Page 34 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Rollo, however, masquerading as his twin, seemed to delight in promenading. The ladies did too, making Mickey feel even more of a contradiction to the genteelness surrounding him. What gnawed at him, ever since he’d met Valentin, was a quiet dawning that, as Valentin had pointed out, he didn’t quite fit, for all that Tommy had groomed him for the role. Maybe he was never meant to.

Strangely, Mickey hadn’t experienced any of those sorts of feelings, not for a single moment, when equally idle an hour earlier, lying in bed with Valentin. Pack me in a trunk and take me with you. Mickey scoffed at his own stupidity. As if he ever could. As if he’d be brave enough. As if Valentin really wanted him there. For sure, his lover bubbled over with compliments—he couldn’t help himself; he was French. Rossingley claimed poetic rot ran through their bloodstream. And Tommy did need him. Valentin and Mickey had both been right about that.

“Do you ever tire of it, Rollo? You know, the same people, the same parties. The same old game?”

The ladies dawdled behind to gather posies of early snowdrops. Another pointless exercise, they’d last barely a day and a night in a vase of water.

Rollo hummed as he thought. “Perhaps in a few years’ time, I might. But not yet; there’s too much larking to be had. And, of course, I have Fitz. When I tire of him, I shall be tired of life.” He gave Mickey a prod. “You should try falling in love, Mickey. It does wonders for one’s soul.” He prodded him again. “And one’s ballocks.”

Love? On that subject, Mickey’s thoughts were hopelessly entangled. That emotion was far too elusive to encompass what he felt in Valentin’s presence. And not nearly how Willoughby described it, nor how Tommy and Ashington demonstrated it. Was it not mere admiration he felt for the Frenchman? The ordinary sort men feel for worldly gentlemen of stature and great handsomeness? Surely that was all it was—a preference, an inclination towards beauty, no more complicated than the preference he had for baccarat over faro or pork sausages over bacon. But then, there was the way Valentin’s laugh sounded, bubbling over with sinful promise. That couldn’t be explained so easily. Nor how Mickey’s belly dropped away at the amused crinkling of his eyes. Nor how his body craved the other’s touch.

But it wasn’t love. There was something about Valentin that was simply different from any other man Mickey had known. A foreignness. That was all.

“Don’t you ever feel the urge to travel, Rollo?”

“I do! And Fitz has promised to take me on a grand tour in the spring.” He rattled off an encyclopaedia of European towns and cities, finishing with Rome.

“I hear it is a fine spot for men such as ourselves,” Mickey commented, then added boldly, “Beauregard knowledgeably informed me.”

“Fitz says exactly the same thing.” Rollo grinned. “So it must be true.” His wicked gaze slid to the ladies, not quite caught up yet, then back to Mickey. “Perhaps the dashing vicomte might take you there one day,” he added with a giggle. “We could all travel together. Discover the relics together. I say…” He checked the ladies again. “The Roman ruins may be ancient and crumbing, but I bet your Frenchie and my Fitz would be forever standing tall and erect.”

*

MICKEY WAS STILL trying to suppress his laughter when the ladies caught up. Not only had he successfully curbed his every instinct to misbehave, but Rollo had also adopted Willoughby’s slight limp as if it were his own; he even swung his cane in Willoughby’s hesitant, careful manner. Miss Amelia was accompanied by Miss James, her elderly governess, who didn’t seem the slightest bit suspicious at coincidentally bumping into Willoughby and a pal. Clear as day, the young American betrayed her infatuation, stealing fleeting glances at Rollo-cum-Willoughby, her lashes fluttering like moths drawn to a flame, only to quickly look away lest he catch her gaze and read her unguarded thoughts.

“Mr Maurice and I were just discussing some of the marvellous sights to be seen whilst touring Italy,” declared Rollo, the tip of his cane pressing deliberately into the top of Mickey’s boot. “Weren’t we, Mr Maurice?”

“Um…yes. We were. Rome, especially.”

“Italy is a true wonder to behold,” cooed Miss Amelia. “And Rome is a city with so many intriguing layers to peel back. Every morning, one wakes in one’s bedchamber to be presented with yet another magnificent sight.”

“Is that so?” Rollo avoided Mickey’s eye. “I say, Mr Maurice, I do believe that poplar over there has a cluster of mistletoe dangling between its branches.” He pointed with the ever-useful cane. “What luck.”

Another press into Mickey’s boot accompanied Rollo’s gaze skating over to Miss Amelia’s companion.

“Miss James,” Rollo said, “it would be Mr Maurice’s absolute pleasure to gather a few bunches with you.” His big, innocent blue eyes glittered, reminding Mickey of his clever father. “Miss Chesterton and I shall loiter here on the path and protect our haul of snowdrops from marauding Roman centurions lurking in the undergrowth, with their thick swords at the ready.”

*

“IT IS DONE,” crowed Rollo, barely containing his excitement as Mickey clambered after him into the curricle, plucking a stray sprig of mistletoe from his coat. “She has promised to wear the Rossingley emeralds at Talybridge’s ball. The parure shall be placed in a black velvet case and returned to Talybridge’s safe this evening after Lady Chalfont’s soirée.”

He clicked his tongue, flicking the reins. “She didn’t suspect a thing. In fact, I had the distinct impression she adored the idea.” He frowned. “Though I was slightly thrown off when she called me her sweetest sugar plum.”

“Suits you,” Mickey commented as he braced for a swift ride. “We should all adopt it.”

“And apparently,” Rollo continued, expertly swerving around a stationary stage, “I’m first-rate at scaling the tree outside her bedchamber and must put my talent to good use again this evening after Lady Chalfont’s.” He tutted in wonder. “Darling Willoughby is such a dark horse.”

They hurtled along Piccadilly, Mickey feeling as if he was hurtling through time. The Talybridge New Year ball was five days hence. Five days too soon because afterwards Valentin would be gone. Even if he failed to secure the parure, he’d be gone. Once it was discovered to be missing (thanks to Mickey pinching it) the finger of suspicion would be immediately pointed at Valentin regardless of whether he could produce it or not. He’d hightail it out of the country on the first boat.

Already, a packed trunk had appeared in the corner of his bedchamber.

“She’s awfully sweet herself.” Rollo raised his voice over the clatter of hooves. “And terribly earnest; she and Willoughby are most definitely a love match. Believing me to be him, of course, she confided that since her mother passed last year, she was of the opinion one shouldn’t ever squander a moment of one’s time remaining. She said—” At this, Rollo shot Mickey a somewhat guilty look. “—her untimely demise had shown Amelia that time doesn’t wait and neither should we. That all too often one hid one’s true feelings behind a dam of pride, or fear that one’s feelings might not be returned, and sometimes, one can leave the whole thing too late.” His lips pursed. “I like her, actually. And I had the distinct impression she and Willoughby are up to something.”

“Their acquaintance is more advanced than they would have everyone believe,” Mickey observed. “Imagine if Talybridge or her father were to find out Willoughby was scaling trees and stealing kisses.”

“Hmm.” Rollo frowned again. “I think Willoughby’s been stealing more than kisses. Keep it between ourselves, but I rather fancy my darling twin is scheming to steal Miss Amelia herself.”

“Lord, I’m not sure Ashington’s heart could stand further skulduggery. One theft is enough.”