Page 20 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“I believe so,” Mickey acknowledged with a twinge of unease. As a rule, men of their persuasion didn’t make life difficult for each other if they could help it. But he wasn’t yet sufficiently acquainted with Beauregard to know if he conformed to that unwritten code or not.

“It is unusual, is it not, for such a high-in-the-instep duke to spend so much time in the company of a man who owns brothels?”

Mickey smiled colourlessly. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. As I said, I don’t discuss our guests and their movements with other guests.”

“But Squire and Ashington are close, yes? I saw them together at the ball, for instance. I’m told Squire is often at his side.”

“Again, I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. I’m Squire’s cousin and employee, not living in his pocket. We entertain many of the high ton here.”

“Including Ashington. And his brother. What do you know of the family?”

“That they are intensely private. Why the interest?”

Beauregard shrugged. “No reason.” He regarded Mickey thoughtfully. “I’d hate to make any faux pas, obviously, being new to town and all that.”

“Then my advice would be to not ask too many questions and to keep your hands to yourself whilst you are a guest at Squire’s. Find yourself on the wrong side of Squire, and you’ll upset not only Ashington and Fitzsimmons, but Rossingley too.”

“Rossingley?” Beauregard’s eyebrows rose. “That dandy? Why?”

“The earl owns a part of Squire’s. And it would serve you well to understand that his dandyish façade is exactly that, a façade. Rossingley could slash down half the men in here with his tongue alone. And, trust me, monsieur, he’d ensure you were in that half.”

“Understood.” Beauregard discarded the book, casually adding, “I’ll keep my hands to myself. But I hope the hands rule doesn’t apply to you, London.” His tongue flicked over his lips, a slow, deliberate motion. Predatory almost. “Does it?”

“No.” The word came out more hastily than Mickey intended.

With his long fingers wrapped loosely around the stem, Beauregard lifted his glass of port to his lips, inhaling deeply before taking a delicate sip. For a moment, his eyes closed as he savoured it. “Squire must think very highly of you,” he commented. “His first in command, I take?”

“Yes. As I mentioned, we are cousins.”

“That’s right. From the stews,” said the other with a smile. “You were street rats. Mollies. Thieves.”

Beauregard had a unique capacity to irritate, fascinate, and seduce in equal measure. “It takes one to recognise one,” Mickey snapped.

That neither he nor Tommy weren’t born as gentlemen was no secret. That their starting point had been a molly house, however, was no one’s business.

“Again,” Mickey continued, “I’d be very careful about saying those things within Tommy’s hearing.”

Beauregard stepped closer to Mickey until he was within touching distance, his eyes glinting. “I’m no street rat. I’m a wealthy vicomte.”

A vicomte who’d turned up out of the blue with light fingers and an excessive interest in those around him.

“So you said,” Mickey answered evenly. The man’s eyes were even more stunning this close, the green flickering. “Strangers pass through this town saying all sorts of things.”

Beauregard set down his glass on the table. Reaching out, he glided a cool finger along Mickey’s bare forearm, lingering just below his elbow at the point where his arm disappeared inside the sleeve. Mickey might have described it as a caress, if only he knew what one of those felt like. He ought to tug the man’s hand away. Beauregard annoyed him. And they were only here for sex. Drawing circles in the fine hairs on his arm was far too intimate, absurd really, except that Mickey couldn’t bring himself to—

“You like that, London,” Beauregard rasped. “Don’t you.”

A statement, not a question. His finger tiptoed higher, burning through Mickey’s shirt linen as it climbed over the swell of his arm up to his shoulder, then across to the bare notch of his breastbone. Mickey shivered.

“Soft, London,” Beauregard whispered, drawing a line along Mickey’s collarbone. “So, so soft.”

The tip of Beauregard’s nail grazed his skin, and Mickey’s breath hitched in his throat. He tried not to squirm, tried not to tip his head back, tried not to show his need. His cock thickened, and as if sensing it, a finger from Beauregard’s other hand touched him there, through the wool fabric of his trousers. Biting his lip, Mickey stared straight ahead as the man’s damned scent washed over him.

“Have you taken many cocks, London?” Beauregard’s husky words penetrated Mickey’s veins.

“Ye-yes.”

“In exchange for blunt?” The finger tapped on the notch of Mickey’s collarbone. “The truth now.”