The Soldier's Scoundrel (The Turner Series, #1)

by Cat Sebastian

“What did you think of this afternoon’s client?” Jack asked after they had both sat down with bowls of soup and thick slices of bread. He had come to his own conclusions but wanted to hear if Sarah had reached the same ones. “Her dress was costly,” she said without hesitation. She must have known this question was coming—Jack wasn’t fool enough to have a fashionable dressmaker as a sister without taking advantage of her knowledge whenever it could be useful. “And not versatile. Her pelisse and gown were trimmed with the same shade of Pomona green as her hat, gloves and boots. Each of those articles could only be worn as part of the ensemble, or not at all.” “You’d say she has a fair bit of money, then?” “Whoever pays her dressmaker’s bills certainly does. Any woman who saw the lady would know she was well off, but there was nothing too vulgar or showy about what she was wearing.” Jack nodded. Sarah’s observations verified his own thoughts. “But it wasn’t flattering, no matter what she spent on it,” Sarah went on, gesturing with a piece of bread. “She didn’t look well. The color was all wrong and the skirt was too narrow. A girl with that complexion has no business going anywhere near Pomona green. Emerald green, perhaps, but Pomona green? Certainly not,” she sniffed. “I’m surprised Madame Thomas—because I’m certain she’s the modiste who was responsible for that getup—didn’t steer her towards something more becoming. But some ladies will dress in whatever the fashion plates...

It was dark but the streetlights were lit, and when he reached Piccadilly, it was crowded with carriages. Young ladies and lordlings headed to their evening’s entertainment, he gathered. If he got a peek into one of the carriages he could have instantly told where the occupants were headed—the theater, the opera, a ball, a dinner. Before beginning in his present line of work he had served as a valet, first for a barrister, then for a gentleman who had since gone to India, and finally for Mr. Rivington’s brother-in-law, Lord Montbray. He had spent more evenings than he wanted to remember selecting precisely the right waistcoat and ensuring that his gentleman’s cravat was exactly as it needed to be. The fact that he had also spent some of that time pocketing silverware and whatever trinkets he could fence was not something he liked to dwell on overmuch. That was how he had first seen Rivington. Lord and Lady Montbray were spending a few weeks at the lady’s father’s estate as part of a hunting party. Rivington had been home on leave. One evening Montbray hadn’t turned up in his bedchamber after dinner, so Jack went to see whether he had fallen drunkenly into the well or whether he was imposing himself on one of the housemaids, the latter being a situation he had to actively work against in their London household. He had heard some rustling in the orangery and slipped inside, intending to defend the virtue of whichever servant his master was accosting. Instead he found Rivingt...

“Did you break into my sister’s house? To steal the items, I mean.” Jack realized then that Rivington still had no idea that Jack had been Montbray’s valet at the time. Nicking a couple of snuff boxes and cravat pins had been no trouble at all. That had been before he opened this business—right before, in fact. “Oh, I have my ways,” he said. “Is that supposed to pique my curiosity?” Rivington’s demeanor was once again cold and bored. Jack hated that distant refinement, that cool bloodlessness that spoke of generations of breeding and piles of money. He wanted to replace that chilliness with anything else. “No, it’s supposed to make you bugger off,” Jack said, hoping to provoke him. But Rivington didn’t take the bait. Instead he sighed and rose to his feet, apparently with some effort. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a sheaf of banknotes. Somehow, Jack hadn’t realized that Rivington was so tall. He wasn’t used to the sensation of having to look up to meet someone’s eye. With one arm he reached out and swung the door shut, never taking his eyes off Rivington. He heard the gentleman’s quick intake of breath, “No.” Jack gripped the other man’s forearm to stop him from offering the money. Rivington froze the moment Jack’s hand touched his sleeve. Oh, that bored look was quite gone now. In its place was something dark and intent. Jack liked it very, very much. He took a fraction of a step closer and watched the other man’s eyes go wide, his lips parted. “Giving me mone...

