a face like Rivington’s. Though the last time Jack had encountered this pretty specimen of the English upper classes, the man had been a few years younger and didn’t have that limp.

  Nor that murderous look in his eye, for that matter.

  What he’d had was his cock in the mouth of some other lazy young fool at his father’s house party. That had made Rivington of particular interest to Jack. There were few enough men who shared Jack’s preferences—­let alone sons of earls—­that he certainly wasn’t likely to forget a single one. Jack had added that fact to the stockpile of secrets he kept, never knowing when he might need to avail himself of some especially unsavory truth.

  Jack kept his gaze fixed expectantly on the other man’s face. The fellow was handsome, Jack would hand him that. Fair hair, bright blue eyes, very tall, very thin. Not Jack’s type, but nothing to sneeze at either. A pity about that limp.

  “May I ask what type of business you run in this establishment?” The brusqueness of Rivington’s tone suggested that he expected an answer.

  And just for that, Jack decided he wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m not taking gentlemen as clients at the moment.” It was always an unexpected pleasure when the truth aligned with what he wanted to say.

  “What the devil does that mean?” Rivington’s hands were clenched into fists.

  “My clients are ladies and other sorts of ­people who need help solving problems. Wealthy gentlemen seldom need the kinds of ser­vices I offer.” That, and Jack would sooner have gouged out his eyeballs than work for an aristocratic man ever again.

  Not to be trusted, that lot.

  “Well, I certainly have a problem and you would seem to be the man to fix it,” Rivington all but spat. “My sister paid two hundred pounds to someone of your name at this address.”

  Lady Montbray. Of course. The usual arrangement was for ladies to pay through Sarah’s dress shop, so the expense would pass unnoticed by suspicious husbands or fathers. But Lady Montbray had quite a bit of her own money and had been moved to displays of extreme gratitude by the ser­vices Jack had rendered. She’d paid Jack directly, not to mention generously.

  Not that Jack was going to tell this amusingly irate toff any of that. “Did she now?” he murmured. God, he wished he had someone here to admire how well he was getting this fellow’s dander up. The poor sod’s pretty face had practically turned red.

  “You very well know that she did,” Rivington said in tones that were clipped with bare
ly restrained fury. “I’d like to know precisely what ser­vices you render, for such a fee.”

  Jack bet he would. Really, he ought to leave the matter there and refuse to say anything else. He half wanted to see what this fine gentleman would do if he got any angrier. But he also didn’t want Rivington talking to magistrates or Bow Street Runners about him. The success of this operation depended on Jack’s relative invisibility. He would have no clients at all if his business were exposed in the newspapers.

  “As I said, I help ­people with problems. If a lady is wondering whether her servants are robbing her or whether her husband is playing her false, I find out. And I fix it.” There were other situations he helped with, but he certainly wasn’t discussing those predicaments today.

  Not ever. Not with this man.

  “You’re saying that Charlotte—­Lady Montbray—­called upon you to solve some sort of domestic dispute?” Rivington shook his head, plainly incredulous. “I don’t believe it. It’s a ruse. Two hundred pounds! My God.” His face was dark with a degree of anger that Jack guessed did not come readily to him. “I think you’re a crook, Turner.”

  Jack gave the man his due for knowing a crook when he saw one, even though he had been more or less on the right side of the law as of late. “If any of my clients think I’ve defrauded them or failed to uphold our bargain, they can bring an action against me. But your opinion doesn’t enter into it.”

  That was the whole point. This prig’s opinion didn’t matter. Two years earlier, Jack had set up this business to make himself independent of men like Rivington, and to do something to get other ­people out from under the thumbs of wealthy, highborn men. And there Rivington stood, carrying a beaver hat that a younger Jack would have pinched just on the principle of the thing. With a curl to his lip, Rivington surveyed Jack’s shabby little study like he owned the place. Like he owned Jack.

  But then the man helplessly scrubbed a hand through his pale hair. At the same time he shifted his weight onto his walking stick.

  Jack stilled. It would never do to feel anything like compassion for this man, but then Jack was a practiced hand at overcoming any stray decent impulses. More worrisome were the decidedly indecent impulses he was feeling towards Captain Rivington. Even after four years, Jack had never quite been able to rid himself of the image of the young gentleman in the throes of passion, all that restraint and hauteur gone up in smoke.

  Mercifully, there was a brisk rap on the door. “Come in, Sarah,” Jack called.

  “And now there’s a lady here to see you. I’m sending her up. I have two ladies downstairs for fittings and heaven only knows where Betsy has gotten to,” she said, already heading back down to her shop.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Captain Rivington, I need to meet with a client. I’m sure you’ll understand the need for privacy.” He could hear the lady’s steps coming up the stairs.

  Rivington made for the door before hesitating, then turning back to Jack. “No, I think I’ll stay,” he said, his voice thoughtful, his feet planted firmly on the floor.

  “Not possible.” There was no time for this nonsense. But Rivington didn’t budge. “Good day, sir.”

  Rivington, blast him, raised a single eyebrow. Worse, his mouth quirked up in the beginnings of a smile. Oh, he knew perfectly well that he had the whip hand in this situation, did he? There was nothing Jack could do to get rid of him without risking a scene that would frighten off Sarah’s customers or his own client. He certainly didn’t want to turn their landlord’s eye more closely to what was occurring on these premises.

  Jack sighed, resigned. “Then stay, on the condition that you swear not to breathe a word of anything you see or hear in this room.” Besides, if Rivington ever tried to breach a client’s confidence it wouldn’t take much for Jack to ruin him.

