Page 17 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Chapter Seven

OVER THE NEXT week or so, the more mature members of the group were tasked with devising a devilish plot to steal the parure. Meanwhile, the twins furthered their friendship with Miss Amelia, leaving Mickey the chore of renewing his acquaintance with Beauregard.

Which was hardly a chore at all.

No pickpocket worth his salt would turn down an opportunity to join Squire’s; Mickey simply had to deliver a personal invitation from Tommy Squire himself to Beauregard’s temporary lodgings at Albany and then await the man’s arrival.

Which happened four nights later.

Presiding over the front desk, Sidney alerted him, sending Mickey to join Tommy on the high galleried landing running the length and breadth of the main room. Rarely did any of the guests look up; most evenings one or the other of them could be found up there, watching, listening, learning.

“He arrived here alone,” reported Tommy, resting his elbows on the rail. “Though he has plenty of acquaintances from the look of things. Well-connected ones too.”

“I bet.”

Mickey’s gaze settled on the vicomte as if an arrow hovered above Beauregard’s dark head. The Frenchman appeared to be relating a long story, holding the rapt attention of two of Squire’s more sedate members. He draws you in. And some, Mickey thought, and tried to pinpoint why. Something about the fluidity of his movements, maybe—like a quiet piano playing in a dim-lit room, sucking you deeper into the music whether you were otherwise occupied or not. Or perhaps it was his features, clearer now they were not half hidden behind a mask—sharp but not cruel, defined but not stern, his jawline strong but not hard. Lips, neither too full nor too thin.

“He’s certainly a feast for the eyes on a cold winter’s night like this, isn’t he, Mickey?” Tommy threw him a sly wink. “I lost you there for a minute, my friend.”

“I was watching his hands!” Mickey lied. “Making sure they didn’t wander too far.”

Tommy gave him a sly nudge. “Why? You jealous?”

London cock. “Possibly.”

Tonight, the club was standing room only. Conversations churned from every corner; bodies brushed up against one another as men drifted from group to group. Child’s play for a light-fingered thief.

“Go and circulate,” Tommy ordered, clearly of the same mindset. “Keep eyes on him.”

Mickey had become expert at this mingling malarkey. Sidney said his presence was like a shadow, and Mickey liked to think that was true. Slowly but purposefully, he moved through the murmurs of idle conversation and the clinking of crystal tumblers with the kind of unspoken ease that only the truly practiced could summon. A slight tilt of his head acknowledged a passing elderly lord, his lip curled ever so briefly into a smile at a jest shared between two younger card players. Mickey’s eyes, alert but never scrutinizing, skimmed the faces around him, storing away titbits of news, memorising those who were drawn to one another and those who remained apart. And always, always, circling closer to the leather club chair occupied by Beauregard, whereupon he announced his presence by executing the smallest of bows.

“Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“Hello, London.” Beauregard’s mouth widened in an easy smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Lust spiked in Mickey’s veins as the end of each word and the beginning of the next flowed seamlessly into each other. He could run barefoot through that bloody voice. And that was before he properly looked into Beauregard’s eyes. The damned things weren’t just moss green—no, they shifted with the light, morphing from the softest sage to a liquid jade and back again. Right now, they crinkled with amusement as Mickey stood before him, tongue-tied. The man shouldn’t be allowed out without a damned mask.

“Good evening,” he managed. “I was unaware you were a member.”

Again, Beauregard smiled carelessly. “Don’t lie to me, London. Squire is your boss, he sent me a personal invite, and you’ve both been spying on me from up there since the moment I arrived. And my familiars call me Beauregard.”

And those he’d robbed no doubt had a few other choice names.

Mickey resisted the temptation to look up to where Tommy doubtlessly observed from the balcony. Instead, he slipped into the chair next to Beauregard. “Bravo. You have been busy, haven’t you?”

Beauregard acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. “I’m aware of my reputation—all lies, of course. I’m nothing but a man of business. Nonetheless, owners of gentlemen’s clubs don’t tend to proffer invites to foreigners with rumours attached to them.”

“Do they not?”

“No.” Beauregard shifted closer. “And their pretty young employees certainly don’t pleasure them so willingly, not unless they want something in return. I don’t take kindly to being ambushed. I did some homework.” His voice dropped even lower. “So, tell me. What is it you and Squire want?”

Mickey’s mind raced. He must tread carefully. Diving straight in, quizzing the man about his time in Florence and whether he encountered the Chestertons there would only raise his suspicions. Instead, Mickey fell back on what he knew best, and strictly speaking, none of it was a lie.

“Tommy Squire is my friend and cousin, as well as my boss,” he began evasively. “We help each other out in all matters, if you catch my drift.” He let his hand fall to his side, the smallest finger brushing lightly against Beauregard’s. “Perhaps I wanted nothing more than to see you again, and Tommy’s invitation facilitated that.”

“Is that so.” Beauregard didn’t sound especially convinced, though he didn’t move his fingers away either.

“Yes. If one wishes to remain discreet, then there are slim pickings for men like us amongst the ton.” Throwing Beauregard his most beguiling smile, the one that used to have desperate punters creaming before he’d barely pleasured them, Mickey dropped his voice to a low murmur. “It might interest you to know that I have rooms upstairs.”