curricle,”

curricle /ˈkərək(ə)l/ I. noun ‹historical› a light, open, two-wheeled carriage pulled by two horses side by side. – origin mid 18th cent.: from Latin curriculum ‘course, racing chariot,’ from currere ‘to run.’ A curricle is a light two-wheeled carriage drawn by two horses abreast. Usually open with a falling hood, it seats two people, plus a liveried groom on a seat or small platform between the rear springs—whose weight might be required to properly balance the carriage. Curricles are harnessed with a pole between the horses, and have an iron crossbar (the curricle bar) which rests over the harness saddle and supports the weight of the pole.[1][2][3]: 154 The lightweight "swept" body is hung from a pair of outsized swan-neck cee-springs at the rear, with a minimal dashboard and a pair of lamps in front. For park driving, such as in the Bois de Boulogne or along the seafront at Honfleur, two liveried mounted grooms might follow.[4] Curricle Curricle, oil by John Cordrey (1806) The curricle originated in Italy and came to England in the early 1800s by way of France.[1][2] The word curricle comes from curriculum, the name of the Roman racing chariot.[1] In Latin, the word curriculum means "running", "racecourse" or "chariot".[5] The French adopted the English-sounding word carrick for such vehicles. Accidents with curricles were common. The ratio of draft—one lightweight carriage compared to two horses pulling—was so low that curricles were often driven faster than they should, leading to collisions or accidents when a horse slipped.[6][3]: 95 The danger, plus the development of the safer phaeton and cabriolet, replaced curricles as the fashionable carriage of the time.[7] It was a vehicle of easy draught, and could be driven at great speed. Unfortunately it was rather dangerous if the horses shied or stumbled, and this tended to reduce the demand for it. — Lilian Baker Carlisle [8]: 8

The richer the man, the more likely it was that he had gone to a school whose only purpose was to introduce him to other rich lads and make all of them unfit for the company of anyone but themselves.

sangfroid.

sangfroid /säNGˈfrwä/ I. noun composure or coolness, sometimes excessive, as shown in danger or under trying circumstances. – origin mid 18th cent.: from French sang-froid, literally ‘cold blood.’ Sangfroid may be: Sangfroid, an English loan phrase from French, literally, "cold-blooded", connoting calmness in a situation of danger or panic

It was more than attraction. Seeing Jack like this was the first inkling Oliver had that he could feel more for him than interest in a passing dalliance. Jack Turner’s face was one that could be dear to him.

“It turns out I have a talent for making conversation with ladies.” He gave his walking stick a twirl in the air. “It’s quite wasted on me, of course, but it’s a talent nonetheless.” Jack would not be charmed by how proud the man sounded. “Talent, my arse.” But it was true. At every inn Rivington found a baby to coo at or an old woman to prattle with. Yesterday Jack had watched him listen raptly to a farmer’s lecture on hop yields, a subject Rivington couldn’t possibly care about. “As for your talents with the ladies,” Jack continued, “I’ve already told you that you need to watch out or you’ll find yourself married by Michaelmas. But I think you’re safe as far as Miss Barrow goes. She’ll marry Ingleby.” “The vicar?” He sounded surprised. Would he never grasp the extent of Jack’s knowledge? “Did the gardener tell you that?” “No.” Jack sighed impatiently. “The vicar walked into her house through the garden door without knocking, which suggests intimacy. He needs a wife—your friend Peale said the man’s been a mess since his sister died, and you can see for yourself that he needs looking after. He missed a spot on his chin when he was shaving and his coat is covered in lint and God knows what else. Those are things that anyone can see.” Rivington made a noise of protest. “Or, rather, that anyone could see if they looked,” Jack amended. “To those facts, I’d add the following suppositions. Miss Barrow was likely friends with the vicar’s late sister, and I wouldn’t be shocked if ...

