Page 23 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“I can check, if you like,” suggested Fitzsimmons. “He usually fences at Jack’s on Thursdays when I’m sparring in the room next door. Invariably, most of us remove our waistcoats. And recently, they have been encouraging a change of trousers for ease of movement. I’m sure I can contrive to wander through.”

“And steal it?” gasped Ashington.

“God, no.” Fitzsimmons shook his head. “He’ll spot its loss within the hour, I would think—at the end of his fencing match when he dresses again. We can’t steal it until we’re ready to rob the safe.”

“Which will require much more planning,” Tommy reassured.

Rossingley smoothed a hand across his jaw, frowning again. “What if Beauregard decides he doesn’t require much planning and simply accosts the marquess, plants him a facer, then pinches the damned key and breaks in? You know, some sort of dastardly snatch-and-run type robbery?”

“It’s not his style,” Mickey declared, and everyone turned to look at him. He hoped his face didn’t flush. “I mean, I don’t know for certain, of course. But no one steals the Devil’s Diamonds from a princess’s tiara by using smash-and-grab, do they? Not if they hope to get away with it. So, Beauregard must be a planner too. I’d wager he’s awaiting a perfect opportunity, just like the rest of us.”

“We still don’t know if Beauregard has any intent to steal it at all,” Tommy pointed out, then threw Mickey a sly look. “How’s that befriending of him going, Mickey?”

Soft, London. So, so soft. This time, Mickey’s face certainly flushed. He could feel it, a prickly heat spreading up from his collar, from where Beauregard had stroked the delicate skin until he’d almost begged him to stop.

“I…um…I’m making progress.” He ignored Tommy’s curious look. “He professes to being quite taken by me. I’m not falling for it, of course.”

“So, you don’t think it’s the truth?” Rossingley’s clever pale eyes gleamed.

“I do not consider myself a person who turns heads.”

Rossingley and Tommy exchanged a look Mickey couldn’t fathom.

He felt himself blushing again. “Beauregard stated that he had business in town to complete before the year’s end. Though when we were…um…talking privately, he seemed awfully interested in Ashington and Fitzsimmons for some reason. I told him nothing, of course,” he added hastily at the alarm on Ashington’s face. “His interest can’t be related to the parure; he has no way of knowing of your association with it.”

“No,” Ashington hummed.

“I suggest you keep on talking,” said Tommy, “seeing as he’s taken a shine to you. Unless, of course, you’re finding it too onerous.”

Mickey’s scowl was lost amongst way too many knowing looks. Even Ashington had cottoned on. “I understand he’s staying at Albany,” he informed them all starchily, which only made Tommy smirk even more. “And has given me reason to pay him a visit.”

*

ANY SINGLE GENTLEMAN worthy of the name rented a set at Albany. A few married ones evading inquisitive wives could often be found there too. Not only was the place a sanctuary for men of Mickey’s persuasion, but the smart Piccadilly address also provided a refuge for eccentrics, for introverts, for male souls searching for peace, and—Mickey reflected as he presented himself at a discreet side entrance—a convenient, comfortable location from where to plot a jewellery swoop.

Mickey had the distinct impression he was expected.

“They were shiny. And so very pretty,” Beauregard said in greeting, with an unapologetic smile, as if that explained everything. He held the two sleeve buttons out to Mickey. “Much like their owner.”

“Good luck trying to pinch me,” Mickey retorted gruffly as he pocketed them.

Beauregard squeezed the flesh of Mickey’s outer upper arm between his finger and thumb. “There.” He threw Mickey a playful grin. “I just did.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Truth be told, he was flustered. Not only by Beauregard’s silly words spoken in that damned silly, seductive voice, but the Frenchman was dressed in nothing but his linen shirt and trousers, feet bare like a beggar. Though any similarity stopped there. Like the rest of the bloody rogue, his feet were well-shaped, with smooth, even skin, speaking of meticulous care and attention. His toenails were clean and neatly trimmed. Mickey had never found anyone’s feet especially attractive before, man or woman, but for some incomprehensible reason, he imagined these two propped in his lap, warming them in his hands.

Beckoning him to follow, Beauregard headed towards the small kitchen. “Come. Take a seat, join me for lunch.”

Compact and functional, the kitchen boasted a view towards Piccadilly, confirming that Beauregard had likely seen Mickey arrive and still not bothered with a coat and boots. A plain cloth covered a small table—Mickey sensed it was there more out of habit than hospitality as correspondence steeped one side. Though Albany made generous accommodations for servants, it appeared Beauregard had either dispensed with his or not bothered at all.

A simple, unpretentious repast sat on the cloth. Dark as the soil of the fields, a thick wedge of bread was paired with a slab of cheese, pale and yellowed. A few thin slices of salt pork lay nestled beneath the cheese, its fatty streaks gleaming with the dull sheen of preservation. Beside it sat a small wooden mug of ale, dark and bitter, the kind that working men drank, which left a sharp aftertaste. Back when he had nothing, Mickey had eaten plenty of meals such as this, hardly tasting the food he crammed into his mouth, seeing as it was the same every day.

Beauregard pushed a plate and a second mug towards him before taking the seat opposite and, using his fingers, helped himself to a slice of pork. At Mickey’s obvious surprise, he said, “In France, we say, ‘Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are.’” He laughed, a little self-consciously. “Clearly, at heart, I am a French peasant.”

“Yet also a man of business and a vicomte,” Mickey ventured. Rossingley and Ashington would be scratching their heads presented with a meal such as this, wondering where to begin. Perhaps French nobility did things differently.

Beauregard chewed ruminatively before swallowing. “Yes. But I am far from home, and even though I’m a wealthy man and staying here in your beautiful Albany, I still crave my house in Verdille and the simple meals I eat there.”

“You do? Why?”