  A comforting thought, as always.

  Rivington regarded him for a moment. “I swear it.”

  The earnestness in his face was almost laughable. Ever so honorable, these gentlemen. Always so eager to uphold their oaths, to value their word. It was one of the few things they actually managed to get right, and maybe they ought to be encouraged, but it wouldn’t be by Jack.

  “Then sit over there.” He gestured to an empty chair in a shadowy corner of the room. “And don’t speak.”

  As Rivington sat, a spasm of pain crossed his face. It was brief, just as soon replaced with more bland aristocratic chilliness.

  “Are you all right?” Jack asked, before he could remember that his official stance was not to give a damn about Rivington. But how the hell badly was the man’s leg injured? Small wonder he had turned up ready for bloodshed after climbing that steep flight of stairs.

  Jack wasn’t ready for the smile Rivington shot him. Fuck. A startled flash of perfect teeth, accompanied by a choked laugh. Was that all it took to dismantle Jack’s composure these days?

  “Christ,” Rivington said, “I must be in bad shape if I have career criminals asking after my welfare.”

  “Don’t get too excited.” Jack tried to sound bored. “It’s just that it would be a bloody inconvenience for the Earl of Rutland’s son to die in my office.”

  Those blue eyes were now plainly shining with amusement. “I’ll endeavor to keep body and soul together until I reach the street.”

  Jack bent in a slight, ironic bow. God’s balls, was Rivington flirting with him? Was he flirting with Rivington? Before Jack could decide, his client appeared in the doorway.

  She was dark, pretty enough, and expensively dressed. Neither plump nor thin, neither tall nor short. There were probably five hundred women like her within two miles of where they stood. About five-­and-­twenty years old, maybe a bit less. She had circles under her eyes that suggested weeks of insufficient sleep.

  She handed Jack a card—­ladies always did, as if they had come to take tea. He nearly felt bad for them, so at sea were they in these circumstances. The women of a lower station got right to business, but ladies were at a loss. He gave the card a cursory glance.

  “Mrs. Wraxhall, please take a seat,” he said with exaggerated courtliness, entirely for the purpose of letting Rivington know that he hadn’t merited Jack’s best manners. He drew his own chair closer to hers to preserve the illusion of this being a social visit. “I have an associate with me today,” he said, gesturing dismissively to Rivington, “but you can pretend he isn’t here.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched for Rivington’s reaction—­a fraction of a smile. Not that Jack cared in the slightest. “How may I help you?”

  “I . . . well.” Her gaze flickered between Jack and her own lap, where she fiddled with the edge of a glove. “Mary said you see all manner of things and nothing I could possibly say would surprise you.”

  “She was right.” He’d ask who this Mary was in due course. “It’s best if you just come out with it.”

  “I lost some letters.” She hesitated before continuing, her gaze darting around the room. “They were stolen, rather.” Another pause, this one longer. “And in their place I found a note threatening to expose the letters to my husband unless I followed instructions.”

  Ah, blackmail. That was Jack’s favorite. It warmed the very cockles of his heart.

  To be fair, he liked any reminder that he was entirely middling when it came to sin and nastiness. He was a veritable baby in a cradle compared to blackmailers. The best part was that very often all it took was a bit of sniffing around and you could turn the situation on its head, blackmailing the would-­be blackmailer into silence. And you needn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed of it either.

  Jack felt like a regular Robin Hood when he could manage that kind of trick.

  “Mrs. Wraxhall,” he said. “You’ve come to the right man. Now tell me everything.”

  Oliver hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived at this address, but it certainly wasn’t an utterly ordinary
man posing questions in the manner of a family solicitor or a country doctor, as if blackmail were no more distressing than a case of chilblains.

  He had feared that the mysterious Mr. Turner would turn out to be a money lender of some sort. That would almost have made sense—­one did hear stories of ladies with gaming debts, although he would have thought Charlotte had too much money for her ship to run aground in precisely that way.

  If Charlotte was in some kind of distress, why had she not turned to their father or elder brother? Ideally she would have gone to her husband, but Montbray had been overseas in recent years. As had Oliver himself, for that matter, which he had to assume was why his sister had not come to him for aid. For Charlotte to find herself in a predicament that drove her to give two hundred pounds to a man who conducted business out of a room above a dressmaker’s shop, and then never breathe a word of it to anyone? That was beyond astonishing.

  This Turner fellow looked vaguely familiar, but Oliver couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Had he been a soldier? He didn’t look like it. Could they have gone to school together? Certainly not. Oliver couldn’t have said why, but he would have bet good money that Turner had not been to Eton. But why was he so sure of that, now? There was nothing about Turner’s demeanor that seemed common, precisely. His accent was unremarkable, which likely meant that it was close to Oliver’s own. But why on earth would a man with a good accent have an office with mismatched furniture and threadbare carpets? Why would he have any office at all, for that matter? It didn’t add up.

  He was absolutely ordinary-­looking. There was nothing remarkable whatsoever in his appearance. His hair was dark, his eyes could have been any color at all in this badly lit room. Not handsome in any traditional sense of the word—­his nose was rather too much of a good thing, to be honest. He was broad in the shoulders and chest. His clothes, Oliver noticed, were scrupulously clean, but there was something about the way Turner wore them that suggested insolence. His cravat was tied in a haphazard knot. His coat was of a cut that could easily be shrugged off; it was unbuttoned, giving Oliver an impression of muscles working beneath the linen shirt.