Page 19 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Understood,” the Frenchman said. “But I beg you to reconsider my offer of friendship. I must confess, you are the most interesting person I have met since arriving in London. Both inside and out.”

Beauregard solemnly examined his brandy goblet. “Thanks to my reputation, it is clear I shall not convince you otherwise. But”—his eyes glittered, causing Mickey’s belly to lurch a second time—“I hope the offer of a tour of your rooms still stands?” He paused a moment to take a sip of his drink. “Given that the weather is inclement, and neither of us are, in fact, in the vicinity of Covent Garden?”

Mickey huffed a laugh despite himself. Yes, he would permit himself to be pleasured by this man. His loyalty to Tommy insisted on it. And whilst Mickey would reveal nothing of their group’s suspicions regarding the vicomte, perhaps the vicomte would reveal something himself. But true friendship? Being drawn in by him? His head forbade it.

“Hardly a tour,” Mickey ventured. “But you are welcome to…look.”

“I shall do more than that. But first, let us continue our expedition across the cities of Europe.”

Mickey laughed. Yes, the Frenchman was a thief and a charlatan, yet he found himself rather enjoying the game. “I’m fearful to continue, given that you’ve crushed my dreams of Venice. Am I to discover that Florence smells of putrid cankers?”

“Not at all. Florence stinks of coffee and ink and money. Good smells.” As he spoke, Beauregard’s hand weaved through the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. Mickey was entranced.

“It is a city of art and beauty. There are artisans in Florence so skilled I swear they could create diamonds from drops of rain.” Beauregard’s long fingers plucked the air as if catching precious jewels falling from the skies. “Every step one takes in Florence is a stroll through a love letter to the soul of Renaissance dreams. Whereas Rome”—he pressed a hand over his heart—“ah…dear, dear Rome. One finds history dancing with passion in every corner of the city.” Beauregard’s head tilted to one side. “I fancy you would enjoy Rome. Very much.”

Mickey laughed again. “You hardly know me. How on earth can you make such a pronouncement?”

Beauregard’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Because Rome teems with beautiful young men.” He paused a beat. “Young men almost as fair as you.”

Tipping back his head, Beauregard drained the last of his brandy, then checked his fob. “Your bedchamber, London. I have an urgent need to fuck you in it. Give me the direction, and I shall follow shortly.”

*

FOR ALL THEY were a lesson in practical efficiency over style, Mickey was proud of his two rooms above Squire’s. Principally, because everything in them belonged to him, he didn’t have to share with three other chaps, and no one ever entered without knocking first, not even Tommy. In fact, no one except Tommy had ever joined him in there, and now Mickey had invited Beauregard up for sex. Or rather, Beauregard had invited himself. Considering he was a man who once did this sort of thing for a living, Mickey felt oddly anxious.

He looked around. As always, the rooms were clean and tidy. Spartan, even. Mickey didn’t have anywhere to be afterwards, so he removed his coat and, given that neither party were under any illusion as to why Beauregard was on his way up to join him, Mickey shed his cravat too. With it went his enamel sleeve buttons into a sturdy wooden box, sitting on his chevet expressly for that purpose. The thin gold chain around his neck, holding a key to Tommy’s safe, he secreted away under his mattress; the Frenchman didn’t need to get any fresh ideas into his handsome head. After that, he neatly rolled up his sleeves.

And then he waited, vaguely aroused and unsure how to fill the time, but most definitely not dwelling on the twin beauties that were the Frenchman’s damned eyes. Nor on the words as they dropped from Beauregard’s fine lips, painting pictures of a world he’d never know. He was suspicious it was a pretend world Beauregard created for Mickey’s amusement. A camel’s drawers. Ridiculous. Everyone knew Venice rose from the mists like a forgotten dream of the Gods; he’d seen pictures in books and read as much.

Rome sounded nice though. He’d be very much at home there.

When it finally came, Beauregard’s muted tap-tap-tap at the door hung in the air for a heartbeat, and Mickey’s pulse stirred beneath his skin.

“Convenient set up,” commented the Frenchman as Mickey opened the door wide.

“I don’t make a habit of this,” Mickey quickly clarified. “Squire’s is not that sort of club.”

“I’m teasing you. I’ve already made clear; if I wanted a friendship with just anyone, I’d take a hackney to one of Squire’s other clubs you mentioned, over on Craven Street.”

Beauregard had been doing his homework, Mickey thought, as the other man cast his gaze around curiously. Mickey didn’t think he found his rooms wanting, not that those eyes gave much away.

“Drink?” Mickey offered. He didn’t keep much, what with an entire bacchanal buffet at his disposal just down the staircase. “I have ruby port.”

At Beauregard’s nod, he poured two glasses. Mickey watched as the Frenchman turned away to examine his meagre bookcase, warming the port between his palms and utterly at ease, whereas Mickey felt…apprehensive.

“You have many books about travel.”

“Yes. And the descriptions within of the great cities of Europe do not chime with yours.”

Beauregard pulled one such tome out. “Perhaps I should pen an alternative guide.”

Replacing the book, he turned back to Mickey and crooked his head on one side, his mossy eyes raking in Mickey’s pale bare forearms.

“The Duke of Ashington is to be found here at Squire’s most evenings, I understand. Several years ago, in Paris, I made the acquaintance of his scapegrace brother, Fitzsimmons. I presume he’s a member too?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss our guests and their movements with other guests,” Mickey answered primly. Friendship? Scouting him out, more like. Beauregard was confirming every single one of Mickey’s suspicions. “However, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons is highly regarded in this establishment.”

With a brief smile, Beauregard pulled out another book. “Ashington is unmarried.”