Chapter Eight #2
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?”
The Frenchman’s features softened. “Because when God created Verdille, he moulded it with the hands of artists and sculpted it in shades of emerald and gold.” He took a deep sighing breath as if already returned there.
“The scent of lavender, of freshly turned soil, and wild thyme hangs thick in the air. I wake to it every morning. Ravenous.”
He drew the word out, rolling the R over his tongue, before sucking grease off his fingers. Mickey experienced a swift rush of desire.
“You measure everything by how it smells,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I believe I do, now that you mention it.” Beauregard chuckled. “But scents have the power to bring back pictures—memories—to one’s mind that one had believed lost for ever. Don’t you find?”
“The stink of my own humble infancy I prefer to forget,” Mickey asserted, “if it’s all the same to you. Your Verdille sounds far more fragrant.”
“Then I am sad for you, London.”
“Yes, well.” Mickey shrugged, feeling awkward. “It is an invidious position, being an orphan in the stews. I cannot recommend it.”
“No, I imagine not.” Beauregard’s tone was kind. “And yet, since, you have thrived.”
“Yes.”
Mickey averted his gaze, tracing the edges of the room, the floorboards, a drop of water on the windowpane, determined to reveal no more of himself.
Yet again, they were conversing, and Mickey found himself greedy for more of it.
He draws you in. Fitzsimmons had been correct after all.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Beauregard regarding him.
He’d called Mickey pretty, too, and invited him to share his meal.
Perhaps there was some truth behind his frilly words last night.
Perhaps Mickey and his miserable past held a bizarre draw all of its own.
“I’ve only ever seen thyme and lavender in bunches, down at the market,” he admitted. “I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever considered how they arrived there, nor how they grow in the soil.”
Beauregard sniffed. “Those bunches are nothing but dry dust. At Verdille, the lavender grows in bright, purple blooms. The fragrance settles around my home like a blessed mist. My thyme is an excellent flavouring for hearty broths in the winter and sprinkled over cold meat picnics in the summer.”
Mickey’s mouth watered, and he helped himself to more bread. “Tell me more about your home,” he urged, feeling a little foolish. Children begging for fairy tales at their mother’s knee sounded less desperate. “Describe it to me. I…I have a keen interest in foreign places.”
“And foreign men, I hope,” Beauregard tagged on with a smile. “Alors, where to begin.”
Reaching for a knife, he cut several neat slices of cheese.
“From my north salon window, I look out on a weathered farmhouse. All year round, its roof is draped in soft green moss. In the mornings, two brick chimneys puff the faintest trails of smoke into the pale blue sky. I can tell the time by them.” Beauregard smiled again with pleasure, his hands painting pictures accompanying his words.
“To the south, I have an orchard producing apples a shade of red so rich, so sun-warmed, they’re almost too lovely to eat. ”
“They are my weakness.” Mickey could almost taste them. “If I walked past, I would be unable to resist plucking one.”
Valentin grinned at him, then carried on. “And vines, dozens of them, stretched out in soldierly rows. They are withered at this time of year, but in the springtime, they shoot out hundreds of green tendrils, almost overnight, unfurling and reaching up towards the heavens.”
Mickey was spellbound. “How do they smell?”
“Like the finest French wines, of course.” Beauregard popped a sliver of cheese into his mouth.
“Of my rich earth, of wind and rain, of people and history, and of life and death.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“It is a hard question to answer; the scent is unique. One must experience it for oneself.”
Mickey fancied he could already. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine wandering up and down the rows, filling his lungs with the wonderful earthy scent.
He fancied he would adore it even more than Beauregard insisted he’d adore Rome.
“There must be plentiful water if there are such rich crops,” he pronounced, the question exhausting the entirety of his agricultural knowledge.
“But yes, naturally.” Beauregard made a running motion with his fingers across the tabletop, as if tracking the path.
“Beyond the vines is a narrow stream, trickling down from the valley. Its waters are clear as a looking glass. One can sink to one’s knees and drink from it. I often bathe there when it is hot.”
Mickey enjoyed picturing that, too, slotting his own pale, naked body into the fantasy alongside Beauregard’s.
He took a bite of a sandwich he’d hardly noticed Beauregard preparing for him, the bread crusty and dense, the cheese sharp and pungent in his mouth.
The meat, though tough, was savoury. There was no butter, for there was never butter on a peasant’s lunch, and anyway, when Beauregard began speaking again, he forgot about his need for it altogether, not wanting to miss a single word.
Regrettably, Beauregard changed the subject, his inquisitive scheming mind circling back to their conversation from the evening at Squire’s.
“Tommy Squire,” he said, waving a hunk of bread at Mickey and drawing his knee up to his chest, arm clasped around it as if they were picnicking on a blanket, “is a rich man. Since I was last in town, he has taken over most of the gambling hells, several molly houses, and has betting stands the length and breadth of England. When he is out of town, his staff answer to you.” Beauregard bit down on the bread and chewed contemplatively.
“He trusts you implicitly. You are cousins, but I have cousins I wouldn’t trust to polish my boots. How did you earn his trust?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you fascinate me, London. How many times do I have to say it for you to believe it to be true? You are in society, but not. You have never left this town, but you have a bank of travel books. You have the most divine face—that of an angel—yet you are overlooked for your richer, showier friends. And you rut like a parched tomcat. Shall I go on”—his lips curled—“making an ass of myself?”
Unused to flattery, Mickey’s mind refused to cooperate with a witty retort.
So, he laughed instead, a sound so forced and unnatural that street dogs in the next borough might prick up their ears.
Clearly, if he were to be believed, this Frenchman saw something in him Mickey didn’t even recognise in himself.