Chapter Eleven #2
“Fitz says exactly the same thing.” Rollo grinned.
“So it must be true.” His wicked gaze slid to the ladies, not quite caught up yet, then back to Mickey.
“Perhaps the dashing vicomte might take you there one day,” he added with a giggle.
“We could all travel together. Discover the relics together. I say…” He checked the ladies again.
“The Roman ruins may be ancient and crumbing, but I bet your Frenchie and my Fitz would be forever standing tall and erect.”
*
MICKEY WAS STILL trying to suppress his laughter when the ladies caught up.
Not only had he successfully curbed his every instinct to misbehave, but Rollo had also adopted Willoughby’s slight limp as if it were his own; he even swung his cane in Willoughby’s hesitant, careful manner.
Miss Amelia was accompanied by Miss James, her elderly governess, who didn’t seem the slightest bit suspicious at coincidentally bumping into Willoughby and a pal.
Clear as day, the young American betrayed her infatuation, stealing fleeting glances at Rollo-cum-Willoughby, her lashes fluttering like moths drawn to a flame, only to quickly look away lest he catch her gaze and read her unguarded thoughts.
“Mr Maurice and I were just discussing some of the marvellous sights to be seen whilst touring Italy,” declared Rollo, the tip of his cane pressing deliberately into the top of Mickey’s boot. “Weren’t we, Mr Maurice?”
“Um…yes. We were. Rome, especially.”
“Italy is a true wonder to behold,” cooed Miss Amelia. “And Rome is a city with so many intriguing layers to peel back. Every morning, one wakes in one’s bedchamber to be presented with yet another magnificent sight.”
“Is that so?” Rollo avoided Mickey’s eye. “I say, Mr Maurice, I do believe that poplar over there has a cluster of mistletoe dangling between its branches.” He pointed with the ever-useful cane. “What luck.”
Another press into Mickey’s boot accompanied Rollo’s gaze skating over to Miss Amelia’s companion.
“Miss James,” Rollo said, “it would be Mr Maurice’s absolute pleasure to gather a few bunches with you.
” His big, innocent blue eyes glittered, reminding Mickey of his clever father.
“Miss Chesterton and I shall loiter here on the path and protect our haul of snowdrops from marauding Roman centurions lurking in the undergrowth, with their thick swords at the ready.”
*
“IT IS DONE,” crowed Rollo, barely containing his excitement as Mickey clambered after him into the curricle, plucking a stray sprig of mistletoe from his coat.
“She has promised to wear the Rossingley emeralds at Talybridge’s ball.
The parure shall be placed in a black velvet case and returned to Talybridge’s safe this evening after Lady Chalfont’s soirée. ”
He clicked his tongue, flicking the reins. “She didn’t suspect a thing. In fact, I had the distinct impression she adored the idea.” He frowned. “Though I was slightly thrown off when she called me her sweetest sugar plum.”
“Suits you,” Mickey commented as he braced for a swift ride. “We should all adopt it.”
“And apparently,” Rollo continued, expertly swerving around a stationary stage, “I’m first-rate at scaling the tree outside her bedchamber and must put my talent to good use again this evening after Lady Chalfont’s.” He tutted in wonder. “Darling Willoughby is such a dark horse.”
They hurtled along Piccadilly, Mickey feeling as if he was hurtling through time.
The Talybridge New Year ball was five days hence.
Five days too soon because afterwards Valentin would be gone.
Even if he failed to secure the parure, he’d be gone.
Once it was discovered to be missing (thanks to Mickey pinching it) the finger of suspicion would be immediately pointed at Valentin regardless of whether he could produce it or not.
He’d hightail it out of the country on the first boat.
Already, a packed trunk had appeared in the corner of his bedchamber.
“She’s awfully sweet herself.” Rollo raised his voice over the clatter of hooves.
“And terribly earnest; she and Willoughby are most definitely a love match. Believing me to be him, of course, she confided that since her mother passed last year, she was of the opinion one shouldn’t ever squander a moment of one’s time remaining.
She said—” At this, Rollo shot Mickey a somewhat guilty look.
“—her untimely demise had shown Amelia that time doesn’t wait and neither should we.
That all too often one hid one’s true feelings behind a dam of pride, or fear that one’s feelings might not be returned, and sometimes, one can leave the whole thing too late.
” His lips pursed. “I like her, actually. And I had the distinct impression she and Willoughby are up to something.”
“Their acquaintance is more advanced than they would have everyone believe,” Mickey observed. “Imagine if Talybridge or her father were to find out Willoughby was scaling trees and stealing kisses.”
“Hmm.” Rollo frowned again. “I think Willoughby’s been stealing more than kisses. Keep it between ourselves, but I rather fancy my darling twin is scheming to steal Miss Amelia herself.”
“Lord, I’m not sure Ashington’s heart could stand further skulduggery. One theft is enough.”
They journeyed on in silence, partly because Mickey preferred it when Rollo focused on the road and wasn’t nattering, but partly because his mind replayed Rollo’s conversation with Miss Amelia Chesterton. Time does not wait.
If it wasn’t for her uncommon beauty, Miss Chesterton would be entirely inconsequential in the eyes of the ton.
Even with it, she was considered no more worthy than an ornament, by virtue of being of the fairer sex.
Nothing but a pawn in her father’s and a marquess’s machinations, destined to pick snowdrops and embroider kittens on cushions until God decided her time on this earth was up.
And yet, here she was, a person whose opinions were neither sought nor welcomed, but fully formed regardless.
And she had somehow managed to crystallise every single one of Mickey’s own jumbled mess of emotions into a few simple sentences.
Five days remaining. Time does not wait.
So what if Mickey made a cake of himself?
So what if Valentin’s gilded tongue was nothing but sentiment over substance?
Mickey had been dancing around his own truth for far too long.
There were things he needed to do and say, and if he never did, he’d regret it forever.
He only realised that Rollo repeated his name several times over when he received an elbow in the ribs.
The horses drew to a halt behind a post-chaise being loaded with traveller’s trunks.
“Your head is in the clouds, old chap. I asked where you wished me to drop you off? I’m heading this way, to Old Bond Street—Papa is taking me for a new coat fitting so that I may sparkle at the New Year ball.
And then I shall be calling into Ackermann’s on the Strand. ”
“Why on earth are you going there?”
Rollo may have said already if only Mickey had paid attention. As far as he could recall, Ackermann’s was a repository for art supplies, a dull place where idle ladies pored over insipid watercolour brushes and the like.
“Oh, Fitz wants something,” Rollo replied vaguely. “For his atrocious daubs.” They started up again. “Where shall I drop you off?”
“Albany.” As the world around him buzzed, as Rollo wittered on about his new coat, and as a whistle blew and a barrow boy shouted, a rope of certainty weaved itself into the fabric of Mickey’s mind. Time does not wait. “Drop me off at Albany, my sweet sugar plum. I have a man to kiss.”