“Are you having me on? You can’t possibly know even half that much.” They had crossed the footbridge and were now in the churchyard. The sun had set behind the hills and darkness was coming fast. “Show me.” Rivington demanded. “What do you know about me?” He should have said no, in the clearest and most expletive-ridden terms. He did not perform parlor tricks for the amusement of the aristocracy, for people who were too lazy or too inept to do what he did. But he wanted to prove himself, he wanted this man to know who he was dealing with. He wanted to lay Rivington bare, let him know exactly how exposed he was. He wanted to scare the man away, before it was too late. Jack stopped walking. “Fine.” He turned to face Oliver in the middle of the graveyard. “Fine,” he repeated, as if convincing himself. “We’ve already established that you’re bored. That’s why you’re here. No, don’t interrupt. You’re lonely.” He touched Rivington’s shoulder, as if to soften the blow. Maybe to let him know he wasn’t the only lonely one in this quickly darkening boneyard, not that Jack would ever say so out loud. “You were never particularly close with your sister,” he went on. “She didn’t tell you why she needed my services. But I know you’re fond of her because you were livid when you came to see me that first day, but since then I’ve hardly seen you anything other than calm, even when you fought off those ruffians in the alley. You’re not close at all to your older brother—you’ve never so much ...

“I only told you the bad things.” Jack’s voice was somewhere between a grumble and a whisper. He looked like a supplicant and sounded like a sinner. “I could have told you that you’re loyal and honorable and just sickeningly decent. I could have said that the way you care about such a poor sap as Wraxhall, the way you would do anything for your sister, including dirtying your hands by hiring me—no, don’t try to tell me it was otherwise—those things say more about who you are and what you mean to the people around you than any of that shite I told you in the graveyard.” He kissed the inside of Oliver’s knee and then looked up, not needing to ask the question out loud. Not needing—or not able? What Oliver saw in the other man’s eyes was a mess of confusion. Jack Turner was not a man on whom confusion rested easily. Oliver was touched and also terrified to realize that he was not the only one out of his depth. Oliver swallowed. “Not as an apology.” He hoped Jack understood. He didn’t want this—whatever was about to happen between them—to be recompense for what Jack had said earlier. Oliver had come this far wanting something like a seduction, and he still wanted it. He wasn’t going to let Jack pass this off as a way to even the score. Jack’s eyes darkened and one corner of his mouth turned up in something that could almost be mistaken for a smile. He tugged off one of Oliver’s boots. “Not as an apology.” He pulled off the other boot. “But because I’ve been thinking about this...

Jack froze, his head still bent over Rivington’s lap. “Holy Jesus,” Rivington mumbled. He was sprawled in his chair, legs wide, head thrown back. Jack had been telling the truth when he admitted to having dreamt about this for years, the chance to bring Oliver to this incoherent, boneless satisfaction. Jack raised his eyes to the other man’s face. This was what he had seen in the orangery all those years ago: Oliver Rivington stripped of all his fine polish, lips parted, eyes half closed, cheeks pink with lust. He had longed to know how it would feel to utterly undo a man like Rivington. But now he knew that it wasn’t a man like Rivington who caused his heart to beat so riotously, it was Rivington himself. Oliver. And Jack was in terrible danger of becoming foolishly fond of the man. Jack flicked out his tongue one last time, reveled in the final shudder that passed through Oliver’s sated body. When Jack rose to his feet, he had to adjust his trousers to accommodate his aching prick. “Come here.” Rivington looped a lazy finger into Jack’s waistband and tugged him close. “Let me.” His voice was gravelly with pleasure. “No.” Jack set his jaw, clenched his fists at his sides, a stance better suited to a brawl than a lover’s bedside, but he’d feel safer in a boxing ring than in any proximity to Rivington’s languorous grin. “I want to.” Oliver licked his lips, and Jack had to suppress a groan. “I don’t,” he ground out. “I can’t.” Oliver stared pointedly at the part of Jack’s bo...

