The Soldier's Scoundrel Read online

  At the thought of what else might lie beneath those not-­quite-­gentlemanly clothes, Oliver felt a familiar ripple of awareness course through his body. He crushed it, as usual. This was hardly the place for that, for God’s sake.

  There was no place for that. Not anymore. He was finally home, and he was so damned grateful to be in a place with rules and laws that he was going to follow them, come hell or high water. He had come here to get to the bottom of whatever hold, if any, this fellow had over Charlotte, not to mentally undress criminals.

  He forced himself to attend to Mrs. Wraxhall—­and why did that name sound so familiar? There was certainly a Wraxhall at his club. Could there be a connection? The lady was now giving Turner the story of her life, it would seem, with Turner occasionally pausing to scribble something on a sheet of paper.

  Before her marriage, Mrs. Wraxhall had evidently indulged in a youthful escapade with a man from the Yorkshire village where they’d both grown up. They had, stupidly, exchanged letters. At the conclusion of the affair she had requested that her paramour return her missives, and he had complied. Of that, Oliver approved. He would like to think that if he ever had an affair with a lady—­and he had to concede that the likelihood of that ever coming to pass was precisely zero, thank God—­he would promptly return any letters she had been foolish enough to send him.

  But why had she not burned them? Oliver found that troubling.

  In any event, she had kept both sets—­those she had written and those she had received—­in her jewel box until, about a month ago, she noticed that they had disappeared.

  “Tell me more about the blackmail letter you found. Did you bring it with you today?” Turner asked.

  “No.” The lady twisted her handkerchief into knots. “I threw it immediately into the fire.”

  Oh, she managed to burn that, did she? Oliver was beyond exasperated. Perhaps Turner was too, because he let out a long breath before speaking again. “Do you recall what it said? What were the demands?”

  “The letter said that further instructions would be forthcoming.” That handkerchief would not be long for the world if the lady kept on abusing it.

  “But this was a month ago, and you have received no further word?” Turner’s voice had the same too-­patient tone Oliver had heard from the dozen surgeons who explained that there was nothing left to be done for his leg.

  The lady nodded her assent. Oliver gave it five minutes before she worried a hole into the cambric of her handkerchief.

  Another pause from Turner. “Did anyone other than you and the gentleman in question know about these letters?” Turner asked. “Your maid?”

  “No. I always get my own jewels out of the case and I keep the key to myself.” The lady mercifully put her handkerchief aside and began to pick apart the string of her reticule.

  “And you never told anyone of the liaison at the time? Your mother or a sister, perhaps?”

  “I have no sister.” She hesitated before continuing. “My mother knew to expect an engagement between myself and Mr. Lewis, but did not know about the letters.”

  “How did you receive these letters without your parents or servants knowing about them?”

  “We had a secret location. It was the place where we . . . met.” Color rose into Mrs. Wraxhall’s pale cheeks, and Oliver felt his own cheeks flush in sympathy and mortification. He was no stranger to illicit rendezvous and it was only by the grace of God that he had never been caught out. Now he felt even worse that this lady was desperate enough to go to a scoundrel like Turner. “We left letters and presents there as well,” she said faintly.

  Turner drummed his fingers on the desk. “May I ask who sent you to me?”

  “It was my lady’s maid, Mary Wilkins. She doesn’t know the details of my problem, only that I’ve been distressed, and she told me that you had handled a situation for her former employer.”

  Turner nodded. “Tell me about your house.”

  “My house?” She looked curiously at Turner. “All right. It’s on the south side of Grosvenor Square. We’ve lived there since we married, at the beginning of last year. We have a place in Kent as well, but we haven’t been there since the Season started.”

  Grosvenor Square? That was quite an address, right around the corner from Charlotte and half the ton. Oliver leaned forward in his chair, ignoring the throbbing in his leg. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Charlotte had some sinister goings-­on with Turner, now it seemed ladies all over Mayfair turned to him for help? Oliver hardly knew what to think. For a moment, he wasn’t in the heart of civilized London, but rather in a stinking battlefield in Spain, where decent ­people were revealed to be monsters.

