Page 53 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

A future without Valentin was a distant shore Mickey never wanted to reach. The world would not stop for his sorrow after Valentin was gone. Even his work with Tommy would barely pause, though his grief would cling to his bones regardless. The thought that someday another man or woman could take Valentin’s place was unconscionable.

“You kissed me first, Valentin.” Mickey squeezed away his tears. There was no place for them in the few hours they had remaining. “And you are the man who shall kiss me last.”

“I would kiss you now.” Valentin’s chains rattled as his leaned closer. “Except for the fear we are being observed. I would lie with you on a bed of lavender; the soft stalks would brush against your pale skin. I would make love to you with the sun warming my back and with the skylarks serenading us. And you would adore it, mon cher, so very, very much.”

Chapter Twenty

A PART OF Mickey had no desire to ever lay his eyes on that blasted parure again. In one more day and night, Valentin would be sentenced to death. No amount of pacing, fire prodding, fine liquor, or scheming had generated a plan to get Valentin off the hook whilst still retaining the jewels. Mickey wanted to crawl under a heavy rock and die himself, but instead, he was jolting through town in a well-upholstered carriage on his way to sprawl in front of a roaring fire in a duke’s study, to drink his expensive brandy, and marvel at a handful of glittery gemstones.

Nonetheless, an equal part of him was drawn to the bloody thing. And given that he didn’t have a suitable heavy rock to hand, he had to do something to pass the time. He might even hold the diamonds. It wasn’t every day one had a chance to finger priceless jewels, and it was unlikely these exquisite specimens would see the light of day for many years to come. After this evening at Ashington’s town house, whereupon Willoughby would hand it over to their rightful owner, the parure would be stuffed inside the Ashington safe, at least until anyone who could trace it back to Miss Amelia’s—or rather, Lady Cavendish’s—neck had dropped from their mortal coil.

“You are very much in love with him, aren’t you?” observed Tommy as they trotted along Piccadilly, rousing Mickey from his miserable thoughts. Rossingley sat opposite, having skulked in Tommy’s private salon for much of the afternoon. Gazing out of the window, the earl was doing a poor job of pretending not to listen. Mickey wasn’t sure he cared to conceal his heartbreak any longer. He suspected he hadn’t fooled anyone anyhow.

“Unfortunately, yes.” He cut his eyes to Rossingley. “I thought his affections for me were nothing but romantic stuff and nonsense, but it seems they are sincere. And I…I have found myself similarly inclined.”

“Is Beauregard worthy of it? Worthy of you?”

Mickey smiled grimly. “Unfortunately, yes. For all that he is slippery, Valentin is surprisingly steady and…constant.” Some of Valentin’s own words came back to him. “The ton only sees the peacock; he has worn that mask for many years as a means to an end. He wants nothing more than to return to Verdille and live a quiet, peaceful existence there. Underneath, he is kind, generous, and loyal, as his determination to avenge his father has borne out.” Mickey would defend the man robustly until his dying breath. “More confusing is why on earth Valentin is equally as enamoured of me.”

Tommy and Rossingley traded amused glances.

“Not to us,” Tommy said. “For all his attributes, Beauregard has a weakness for collecting pretty things; you’ve said yourself he can’t help himself. And you, my favourite cousin, are pretty both inside and out.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I’m your only cousin. And when he’s tired of them, he also sells his pretty things on.”

“It will be many a year until he’s tired of you, my friend.” Tommy put a comforting arm around Mickey’s shoulder. “Isn’t that so, Rossingley?”

“He couldn’t tear his eyes from you at Talybridge’s ball,” remarked Rossingley. “Nor at Lady Chalfont’s, so much so that he eventually spirited you away early.”

Trust Rossingley to notice. The pair of them had slipped from the crowd unobserved, or so Mickey had believed. Crossing through a dark Golden Square, en route back to Albany, Valentin had pressed Mickey against a tree and kissed him senseless.

“Yes, well…” Mickey tailed off, his throat unexpectedly closing. Halcyon evenings such as those were behind him now. “I…I must apologise, I have been no good for anything since he was incarcerated. My mind is elsewhere.”

With nightfall, the town had quietened. Though ledgers and tradesmen and orders for liquor had filled his time, every hour away from Valentin had slipped through Mickey’s fingers like quicksilver. Now he was futilely clinging onto something that had already begun to fade.

“Mine is too,” Tommy admitted, heaving a sigh. “I keep expecting Rossingley here to spring an outlandish plot upon us, one in which Rollo gallops through the courtroom on a wild boar or something, distracting the judge and the jury, whilst Kit fashions a knotted rope from thin air and spirits Beauregard away through the roof of the Old Bailey.”

Rossingley gave a bark of laughter. “What excellent ideas, I shall suggest them to Rollo and Kit immediately. A rope shouldn’t be too hard to accommodate. If only one knew how to purloin a wild boar.”

He leaned forward, bringing his hand to rest on Mickey’s thigh. “But I fear it’s not going to happen, my darling boy, and we must prepare accordingly. Ashington has tried everything. And I’m so very, very sorry. Your vicomte is a spirited, interesting chap with eyes and a voice most of us would gladly take a swim in. He would have been a welcome addition to our circle, as well as your bed.”

“Then we should not yet give up,” Mickey responded fiercely. “We still have twenty-four hours remaining. Though our life together has been but a few weeks, I believe, with time, we could have lasted much longer. You have all shown me that for men like us, admiration and friendship can also sit well alongside…comfort and caring.” He swallowed hard. “I wanted a piece of your good fortune for myself, and…and I believed I had it.”

Above his head, Mickey sensed Tommy and Rossingley exchanging a look.

Rossingley patted his leg again. “Then you are right. We shall not stop until every single last avenue has been explored. Who knows? Perhaps the return of the parure may prompt something.”

*

“GADZOOKS!” ROSSINGLEY STARED with horror at his youngest son’s pitiful attempt to grow a moustache. “There appears to be a rare species of albino caterpillar crawling along your upper lip.”

Not put out in the slightest, Rollo fingered the tiny, defiant sprout of facial hair as everyone assembled in Ashington’s library and took up their usual positions around the room. “My fabulous doodlings at Talybridge’s inspired me, Papa. I felt I might stimulate a new fashion, though I fear my own effort seems to have become a tad stuck on its way to greatness. Fitz is rather taken by it, though, especially when I rub—”

“Brandy, anyone?” a shuddering Ashington interrupted. “’Fraid I’m with your father on this one, Rollo old chap. Perhaps try again in a few years’ time. Pick a moment when I’m out of town.”

Even Mickey laughed—albeit briefly—a weapon of defiance against despair. Not for the first time did he acknowledge the blessing of these men’s friendship. Looking around at the varied group—and God knew they weren’t an easy bunch—he took strength from them and a renewed determination to find a route to Valentin’s release.

As the last members of the Eight arrived, after drinks were poured and the footmen dismissed, Mickey gazed up at the handsome woman brandishing her parure from high above the white marble mantel. Unyielding as granite, the twelfth duchess’s penetrating stare betrayed not a hint of emotion. Her posture—straight, commanding—suggested that even in death she believed herself far superior to all those gathered below.