(to take “it” in…)

“It was my own bad driving that caused the cards to tumble, so it’s the least I can do,” he said, and proceeded to drop to one knee to get close to the cards. “Bullshit. I ought to have kept them tied up in string, like I usually do. I should have known better.” That might have been the first game of “No, It Was My Fault” that Jack had played in his life, to say nothing of the fact that they were now both kneeling in the mud, which was a waste of at least one pair of breeches. Rivington handed him the cards he had retrieved, which Jack jammed into his pocket before extending his hand to help the other man up. It seemed crucially important that Rivington not incur any additional suffering on Jack’s behalf or for any other reason. The urgency of that need must have been why Jack forgot to rise to his own feet before offering his hand. So when Rivington, an amused half-smile playing on his mouth, peeled off his muddy glove before grasping Jack’s own bare hand, the result was that instead of Jack being able to tug the other man to his feet, he found himself being pulled against Rivington’s chest.

“You ran out on me last night.” Rivington’s voice was low in Jack’s ear, his arms tight around Jack’s back. Jack caught the familiar scent of Oliver’s laundry soap. The bush hid them from anyone who might chance to come along the road, so Jack let himself relax against Oliver’s chest. He took a deep breath, and the warm June air felt cold in his lungs. “I’m an idiot,” he said for the second time in as many days. A pair of wiry arms tightened around him. “Is that what you’re going to say every time you try to push me away?” Every time? Every time? What could Rivington possibly be thinking? Jack ought to get away, say something cutting, something true and ruthless about how there wasn’t going to even be another time, let alone a sequence of events that could be described as every time. But instead, when Rivington leaned in, Jack let himself be kissed. Rivington tipped Jack’s chin back and kissed him and Jack just let it happen, as if he weren’t watching his peace of mind and dignity slip farther away. Every sweep of Rivington’s tongue, every caress and every sigh loosened Jack’s resolve. And Jack had half a mind to simply let everything else unfold however Rivington wanted. Kissing on the road, falling stupidly in love, why the hell not?

“Everything’s so easy with you,” Jack said, pulling back from the kiss. “It’s as if you don’t know what a bad idea this all is.” Rivington didn’t answer, he only reeled Jack in for another kiss, soft and needy and dangerous. They had shared so few kisses but already Jack had memorized the feel of Rivington’s lips against his own. The sweet taste of Rivington’s mouth now felt familiar, expected. And when Rivington tugged him closer, the press of their bodies was relief from an absence he hadn’t known existed. He ought to stand up. Hell, he ought to go back to London. Alone. He had no business feeling warm and safe in such proximity to a nobleman. This was like losing a hand of cards in a game where he had bet too much. But Jack didn’t gamble and he didn’t like the sick feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. But still, he let Rivington kiss him. He let the sensations sweep over him, as if this wouldn’t be the unmaking of him. “Oliver,” he said against the other man’s lips. He didn’t know when they had slipped into using Christian names, only that it was a bad idea and that he would keep doing it. “Hmmm?” Oliver’s lips lingered on Jack’s jaw. This was the moment, his l...

“Services, eh?” How very coy. He made up his mind right then that before the night was through he’d hear Oliver beg for Jack’s attentions with lascivious clarity. He would hear the filthiest words come out of that pink mouth. To hell with euphemisms. “Whatever you prefer to call it, then. I haven’t lived like a monk, you know. I’ve managed to . . . have my needs met on four continents. Anything can be gotten for money.” Was that a hint of chagrin Jack detected? The man’s very kissable mouth was now quirked up in a sad little smile barely visible under the brim of his hat. Not for the first time, Jack wondered if he had underestimated Oliver Rivington. “Four continents?” he scoffed. “You paid to have your cock sucked on four continents?” “Well, I was there for other reasons, of course. War, you know. Not exclusively for, ah, untoward purposes.” Oh, Jack was definitely going to enjoy hearing him say the filthiest things. “Naturally. I never assumed you had made some kind of Grand Tour of cocksucking and buggery. But still, four ...