  And what Turner said next only made it worse.

  “I’m sure Miss Wilkins explained my terms to you, but it bears repeating. I am not a Bow Street Runner, nor am I a magistrate.” He spoke with the air of one who had delivered the same speech too many times to remember. “I solve my clients’ problems in the way I deem best. I won’t ask for your approval before acting and I won’t keep you apprised of my progress. It may come to pass that I won’t tell you who took your letters or why. You pay me, I make the problem disappear, and that’s the end of our arrangement. If you have any misgivings, I’ll throw my notes on the fire and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  Oliver felt the blood drain from his face. This scoundrel was taking money from ladies and acting with blatant disregard for law and order? Oliver clenched his teeth to keep from speaking. This was anarchy. He had witnessed firsthand what happened when ­people felt entitled to deliver their own justice, and he absolutely wouldn’t stand for it happening in his own country, within a stone’s throw of his house.

  But Mrs. Wraxhall was evidently not a student of recent history, because after sitting silently for a moment, she spoke in a calm, clear voice. “Yes, that’s fine.” She smoothed her mangled handkerchief across her lap.

  He wondered if the French Revolution or Bonaparte’s rise to power had been planned in places like this, little rooms with worn furnishings and sparse light. A single window let in whatever daylight managed to make its way through the clouds that had blanketed London since Oliver’s return earlier that spring. There were few objects beyond a shelf of books, some unlit candles, and the supplies necessary for writing.

  It didn’t take much more than that to sow disorder, though.

  Christ, the hellish aftermath of Badajoz had been accomplished with even less. Piles of bodies, his own soldiers doing unspeakable—­

  But no. He had to stop that line of thought. He was not at war any longer. The war was over and he was home.

  What he was witnessing was at worst petty crime, nothing involving bloodshed or mayhem. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

  “Have you had any house guests? Any dinner parties?” Turner’s voice cut through his thoughts and Oliver dragged his attention back to the present.

  Mrs. Wraxhall shook her head. “We hardly entertain.”

  Now, that didn’t make any sense. Why live in Grosvenor Square if you weren’t going to entertain? What was the point of such a lofty address, then?

  Some of his consternation must have shown on his face, because when he raised his head Turner was looking in his direction. One corner of his mouth had lifted in a half smile, as if they were in on the same joke. Oliver shot back a smirk before he could remember that it was unwise to fraternize with this sort of unsavory fellow.

  Turner had noticed that the lady’s story didn’t make sense, had he? Well, by all rights he ought to, if he was charging these ladies a princely sum to solve their problems. For two hundred pounds he ought to do all but read their minds.

  Oliver held on to that thought as Turner rose to escort Mrs. Wraxhall downstairs. When he came back, he shut the door with a flick of his wrist, not even breaking stride as he strolled
over to where Oliver still sat. He came to a stop altogether too close to Oliver’s legs.

  “I trust that you’re satisfied I truly do what I said I do, and that I haven’t defrauded your sister.” He sounded offended, which was rich coming from a man who had all but admitted to playing fast and loose with the law. “And now you may leave.”

  Turner was looming over him, blast the man. If Oliver were to stand, his shirt front would nearly brush Turner’s, and it wouldn’t do at all to dwell on how that prospect appealed to him.

  Turner’s posturing was a primitive display of aggression and Oliver knew it. The right response was to get to his feet, shouldering the man aside if need be.

  Instead, he felt transfixed by the darkness of Turner’s glare. They had been almost cordial in that moment before Mrs. Wraxhall entered. Perhaps even more than cordial, although he would do best to put that notion clear out of his head. He hadn’t come here to provoke the man, only to get to the bottom of why Charlotte had paid him such an obscene sum. And if he left now, he’d never find out. Nor would he be able to help poor Mrs. Wraxhall—­for surely there had to be a way for that lady to get her letters back without resorting to Turner’s methods. Oliver had to believe that there was a lawful solution to that lady’s distress.

  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 dri
nk 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.”

  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.