Chapter Two #2
“They do, they do.” A naughty grin spread across Rollo’s impish features. “Someone young and handsome and rich and titled. Someone with the conversational attributes of a marrow and…um…other parts of him marrowlike too.” He threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “What say you, Willoughby?”
Though Mickey chuckled at Rollo’s antics, Willoughby was still as stone and his face as ashen. His usually mobile mouth was set in a hard line.
“Here’s what I say,” Willoughby began carefully, his eyes locked onto the vision of beauty ahead.
“I say the ancient Marquess of Talybridge’s arthritic limp is far worse than even mine.
And I have my youth, teeth, a full head of hair, and”—still gazing at the dazzling young woman— “a prick hard enough to pulverise a blasted marrow.”
He stood taller, chin up and shoulders pulled back, suddenly looking every inch Rossingley’s son and heir. If Mickey hadn’t heard him call his brother’s name only seconds earlier, he’d have hazarded a guess the two brothers had swapped places.
“I’m Lord Willoughby Cavendish. Firstborn son and heir to the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, rumoured to be the richest man in England.
” Now he even sounded like his father, too, imperious and certain.
Determined. “Hear this, Rollo. And you, Mickey, because I shall make this vow only once. Before the year is out, Miss Amelia Chesterton will become my wife and the future countess of Rossingley. As God and you two reprobates are my witnesses.”
He thrust his goblet into his brother’s hand. “Take my wine, Rollo. I’ll need both hands to scrawl my name so boldly across every slot on my soon-to-be wife’s dance card. She’ll see, hear, smell, touch, and taste Cavendish, Cavendish, Cavendish until it is imprinted on her sweet, virginal heart.”
And other virginal parts of her, too, Mickey thought as Willoughby stalked off, spine erect and chest out. His limp, the consequence of a terrible riding accident two years before which nearly stole his life, was barely discernible. He must have been doing his damned best to hide it.
“Gadzooks, I do believe he means it this time.” Rollo, for once, seemed almost lost for words.
“Agreed,” Mickey managed, impressed. “Which means Lady Butterworth’s moustache will have to wait another day.” Taking a long sup of his vile punch, Mickey watched the young lord stride away from them and gave a nod. “Only a fool would wager against it.”
*
AN HOUR OR so drifted by, during which Mickey didn’t idle, though he had yet to spot a gentleman fitting Valentin Beauregard’s description.
Rossingley, his usual debonair self, passed him a few useful titbits of gossip while on the arm of his erstwhile mistress, a wealthy widow by the name of Mrs Catherine de Villiers.
The longstanding arrangement suited them both.
Mrs de Villiers possessed every attribute a red-blooded man could possibly wish for, yet reserved them all for her female lover.
Rossingley’s true lover, Kit Angel, paired with Mickey in a few hands of whist, winning five pounds from a hapless couple of young swells, who proved no match for Kit’s sharp skills.
One of the two had recently applied for membership at Squire’s; Mickey reminded himself to keep a tight rope on his line of credit.
He elected to steer clear of the Duke of Ashington and his brother, Fitzsimmons.
Whenever they crossed his eyeline, the two appeared deep in conversation, and judging from the thunderous expression on Ashington’s normally placid features, it was of an unpleasant nature.
Fitzsimmons’s countenance was unreadable; he always looked like a hornet with a grudge, unless being entertained by Rollo Duchamps-Avery.
Tommy would fill Mickey in on the details tomorrow if it bore any relevance.
Mickey also danced, a little, still undecided whether he enjoyed the activity or not.
In his mind, dancing was yet another layer of the ton’s complex etiquette rules designed to upend an interloper like him.
Partnering a kitchen mop, he’d practised the steps to commoner tunes alone in his bedchamber until he could perform them in his sleep.
Regardless, the first time Tommy had dragged him to a soirée, Mickey had danced a waltz with hands so drenched in sweat he could barely hold them in place on the satin covering Mrs Catherine de Villiers patient arms. A quick learner, he’d come a long way since, and though his steps were sure and confident, on balance, he still preferred the card tables.
Anyhow, dance floor duties executed, Mickey found himself standing alone on the edge of it.
With yet another glass of damned pureed fruit salad in his hand, he amused himself watching Rollo gallop through a jaunty Scotch reel as a laughing young thing in his arms held on for dear life.