“Let me understand.” Oliver’s voice was faint, whether with amusement or injured pride Jack could not tell. “You’re taking issue with my spending habits? Not my moral character?” “Yes.” No. The truth was that Jack felt strangely discomposed imagining Oliver in compromising situations in cities circling the globe. While he should only have felt aroused—which he most certainly did—he also wanted to punch all those foreign bastards in the stomach. He decided he was not going to investigate that urge overmuch. “For what it’s worth, none of them did half the job you did.” Oliver’s voice was so quiet that Jack could hardly hear him. Jack tried to sound like someone who wasn’t half mad with arousal. “So you paid to have your cock sucked inadequately? That’s even worse.” Oliver laughed at that, he laughed so hard Jack was worried that the horses would startle. Then Jack started laughing too, and by the time they reached the inn it was anybody’s guess which of them was in a greater hurry to get upstairs. “Christ, you’re handsome when you smile,” Oliver said as soon as they reached Jack’s room and the door was safely closed behind them. Jack didn’t know what kind of response to make to su...

There wasn’t even time for Oliver to wonder whether he ought to feel self-conscious about his scars. Without so much as breaking their kiss, Jack’s hands deftly undid buttons and pushed aside fabric until Oliver was quite comprehensively naked. Jack knelt on the bed, staring down at Oliver with a look that was utterly indecent. Whatever the condition of Oliver’s leg, it certainly wasn’t causing Jack any misgivings. Feeling bold, Oliver reached up to untie Jack’s cravat, only to find his hands mercilessly clamped down on either side of his head once again. “I’m not done looking at you,” Jack growled. Oliver nearly whimpered. He felt shameless, like he had been waiting his entire life to have his body pressed ruthlessly into the mattress by a self-confessed reformed criminal in a Yorkshire inn. And maybe he had, because lying here, exposed and willing, he felt more himself than he had in months. “We can both look at one another.” He halfheartedly strained against Jack’s grip. He was rewarded with another growling sound and a stronger grip on his hands. Jack’s murmurs of desire and approval were nearly enough to bring Oliver off. But he was damned if he was going to let another night pass him by without seeing what was under Jack Turner’s clothes. He had been thinking about it for weeks. Every hint of solid muscle had ramped up his desire. In one swift movement, Oliver reversed their positions so that Jack was beneath him. He grabbed both Jack’s wrists in one hand and started...

Jack trailed his hand down Oliver’s arm, which was flung out on the mattress beside him. Oliver was stronger than he looked. His muscles were lean and wiry but powerful. He realized that Oliver’s eyes were now open, regarding him from beneath sleep-heavy eyelids. “Hush,” Jack said. “It’s not time to wake yet.” Which was a stupid thing to say since hadn’t he just decided that Oliver belonged back in his own bed? But the fact was that Jack wanted a few more minutes to appreciate the man’s frankly excessive beauty without having to hide his admiration behind a veil of grumpiness or displeasure. Stupid, stupid. He made a move to get out of bed, only to find that one of those wiry arms had wrapped itself around his waist, dragging him back to the mattress. “Wait.” Oliver pressed Jack’s back against his own chest and held him there. “I should go downstairs,” Jack protested, his voice gruff. “I need the local gossip about the Durbins and Lewises.” “Later.” Oliver kissed Jack’s shoulder while trailing his hand down Jack’s abdomen. “What are you doing?” he asked, because he felt like he ought to make some effort to wrest control of this situation. Oliver ignored the question, which was only right because it couldn’t be clearer what he was doing. “You have scars too,” he said, to Jack’s surprise. More surprising was the way that too made Jack’s heart clench. Jack most certainly did have scars, though. He had never had what he would call a serious injury but nonetheless had a good ha...

