Page 29 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“How do I know? Forgive my mistrust, but how do I know all your whispered words are not absent of…ambition? You arrived in London barely a month ago. Rumours abound. How do I know it is not my connections you seek?”

Valentin sighed. “You do not. And it is true; we have hardly begun. But I have said it before, and I’ll say it again—you make me want you. Everywhere. I recognised it from the moment I saw you in the shadows, observing the ton at play. Is it foolish? Possibly. Inconvenient? Certainly. But we do not quite fit the frame, you and me. The world does not know where to position us. And yet, in your presence, I feel that my…misfitting was made to match yours.”

“Please don’t flatter.”

“It is not flattery. It is a confession. I have desired many things, most of them made from silver and gold. But nothing as dazzling as you.”

Mickey groaned. The lap was divine, the man’s voice was divine, and the nonsense he spouted was equally divine, if Mickey allowed it. He buried his face in the other’s neck—also divine—inhaling his skin. “If you were less poetic, I might believe you more.”

“Perhaps I shall have to show you instead.” Valentin squeezed him tight. “By returning to you day after day. Using what little time we have together to persuade you to one day travel with me to some of the wonderful cities and lands I have seen, and of which you dream.”

Mickey closed his eyes, giving himself brief permission to wander to places where the fruit was so ripe that juices dripped down his wrist and strange languages tinkled like wind chimes. And waking with Valentin alongside him. He shook himself.

“Not Venice.”

“No. Not Venice. I would not put you through it.”

That damned treacherous smile. Those damned treacherous eyes. Mickey inhaled deeply.

“Do you believe in…in love at first sight?” he asked in barely a whisper.

“Yes, London.” Something in Valentin’s unhesitating voice, if only for a breath, spoke a truth. “I do. Very much. You have my word.”

*

AFTER HE SHOOED Valentin away, Mickey stared listlessly out of the window. Tommy sauntered in, bearing a small jug of water, and Mickey braced for a teasing. Instead, Tommy stopped at the desk, arranging the violas a damned sight more artfully than Mickey would have.

“It’s strange, is it not, having a suitor and being wanted?” Tommy observed. “For wary men such as ourselves?”

Turning, Mickey threw him a fond smile. “Wary of affection, you mean?”

“Of everything.” He laughed humourlessly. “Circumspection, which has stood us in good stead.”

Mickey agreed with a grunt. “Beauregard sees things in me that aren’t there,” he grumbled, “if his flummery is to be believed.”

Now, Tommy laughed properly. “Oh, they’re there, believe me. The only person who doesn’t see them is you.”

Mickey shrugged. More flattery, and from an unlikely source. “He doesn’t see me scheming to steal the same jewels as himself though.”

“No, and he must not get a whiff of it.”

“He won’t,” Mickey assured. “Though, again, if his declarations for me are to be believed, then my deceit is not a pleasant trait.”

Tommy didn’t have much of an answer to that.

Chapter Ten

ASHINGTON’S EIGHT, AS Rollo drolly started referring to them, gathered in Squire’s private room.

“So many, many ball invitations,” groused Ashington, holding up Tommy’s swelling collection of thick square cards. “Congregating like rats in the pantry.” He squinted at the top one. “Blah blah requests the pleasure of Thomas Squire in Lady Nosey’s stuffy, sweaty ballroom at six o’clock in blah blah Square for another endless evening of wretched blah blah.” He tossed them back on the card table, whereupon they scattered. “None for bloody ages, then a plague of them all at once.”

“That is generally how the London season works,” muttered Rossingley.

Tommy’s lips twitched. “Describe the precise location of your pantry, my love,” he teased, “so that I can better picture this horrific scene.”

“Well, obviously, I don’t have the first clue where it is,” harrumphed Ashington. “I’d hazard a guess it’s in the bowels of the kitchens somewhere. But you’re missing the point.”

“Miss Amelia has been invited to this one,” Rollo informed them as he fingered one of the cards. “Lady Chalfont’s soirée this evening. I’d wager she’ll be wearing the parure.”