Page 50 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Mickey stayed awhile after the duke and Fitzsimmons departed, the duke insisting on sending a second carriage for when Mickey was ready to leave.

“Your ankle,” Valentin queried. “It’s mending?”

Mickey shook his head. “Time and again you ask after my ankle. When you are the one shackled in here and I am free to roam.”

“Free to hobble,” corrected Valentin. “And you hobbled all the way out to here and brought a duke and a lord with you.”

“We arrived in the most beautifully upholstered landau I’ve ever laid eyes on; my common arse has never sat on cushions quite so fine. And my ankle will soon heal. It spent the journey cossetted on its own soft pillow, much softer than the one underneath your head last night, I’ll be bound.”

Mickey took Valentin’s hand and brought it to his lips.

“’Tis a gateway to heaven, your mouth,” said Valentin as Mickey pressed a light kiss against each fingertip. “I never told you.”

“Whimsical tosh,” groaned Mickey, predictably, though he carried on kissing Valentin’s fingers all the same. “When I have finished devouring these, I shall rub your aching neck.”

Valentin rolled his shoulders. “Each night, I distract myself from the scrabble of the rats by imagining your hands on my body and your lips on mine.” Tears shone in his eyes. “One…one always imagines oneself to be a stoic should a situation such as mine arise. Brave, you know. But I confess, London, that I am far from it. With your small acts of kindness, I find my innards dissolving.”

“You will walk out of here a free man,” Mickey insisted. “Now Ashington is on your side. That must count for something. We must continue to hope.”

“Even His Grace’s reach will not convince a magistrate that dozens of men’s eyes deceived them. Especially men whose pockets and purses and cravats have been lightened, whose wives have mysteriously mislaid favourite trinkets and baubles. And Fitzsimmons still believes I have the parure. Even if it is located, those men shall want to see me hanged.”

Mickey opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it again, his words evaporating before they reached his tongue. Valentin was right; the veracity of it occupied his thoughts day and night.

“For a crime that, two nights ago, you did not commit,” he said instead.

“No,” Valentin agreed sadly. “They will not care who I truly am, or the value of that letter to me, or that Talybridge is a murderer.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie, non? Nobody ever promised a just world.”

“Talybridge should have realised that the letter is missing by now.”

“Yes, but I wonder how concerned he will be? I’d wager that by now he assumes my father is dead and his crimes have gone undetected.”

“Unaware Roberts’s son has made his way up in society to avenge him,” Mickey mused.

“Through stealing from his fellow gentlemen. I am not especially proud, though I do not regret it. It brought me to Talybridge. And to you.”

Mickey regarded his lover. “It is a compulsion for you,” he commented. “The petty thieving.”

“Like laudanum,” agreed Valentin with a half-smile. “Though I might have found the cure in you. Alas, I shall not live to discover if it is a long-lasting one.”

Squeezing Valentin’s hand in his, Mickey wished with all his might he could walk out the door still holding it. “It is a potion which will last until the ends of time.”

Voices outside signalled a changing of the guard, and reluctantly, Valentin withdrew. Their time was up.

“We must stay strong,” beseeched Mickey. “Talybridge and those gentlemen may well have their day in court. But you shall not swing as a common thief. I promise.”

Chapter Nineteen

MICKEY COULDN’T REMEMBER a time Rossingley had ever looked so dishevelled. Or even a quarter as dishevelled. The following morning, the earl burst into the private room at Squire’s and collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Gadzooks.” He dabbed at his brow. “I feel as if I’ve single-handedly rowed the Galley of the Gods.”

Ashington stared at him, mystified. “What the blazes happened to you?”

“I was forced to…forced to…” Rossingley managed hoarsely, “break into a run. Along the entire length of St James.”

“Good heavens,” Ashington exclaimed. “How ghastly. Whatever prompted that? Tommy, my love, get the poor man a drink.”

After hastily repairing his wayward cravat, Rossingley smoothed down his lapels. “I made the fatal error of listening to my valet’s suggestion that a short stroll might be of benefit to my soul, despite having several perfectly functional carriages at my disposal. Which I pointed out to him.” Rossingley shuddered. “Not a mistake I shall ever repeat. Talybridge spotted me from his barouche, accompanied by Mr Chesterton, when I was but one hundred yards from the house. Chesterton gave chase.”