In the library Oliver wrote a letter to his sister while Jack reviewed his notes, spreading his cards out on an empty table. “That reminds me,” Oliver said, reaching into his pocket. “You could use this to store your cards. It’s sturdier than the string you use to tie them up, and you’d have less danger of any cards going astray.” He held out a silver calling-card case. “I couldn’t accept—” Jack started. “No, it’s nothing. I have another.” He didn’t look like he was lying. Abandoning his letter, he came over to Jack and perched on the edge of the table. Taking one of the cards, he placed it in the case. “It’s the right size.” Hell’s bells. The man sounded so proud of himself that Jack couldn’t bring himself to refuse the gift. “Thank you,” he managed. He took a good look at the case. It was very plain, thank God, with an engraved R as the only embellishment. “I thought you might not mind the monogram.” “I don’t.” And he didn’t. He had to stop his finger from absently tracing it. Instead he placed his hand on Oliver’s knee and gave it a squeeze. Oliver turned his attention back to the cards that sat on the table beside him. “You know, the other day I thought it looked like a hand of solitaire, the way you arranged the cards, but tonight it strikes me that tarot is the better comparison.” The wine had loosened Jack’s tongue, or maybe it was that he was being lulled into a false sense of security. Stupidly, so very stupidly, Jack wanted to tell Oliver all the sordid truths ab...

Somehow they managed to get the door to Jack’s office closed behind them before they so much as touched one another. Oliver found himself shoved against the door, the solid length of Jack’s body pressing him flat, leaving him almost pinned in place. But his hands were free, so he used them to squeeze and shape the firm muscles of Jack’s arms, the taut flesh of his arse. It had only been days since their last encounter, but evidently Oliver’s fingers needed reassurance that this was truly happening again, because he couldn’t stop exploring Jack’s body. Jack didn’t seem to mind. His lips were hot and demanding, his kisses so relentless and thorough that Oliver didn’t know if this was punishment or seduction. Both, most likely. He ground his pelvis against Oliver’s in rhythm to his kisses, and the feel of that thick, hardening member rubbing against his own made Oliver go nearly boneless with desire. When Jack finally stepped away, Oliver thought he might slump to the ground, but he found a strong arm wrapped around his hips, steering him through the rooms to the bedchamber beyond. Jack gently pushed Oliver to the bed and then crawled on top of him to begin tearing off both their clothes. The sun streamed patchily through the sooty window, giving just enough light to let Oliver see the intent expression on Jack’s face. “Christ,” Jack growled, and it sounded to Oliver nearly reverent. “You’re beautiful.” Oliver tried to imagine how he looked to Jack—spread out beneath him, nak...

The next day, Oliver left his curricle behind and walked the short distance to Sackville Street, where Jack greeted him by throwing him onto the bed and slowly making him come unglued. He seemed to take a wicked pleasure in watching Oliver unravel before him. Afterwards, Oliver lay on his side, sated and spent and too exhausted to do much of anything

“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 ...

“Jack. Where are the letters now?” Oliver was still sprawled languidly on the chaise. Jack needed to get out of this room before he started saying things that would later embarrass him. “Follow me and I’ll show you.” He dearly hoped he was right, because getting this wrong would make him look a right clod. They crept down the dark corridors without even a candle. It was a tricky business, feeling your way around a strange house, but Jack had paced out the distance earlier in the evening. The house was quiet. Even the servants were likely in bed at this hour, and the only sound was the scuff of their boots against thick carpeting. But when they turned into the final corridor, Jack heard an abrupt and very out of place sound. A soft metallic click, the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. He didn’t need to turn to know who held the weapon. “Rivington!” He threw himself on top of Oliver immediately before hearing the pistol’s report. Only after the two of them landed on the ground did Jack realize that he had been shot.

“It’s only a scratch,” Jack protested as Oliver dragged him through the darkened passageways. Behind them, he could hear doors opening and the raised voices of guests who had been startled awake by the shot. “I don’t give a damn what it is,” Oliver growled as soon as they were safely back to his room, the door closed behind them. He sounded as fierce as Jack had ever heard him. “Either you let me tend to it or I’m summoning a surgeon, and that’s final.” With that, he proceeded to efficiently strip off Jack’s blood-soaked clothes. Jack could clearly see a little hole on one side of his arm. Likely there was a matching wound on the other side. The thought made him go a little faint. “Damn,” he heard Oliver say, and the next thing he knew he was being shoved into a chair. Oliver was pressing a piece of toweling to the wound in order to staunch the blood. The acrid aroma of smelling salts wafted into Jack’s nostrils. “Christ, Rivington. Do you travel with those?” he asked after his head was clear enough to speak. “I put them in my case in the event you got sick in the carriage.” “Oh, very funny.” But the salts had done away with his wooziness, and now Jack could study Oliver’s face. He was ashen. “I’ll be fine, you know.” Jack put his uninjured hand on Oliver’s arm. They sat in silence for several minutes, Oliver’s hand pressing the cloth hard onto Jack’s wound. In the distance, there was the sound of voices and footsteps. Jack hoped the shooter had enough presence of mind to ...

