Chapter Eight #3
“Tommy is more like an older brother than cousin,” he began.
“We grew up on the same street. We…worked together from a young age in order to eat and have a roof over our heads.” Mickey took a swig of ale, wishing it were stronger.
“My mother died of consumption, and my father went off to sea; I never knew the latter and can scarcely recall the former. Tommy looked after me, and when he escaped the stews, he came back for me. If not for him, I would have been in the poorhouse or dead. In return, my loyalty is boundless. I owe him my life.”
“He still looks after you well? He does not take advantage that you are beholden?”
Mickey huffed a laugh. “You’ve visited my rooms; you’ve seen for yourself. They are finer than anything I have ever known and finer than most ordinary men can imagine.” He reached for his ale. “Tommy Squire protects me. Too much, in fact.”
“Then I’d wager he does not approve of you being here with me?”
Mickey shrugged. He had one-and-twenty years of age and befriending this man at Tommy’s behest. Whether Tommy approved of the direction of the friendship was irrelevant. “He doesn’t trust you, but he trusts that you would not do me harm. You are far too clever for that.”
Beauregard nodded as he cut two further slices of cheese. “You both move in the highest circles. Fitzsimmons, the Rossingley heir, and so forth.” His lips curved into a smile. “I watched you at the masked ball. Gossiping, drinking with your handsome young friends. But it was you who caught my eye.”
Mickey burst out laughing. “Amongst that crowd?”
“Yes. You have…” An elegant hand wafted in front of Mickey, encompassing his slight frame, his nondescript pale features, and his plain, straight hair, the colour of summer corn.
“You have something my eye finds pleasing. How you blend in, how you disappear, how you regard those around you with…how does one say it…a detached interest. That is what catches my eye. All the other peacocks—” He waved his hand again. “They are nothing but that. Peacocks.”
Mickey grinned at his companion, at his hair, dark and glossy, falling in rippling waves and combed with an almost obsessive precision, each strand a stroke in his self-portrait.
He took in even the way Beauregard’s open collar was turned, just slightly, as if the world were his audience and the slightest detail—his neck, his jaw, his posture—were part of the grand design.
“Peacocks just like you, you mean?”
“Yes, and none of us innocent.” Beauregard stretched out a leg.
When it brushed against Mickey’s, he left it there, warm calves touching, and took another swig of beer.
Mickey couldn’t recall the last time he had such simple fare outside of an ale house yet, instead of conjuring memories of hardships he’d rather forget, found it oddly pleasing. The exotic company was all right too.
“You suggest that I am?” scoffed Mickey.
“Yes. You have an innocent soul despite all you have seen. It is your finest feature.”
“You’ve partaken of too much of this ale.”
Beauregard shook his head. “I have drunk but one mug. What I say is true. You confuse innocence with ignorance. Though you’ve no doubt tasted the bitterness of betrayal, and the sting of disappointment has sharpened your edges, your heart remains pure.
I see it in your eyes when you are with me, and with your friends.
You want to venture beyond the sound of the Bow Bell, but you have yet to find the courage to release your safe hold on Squire’s apron strings. ”
“And you are far too fond of spouting utter, poetic rot.” Mickey shifted uncomfortably as this man he barely knew laid out an awkward truth.
He wasn’t used to streams of compliments and didn’t know what to do with them.
Neither did he trust Beauregard’s motives, though surely even the French couldn’t lie so earnestly and with such passion. Nonetheless, Mickey shook his head.
“You deduced all that from filling me with your seed?”
“Amongst other things,” said Beauregard, unbothered. “Yes.”
“I’ve admitted to never venturing beyond the borders of London,” Mickey replied sullenly. “That’s all. The rest is flummery. You idle gentlemen of leisure have too much time on your hands, conjuring up things that aren’t there.”
“But you wish to leave, am I right?” Beauregard’s eyes flicked towards the window. “Speak your mind, London. There is no one here but me. And I return to France at the start of the new year. I have missed my lavender and my thyme for far too long. Your truth and secrets will travel with me.”
Mickey sighed. The prospect of 1826 suddenly felt much bleaker. And having set out that morning to discover more about Beauregard, he was rather discovering, a little late in the day, things about himself.
“Yes,” he bit out. “I sometimes wish to explore the world. I seek adventure.” He shook his head. “It’s rather curious, isn’t it? I, blessed to have rich Tommy Squire as a cousin, still wanting more.”
