Page 71 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Roberts dug a hand in his coat pocket and produced a small parcel tied with brown paper and twine. “He asked me to give you a little something.” Roberts hesitated before placing it on Mickey’s desk. “You are London, sir, aren’t you?”

Yes, if London could be defined by its weather—fogbound, melancholic mornings cut through with memories of unexpected sunshine. Yes, if London was clothed in layers of contradictions—the grimy stews rubbing shoulders with Mayfair, dreams of adventure threading through its heart. And yes, if London was nothing but a sharp edge of pride barely holding itself together.

“I am London,” Mickey said around the lump in his throat. He eyed the small package, wondering what on earth could be inside. Hoping he didn’t sound too desperate, he added, “Did your son have a message for me?”

“Only that he is safe at his home in Verdille and that his offer of paying him a visit still stands.” Roberts shook his head slightly, bemused. “Funny old place. Nothing to do there but till the fields and chop firewood. And yet my boy loves it, for some reason. And the Frenchies—he loves them, too, God bless him.”

“I believe he does,” Mickey agreed politely, hoping Roberts didn’t catch the crack in his voice. “And this place…Verdille…” He threw out the name carelessly, as if it wasn’t an incantation on his lips each night and morning. “’Tis difficult to find?”

Roberts chuckled. “I’d say so. Two days ride from the west coast, three days from the south, and a life away from the rush of Paris. Flat as a man’s chest too. Fields and fields and nothing else. No shade from the heat of the sun. The nearest market is over half a day north.”

Mickey almost smiled. Roberts described an approximation of heaven.

“You’ve a decent map of the place, anyhow, according to our Val. Not as vague as most, he says.”

For a few seconds, Mickey was perplexed before a jolt of clarity coursed through his veins. You should take a look at that book sometime. Some of those old maps are truly fascinating. He exhaled, the lump in his throat swelling as yet another obstacle fell by the wayside. If only he could muster the courage to ask Tommy’s permission to leave, Verdille and Valentin were waiting for him to claim them. He sat down, rearranging the papers on his desk until he was himself again.

“You have plans, Mr Roberts, whilst visiting England?”

Roberts chuckled. “Oh, I’m not visiting, sir. I’m staying. I’ve been in town a week. Catching the stage to Alton tomorrow. I have family there, cousins and a sister I haven’t seen for nigh on three decades.”

Alton. A small Hampshire market town not far from Ashington’s estate. The duke spoke of the place often. “And then what are your plans?”

Roberts shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. I’ve plenty enough coin to take lodgings. I’ll stay around Alton though. It’s home to me. I won’t want for much.”

Mickey checked his fob, then pushed back his chair. “There is someone here who would very much like to meet you, Mr Roberts, if you can spare another five minutes. First impressions can be a little overawing; the gentleman would be the first to admit he’s not the most fluid of conversationalists. But persevere, and I think you may have much to talk about. I believe you were once in the employ of his grandfather.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

MICKEY LIKED THIS time of year. The ton faded away, back to the country. In the main salon, discourse turned to rural and coastal affairs and weekend shooting parties. Even Tommy was escaping town for a month to join Ashington at his secluded second hunting lodge, whatever one of those might be. Two months earlier, Tommy had hired two new secretaries, despite Mickey insisting he was managing the ever-expanding work just fine. After all, hard work kept his mind from straying to dark places. One new secretary was overseeing the clubs, the other the race stands. Both had been poached from Bootles and came highly recommended. Annoyingly, they were proving excellent choices, leaving Mickey twiddling his thumbs somewhat.

In a word, it was the perfect time to break the news to Tommy that he wished to leave. And he would, later today, once his good friends departed. At the moment, they happily lolled around Squire’s private salon, seemingly in no hurry to go anywhere. When no one looked, Mickey fingered Valentin’s gift through his shirt. He hadn’t told Tommy about it; he’d hung it around his neck on the same sturdy chain that held Tommy’s safe key and prayed he never fell afoul of a footpad.

“Rollo has persuaded Fitzsimmons to take him on a grand tour,” announced Rossingley. “They leave in a sennight.”

“England will be far quieter without him.”

Ashington opened up a copy of The Morning Post. After meeting his grandfather’s footman, Roberts, the duke had provided him with a cottage on the Ashington estate for as long as he wanted. Mickey was unsurprised; Ashington was a good man.

“Quite, though I shall miss him dreadfully. But he’s always wanted to spread his wings, and now Willoughby and darling Amelia are disappearing off to America for the winter, he rather thinks it’s a good time to go. They’ll be away six months at least, I imagine.”

Mickey swallowed back a rush of bitter envy, mentally chastising himself. Rollo was his dear friend. Since when did Mickey become someone who measured himself between his allotted portion of good fortune and that of his friends?

Ashington folded the newspaper in half so he could focus on the racing page. “My brother is either a brave man or a foolhardy one, thinking he can single-handedly corral an excited Rollo for that length of time.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Rather him than me.”

“Kit said the very same,” agreed Rossingley. “But Rollo is so excited, and one should only do these adventurous things as a young chap if accompanied by an older guardian. You know, predatory foreigners taking advantage of his naïvety and all that. Fitzsimmons has clearly taken that message to heart.”

Ashington snorted. “Woe betide the shady character who tries to hoodwink Rollo with Lyndon accompanying him. Where are they intending to visit?”

Airily, Rossingley waved his hand. “Oh, the usual trail. You know, Paris, Vienna, Florence, Rome. Athens, too, if Rollo doesn’t expire after the heat of Italy or decide he’s pining for his father and his home comforts too much.”

“Luckily for Fitzsimmons, they shan’t be entirely alone.” Tommy entered the conversation. “Not for the first part of the journey anyhow.”

His amused tone struck Mickey as rather odd, as did the glances he traded with his friends. “How so?” Mickey queried.

“Oh, there will be a third accompanying them as far as Paris,” Tommy explained. “The tickets are arranged already for that part of the journey. For the boat, the carriages, lodgings, and everything else.”

“Ah, Fitzsimmons is taking his valet.” Mickey understood now. Though it somewhat limited their privacy.