you would have known that you were loved in return.” (WOW)…‼️

“You need to spend the rest of the night here,” Oliver insisted. “So I can keep an eye on your arm.” “My arm,” Jack said slowly. “Right.” He was leaning back in his chair, his uninjured arm hooked behind his head. He was shirtless and smirking and irresistible. “Please,” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ve just been shot. You can’t mean to . . .” He let his voice trail off, reluctant to specify exactly what he didn’t think Jack ought to be doing so soon after being shot. But Jack wasn’t having any of that, evidently. “I can’t mean to what, Oliver?” he rumbled, his smirk dangerously close to an actual smile now. Likely if he knew he’d replace it with something less winning, Oliver thought. Really. By all rights the man ought to be asleep. Oliver sighed. “You can’t mean to fuck me, Jack. There you go. Happy now? And you really can’t mean to, so go to bed and I’ll change your dressing in the morning.” Jack didn’t move. “I don’t mean to fuck you. Technically speaking, at least. I mean for you to fuck me.” That got Oliver’s interest. Jack asking for anything was an astonishing novelty. “Do you now?” And then reason descended. “That’s even more ludicrous. Go to bed.” “Is there some kind of pamphlet that lists what sexual practices are acceptable after being shot? Perhaps you could lend it to me so I don’t make the same faux pas twice.” Jack had put on a crisp accent that Oliver gathered was supposed to be a parody of Oliver’s own. Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Are you quit...

sub rosa.”

Sub rosa (Neo-Latin for "under the rose") is a Latin phrase which denotes secrecy or confidentiality. The rose has an ancient history as a symbol of secrecy. History edit In Hellenistic and later Roman mythology, roses were associated with secrecy because Cupid gave a rose to Harpocrates (the Hellenistic god of silence) so he would not reveal the secrets of Venus.[1] Banquet rooms were decorated with rose carvings, reportedly as a reminder that discussions in the rooms should be kept in confidence.[1] This was inherited in later Christian symbolism, where roses were carved on confessionals to signify that the conversations would remain secret.[1] The phrase entered the German language (unter der Rose) and, later, the English language, both as a Latin loan phrase (at least as early as 1654) and in its English translation.[1]

Blast and hell and fuck.

For years, Jack hadn’t needed anybody, hadn’t wanted anybody. He trusted Sarah and Georgie, at least most of the time, but had always known it would be ruinous to trust anyone else. That principle had been implicit in everything he had learned from his father, mixed in with how to nick a pocket watch and how to cheat at cards. But Jack had trusted Oliver. Call it love, call it want, call it whatever you please, but the plain fact of the matter was that Jack Turner had abandoned what had always been a core tenet of his life. Which was why he was not only miserable but also lost and stranded in a strange place. To make matters worse, the countryside he was walking through was appalling, almost jeering at him with its completely unnecessary cheerfulness. Birds sang, fluffy little sheep dotted wildflower-strewn hillsides, all of it so goddamned charming and picturesque. Oliver would love it. Jack hated it all, not only for his usual reason of hating the countryside’s failure to be London, but for the more pressing reason that on a day like today there ought to be nothing around him but fire and rocks, an outrageous hellscape mirroring his state of mind. He stopped to take his coat off, not even sure why he had put the blasted thing on in the first place. He had nobody to impress right now. His job was done, Oliver was gone, and Sarah would never hear about any of today’s sartorial transgressions. He could wear a nightcap and ball gown. He could wear pantaloons and dancing slip...