Beauregard looked around the kitchen as if all that the capital had to offer was contained within. “I daresay this town is quite sufficient for one’s needs—nay, more than sufficient. Even in the depths of winter. So, yes, perhaps.”
“Though obviously not for you,” Mickey suggested. “You give one the impression you are always on the move.”
“I have been.” Beauregard pursed his lips, running a finger through the breadcrumbs on his plate.
“In order to make my fortune, I…” He leaned forwards, pushing his plate aside and steepling his fingers.
“Let me tell you a secret. In return, you shall tell me one.” His lips twitched mischievously. “What say you?”
“I say I have none to reveal.” A tiddly little scheme to steal the same priceless parure Beauregard was after didn’t count, did it? “None worth hearing.”
Beauregard’s gaze held Mickey’s with a beckoning intensity. “My dear London. You lie as smoothly as you stroke my cock.”
“When the occasion calls,” he admitted. “But I repeat, I harbour no secrets.”
“Yet you collect other people’s, don’t you?”
Reaching across the table, Beauregard laid his hand on Mickey’s cheek as if it were the most natural of things.
It took everything Mickey had not to turn his face into it.
Mickey had come across plenty of enchanting men, Rossingley one of them, Fitzsimmons another, when he put his mind to it.
But this one here, dipping into Mickey’s soul as easily as if dipping into a bag of roasted chestnuts, this one felt like he was starting to belong to Mickey and Mickey alone.
“Yes,” Mickey admitted.
“So, if I confess to you that I purchased my honourable title, not inherited it,” said Beauregard with a smile, “you shan’t tell a soul.
Not even your precious Tommy.” He drew his hand back.
“The title came with land and a property at Verdille that was all but ruined when I purchased it. And you must call me Valentin, by the way. That part of my name, at least, is true.”
Mickey’s pulse fluttered. Now he was getting something interesting. “Then why buy Verdille at all?”
“Titles open doors.” Beauregard’s mouth twisted slyly. “And on the other side of those doors are people. People who…how can I say it…”
“Can be parted from their possessions?”
With a low chuckle, Beauregard shook his head. “As a man of business, I couldn’t possibly comment. But say ‘Valentin’ for me. I want to hear it on your lips.”
“Valentin,” parroted Mickey, feeling foolish and somehow managing to turn the exotic into the mundane. Valentin seemed pleased, however.
“Good. Now I believe it is your turn to divulge a secret.”
“And I believe I confessed to owning none.”
“You lied.”
“Yes. I did.” Searching for a change of subject, Mickey’s eyes alit on the pile of correspondence and a gilt-edged invitation atop it.
“I-I see the Marquess of Talybridge is having a New Year ball.” His breath stuttered as he picked up the thick card. “To celebrate his recent betrothal,” Mickey read out loud. “And…and you are attending?”
Was that the sort of door being a vicomte opened? The door to a grand ball, held in a grand ballroom not fifty paces from a safe housing the parure?
“I rather fancy I might. You?”
Mickey perused the card until he felt able to speak again.
“Possibly, as a guest of Ashington or Rossingley. Not in my own right, naturally. Attending these things is good for business.” Mickey doubted Talybridge even knew his name.
“You are already acquainted with the man?” he pressed, trying to sound bland.
“Yes.” The Frenchman inclined his head. “We became…acquainted earlier this year, whilst in Italy. More’s the pity.”
Mickey’s pulse quickened all the more. So, Beau—Valentin had seen the parure in Florence. “You don’t care for him?”
“I find him repellent,” answered Valentin bluntly. “Don’t you?”
“I am not worthy of his notice,” Mickey owned, “not being wealthy or titled, so I don’t have much of an opinion. But he is not revered for his…ah…charm in my…circles.” He hesitated before plunging forward. “May I enquire as to why you are attending if you dislike the man so much?”
Neatly sidestepping the question, Valentin tittered. “Does there have to be a reason other than to celebrate a wonderful union of two people and to enjoy what shall unquestionably be a divine party?”
“A divine party full of folks wearing shiny baubles?” pushed Mickey. Valentin could take his comment however he liked.
“There is only one bauble I hope to grasp in my palm at Talybridge’s ball.” Beauregard’s bare foot wound around Tommy’s calf. “And on that note, what are your afternoon plans, London? If they don’t involve baring yourself in my bedchamber, then frankly, I’m not interested.”