Page 18 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

For his troubles, Mickey received a crooked, enticing smile.

“And I daresay we shall make excellent use of them, London. But I want you to talk to me first. I fancy I would like to be seen hobnobbing with the persons running this esteemed establishment.”

Again, Mickey resisted lifting his gaze to Tommy. “Then I shall start by asking you what brings you to our town. I believe it is quite some years since you last visited?”

“Five or more. As I said, I am a man of business, and I have unfinished business here.” Beauregard’s lips thinned. “I intend to remain until it is completed.”

His keen eyes searched the room as he sipped at his port. Was he looking for someone? Or merely, like Mickey himself, appraising the clientele? Seeking opportunities, deducing who was careless with their belongings? Mickey wasn’t sure, yet secrets sheltered behind those mesmerising features, and Mickey owed it to Tommy and the duke to unearth them.

“Are you at liberty to divulge the nature of your business?” Mickey would eat his cravat if he got a straight answer to that question.

“I am.” Beauregard’s eyes crinkled lazily. “But, alas, I would have to kill you afterwards. Very slowly.” Throwing back his head, he laughed. “I jest. It’s all very dull. Important to me, but dull. And when it’s done, I…” He blew out a breath, and for a moment, Mickey caught a glimpse of something real, someone behind the mask, someone weary of the whole game. “I shall be a happier man.”

“And how long do you imagine this important business will take?” Mickey flicked Beauregard a glance through the curtain of his lashes. “I would like to enjoy your company a little longer.”

“Before the end of the year, if all goes according to plan.” Beauregard’s gaze returned to Mickey. “And then, I fancy I shall return to Verdille. I have a small estate there, and it is several years since I attended to it properly. Are you well-travelled, not-so-plain Mr Maurice?”

“Sadly, no,” Mickey admitted. “I was born within the sound of Bow Bell and have never journeyed more than twenty miles from it. You are, I understand, very well-versed in the cities of Europe.”

Beauregard nodded.

“Do you have a favourite?”

“Naturally, I have a fondness for Paris,” he said. “I am French. It is the finest city on earth. I have wonderful reminiscences of my time spent there, especially the wonders of Versailles.”

I bet, thought Mickey. Pinching those great shiny rocks—the Devil’s Diamonds Rossingley had called them—and getting away with it, for instance. He let his hand brush once more against the other man’s. “Surely, that city’s scent is not as enticing as London’s?”

Leaning a fraction closer, Beauregard inhaled deeply. “Your scent has me stiff, London. I cannot get enough of it.” He sat back again with a soft laugh as Mickey cursed and turned crimson. “The perfume of Paris is not as rich as yours, but that great city has a light like no other, turning every lingering kiss into a…a timeless love story. Whereas Venice—”

“You have been to Venice?” Mickey interrupted. He’d read about Venice, how it nestled between still waters of grey velvet and skies of lavender, of its red rooftops and salty morning mists.

“But of course.”

“And is it everything they say it is?”

“Mmm.” Beauregard’s expression turned wicked. “At every turn, lovers glide through its narrow waters, clutching their fragile dreams and serenaded by the very canals themselves.”

He winked and Mickey tried to look disapproving. Did this man have to bring everything around to the subject of love?

“But I’ll let you into a secret.” Beauregard tilted forwards again, and this time, he whispered in Mickey’s ear, his breath hot. “During the summer months, Venice’s canals stink like an elderly camel’s drawers.”

“They do not so,” Mickey declared, appalled.

Beauregard winked again. “Perhaps I should take you there one day so you can find out for yourself.”

“Take me there? We’re barely acquainted!”

“Then perhaps you will permit me use my time not occupied by business matters to further that acquaintance.” Beauregard’s gaze dropped to Mickey’s mouth. He licked his lips. “Nothing would please me more.”

Mickey’s belly lurched. Venice. Paris. London cock. How easily he could fall under this man’s spell, be seduced by his stories and his counterfeit flattery. However tempting, he must resist the pull.

“There are plenty of discreet places around Covent Garden, monsieur, if regular relief is what you seek. Some of them owned by Tommy Squire. Allow me to point you in the right direction.”

“Alas.” Beauregard gave a regretful shrug. “I seek more. And I fear only you can provide it.”

So, Mickey’s gut was proved right. “If you think an intimate acquaintance will provide you with an understanding of the workings of Squire’s so you can put those clever hands of yours to good use, you are much mistaken.” Mickey shook his head. “I’m afraid befriending me shan’t be of any benefit in that direction.” He edged in closer to his companion, no hardship. The man smelled of something foreign and floral and altogether far too enticing. “I’m as loyal as the day is long, Monsieur le Vicomte. Your pretty words are wasted. Why, even now, you’re looking at me as if scheming to steal the buttons from my sleeves.” Mickey glanced up at his opulent surroundings, easier than examining Beauregard’s frown. “Or are you planning to steal Squire’s itself, to sell by the morning?”

Beauregard sighed, a long and troubled sound. More theatrics, Mickey wagered.