He turned down the lane that led, with any luck, to the inn, but something made him balk. Now, why in hell did he feel like he ought to be heading back to Branson Court? There was nothing left for him to do there. Mrs. Wraxhall had her letters, Jack had his money, everyone was satisfied. Except for how they weren’t. Mr. Wraxhall was under the impression that his wife harbored pornographic longings for a former lover. Mrs. Durbin thought her daughter had been about to commit an act of hardened criminality. And he had left Mrs. Wraxhall alone to sort it all out, which was especially poor payment for her having gone out of her way to protect a perfect stranger. 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...

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What made people want to talk to you was never your breeding.” He said “breeding” like someone would say “syphilis” or “bedbugs.” Oliver held his napkin to his mouth to hide a smile. “It’s your bloody charm,” Jack grumbled.

“This is the place,” Jack said two days later, as they inspected a narrow little house near the British Museum. “The bedchamber and office can both be on the ground floor, so you won’t have to climb more stairs than absolutely necessary.” “I can manage stairs perfectly fine,” Oliver lied. The week he had spent hauling himself up and down the stairs of whorehouses and gambling halls had been an unpleasant reminder of how bad his knee could get. Oliver knew that the time might come when even a single flight of stairs would prove impossible, even on a good day. And he was glad that Jack seemed to understand that too. “Yes, you’re sickeningly hale and hearty.” Jack was opening and closing the windows, likely assessing the ease with which they could be broken into or jumped out of. “And only getting more so by the minute. I think you’ve put on half a stone in the last few weeks.” This was a gross exaggeration, but Oliver tolerated it, knowing Jack took some perverse pleasure in making sure Oliver remembered to eat. “And it’s all muscle.” That much was true, Oliver fancied. “At this rate you’ll be a regular Viking by Christmas.” Oliver barked out a laugh. “How exceedingly vulgar. I’ll be nothing as brutish as a Viking, my dear. I’ll be like the angel Gabriel in one of those pictures chaps are always painting on ceilings. All golden hair and glistening muscle.” “Well, unless you also plan on sprouting a pair of wings, I don’t know how you’ll get upstairs, so we’ll put the bedcham...

“Hale and hearty" is a redundant English phrase meaning in robust good health and vigorous. It's used to describe someone who is healthy, strong, and full of life, especially older people. The word "hale" itself comes from Old English and means "whole" or healthy, while "hearty" means vigorous and robust. Meaning and Usage Robust Health: To be "hale and hearty" means to be in excellent physical condition. Vigorous: It implies someone is energetic and full of life. Especially for the Elderly: The phrase is often used to describe older people who remain strong and active. Example "She lived to be 95 and was still hale and hearty until her last days," meaning she remained strong and healthy well into old age…

“I say, was that umbrella stand there earlier today?” Oliver asked when he arrived home. “No.” Jack didn’t look up from the letter he was writing. Oliver glanced around the sitting room. “This carpet is new as well.” Jack looked at the carpet, as if only now registering its presence. “So it is,” he agreed, in a tone that indicated that helpful elves had perhaps delivered it. “And those candlesticks,” Oliver said wonderingly. “They’re new.” So was the clock on the chimney piece, the footstool by Oliver’s chair, and a ceramic figurine that bore an outrageous resemblance to Oliver. This last item had been a gift from Georgie, who had all along insisted that Jack’s lover resembled a Dresden shepherdess. The other items, Jack had bought himself. “You have to let me pay for some of these things, Jack.” “No, I really don’t.” There weren’t many things in the world that Jack considered worth his money, but buying fine things for Oliver was oddly satisfying. They were scrupulously dividing rent and housekeeping down the middle. Jack suspected that Oliver only agreed to that plan out of sensitivity for Jack’s pride. “I keep telling you, even after last month’s losses, I have plenty of money safely invested in the five percents. I won’t spend a quarter of my income living like this.” “Good. Save it away.” Jack would have bet that Oliver would come to within the last shilling of his income. The man was forever tossing extra coins to crossing sweepers and flower girls. Jack himself was ...