Meanwhile, as if they were the only couple on the floor or, indeed, in the whole of the ton, his more sedate brother stared intently into the midnight-blue mask covering Miss Amelia Chesterton’s no-doubt exquisite eyes, making good on his promise to seize the lion’s share of her dance card.
Mickey counted seven sapphires adorning her astonishing necklace, each as large as cherries, interspersed with eight sparkly diamonds.
“They move like two melodies that have found each other in the rich symphony of life,” murmured a velvety, exotic voice close to Mickey’s ear.
So close that as the man’s tongue stroked and licked over the words, Mickey could practically taste the French brandy on his breath.
Mickey didn’t need to look up to see who stood next to him, though he did anyway because he couldn’t help himself.
And then wished he hadn’t. Of all the things he’d been warned about Valentin Beauregard, none included how his cheekbones, high and unyielding, would remind Mickey of the curves of the Epsom Downs at sunset.
Nor, as he spoke again, how his strong jaw moved, perfectly sculpted in every line and angle.
“Tant pis. The handsome young lord is set to nurse a broken heart.” The words hummed from deep within Beauregard’s broad chest. Mickey watched its even rise and fall, mesmerised. “The beautiful mademoiselle is, alas, destined for another.”
Each syllable shaped Valentin’s lips as though he kissed the air, the vowels the stars of the performance, rounded and full. In comparison, Fitzsimmons’s French pronunciation brought to mind a schoolboy stumbling over Latin declensions.
Taking a deep breath in, Mickey pulled himself together. “You are well-informed, sir,” he said quite smoothly, considering how much his heart thumped. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
What was it Fitzsimmons had said? He draws one in.
Well, Mickey refused to be drawn, though he couldn’t help noticing how perfectly Beauregard’s mask fit, as if carved to the shape of his face.
Mickey didn’t recognise the material; it had an iridescent, metallic, sheen that shimmered faintly in the light.
He’d worn a mask for so long it became part of him.
Canny Fitzsimmons had observed that too. Slippery, indeed.
“We have not. How remiss of me.” His silken words slipped over Mickey’s skin. “I would surely remember if we had. May I present myself. I am the Honourable Valentin Beauregard, Fifth Vicomte de Verdille.”
Dishonourable, more like. That voice could slide the drawers off a nun. “Michael Maurice.” Mickey issued a brisk nod. “Plain mister, I’m afraid.”
Beauregard’s half-hidden eyes raked him from top to toe, lingering on his mouth.
A warm prickle stole across Mickey’s skin.
It felt blatant, sexual, body-stripping, and…
not altogether unfamiliar to a man with inclinations such as Mickey’s.
Interesting. Could this Beauregard be…? None of Mickey’s sources of information had revealed that about him, leading him to conclude that, if indeed Beauregard was of the same persuasion, he must be discreet about it.
Which made him the sort of chap Mickey might consider being discreet with in return. After all, hadn’t Tommy asked Mickey to get close to the man?
“Nothing about you is plain, Mr Maurice. I have observed you for some time. As you, in turn, have been assiduously observing the ton at play.”
“And how have you reached that conclusion?” Caught out, Mickey’s casual smile wasn’t entirely true. He returned his gaze to the dance floor, to the handsome young couple still lost in each other’s arms. “Mostly, I observe my own feet, so I don’t trip over the hordes of folk.”
With a flourish of his hand, Beauregard waved his fib away—a flamboyant gesture that no Englishman executed half as well. “Because watching you at work reminds me of myself, plain Mr Maurice. Under your mask, you see everything, all of the things these people do not wish to reveal.”
“Is that so.” Mickey felt uncomfortably exposed. “This is a simple ball, monsieur, where friends gather to gossip, to dance, and to celebrate their general good fortune whilst attempting not to appear too smug about it. May I suggest you are seeing things that don’t exist?”
Beauregard shrugged. “You may, yes. But…the mademoiselle by the wall, for instance?” He gestured with his elegant hand again, as if pulling words from the ether.
“She might be laughing with her friend, but in the quiet moments when she isn’t speaking, she has an ache buried in her chest because her friend is betrothed to the man she loves.
” Beauregard nodded in another direction.
“The older gentleman fidgeting with his fob every few minutes, see? Over there, by the window. Anxiety gnaws at his insides; he has devastating gambling debts he cannot pay and has not yet confessed to his wife, who shall be obliged to beg her father to bail him out. Glassy-eyed Mrs Bowman, next to him, is far too fond of gin. And her shoes pinch her bunions dreadfully.”