Chapter Thirteen
SINCE THE TON had deemed Tommy and his associates worthy of invitation, Mickey had experienced the entire gamut of London ballrooms. Talybridge’s was at the upper end of the scale as befitted a wealthy marquess.
Sipping his champagne, Mickey marvelled at the gas chandeliers, their light refracted in a thousand directions by the polished surfaces beneath.
The outside of the property was lit up like Vauxhall Gardens too; tall windows framed with rich velvet curtains opened onto manicured lawns beyond, where the evening’s fading light mingled with the soft glow of tens of lanterns strung through the trees.
Mickey wished he were out there amongst them right now, in a dark, unlit corner, with Valentin’s lips plastered to his and his hard body pushing him back against a sturdy oak or a folly’s damp bricks.
Since Mickey had declared his true feelings and kissed him, they’d met at Albany every day, every night, too, when Mickey was able.
He was insatiable, his desire for the Frenchman an all-consuming hunger chewing on his insides, made worse by the ever-present ticking of a clock.
Alas, instead of spending the closing night of the year in the arms of his lover, he was minutes away from a damned jewel heist.
And, despite Mickey begging his lover to reconsider, Valentin was minutes away from stealing an unidentified object of great importance too.
Mickey stared up at the elaborately plastered ceiling. Valentin had sworn until he was blue in the face that it wasn’t the parure he was after. But what else could it be? One of these fancy chandeliers? They must be worth a pretty penny. Mickey chuckled despite himself.
He checked his fob for the hundredth time.
It wasn’t that he feared the crime he was about to commit, though he admitted to a growing apprehension.
It was just that…they’d said their goodbyes.
Once he’d recovered himself, Mickey had been brave, far braver than he expected—and now the new year was only hours away.
Which meant…why the hell couldn’t he have fallen in love with some other damned cove?
One not chasing some bloody baubles? One not desperate to return to his home in France once he’d half inched the bloody baubles.
Or not, if Valentin truly was chasing the parure, seeing as Mickey would scupper him by pinching it first. Valentin would hate him for it, if he ever found out.
He hoped to God that Valentin didn’t get caught prowling around uninvited corners of Talybridge’s house.
If someone spotted him, Valentin would be the number-one suspect, even if they failed to find the parure about his person, what with rumours about him already abounding.
He didn’t have a team behind him as Mickey did—eagle-eyed lookouts in the card room, Kit’s dextrous fingers, Rossingley’s clever brain, Rollo’s cunning diversion. Goodness knew what that would be.
Mickey studied his surroundings a little longer, memorising the layout in case a rapid exit became necessary.
The multiple doors to the gardens would be his best bet, though a man could get giddy finding them through the crowds, especially with all the bloody mirrors lining the walls.
Tall, thin, and framed in silver leaf, they reflected the dancers gliding across the floor, giving the illusion the room had thrice the number of folks.
Just looking through them now made him dizzy, and no one needed to see three Lord Butterworth’s clodhopping through an allemande.
Instead, Mickey turned his gaze to the far wall, which boasted a grand fireplace and a possibly even worse view, given that a vast portrait of the current Marquess of Talybridge crowned the mantel.
His chubby pompous face held a watchful expression, as if guarding the ballroom and all who danced within it.
The actual marquess was still at the head of the receiving line with his young betrothed clamped to his side, looking miserable.
Around her neck, on a delicate thin chain, hung the three teardrop Rossingley emeralds.
In Mickey’s opinion, the lighter, more youthful necklace enhanced her modest décolletage far more than the weighty Ashington parure, the latter far better suited to an older matron.
Not that he was any sort of expert on these things.
Six members of Ashington’s Eight were already present; Rossingley and Kit would arrive fashionably late. Wandering down the receiving line would by far be the easiest time for Kit to pick Talybridge’s key, especially with flamboyant Rossingley at his side, stealing all the attention.
Next to Mickey stood Willoughby, clutching his champagne coupe as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.
“My countess looks beautiful draped in my jewels, doesn’t she?” he whispered, then grinned mischievously. “And she’ll be even more so when she’s in my bed, wearing the Rossingley emeralds and nothing else.”
“Lord Cavendish,” tutted Mickey, throwing him a sidelong glance. “Hiding behind that wide-eyed, innocent facade is a rather wicked young man. I’ve heard about your tree-climbing escapades.”
Willoughby grinned even wider. “Blame Papa and Rolly! Their naughtiness is finally rubbing off.” His gaze skated around the room before settling once more on his beloved.
“Or perhaps it’s always been there. Maybe I’ve just never found a good enough reason to misbehave until now.
” The corners of his mouth pressed into a line as his eyes bored into his beloved.
“I’m feeling ever so adventurous all of a sudden. ”
Mickey felt a twinge of unease. Now was not a moment for tinkering with their well-formed plans. “I trust you mean solely in the biblical sense,” he probed lightly. “Or…or do you have something more in mind?”
Willoughby shrugged. “Nothing special. But…” His eyes gleamed with the kind of knowingness that suggested he was privy to some wicked little truth no one else had yet stumbled upon.
His voice dropped a tone so only Mickey could hear.
“If Papa is concerned as to my whereabouts tomorrow morning when I fail to appear at breakfast, I’d be grateful if you would reassure him that I am safe and well and… en route to Gretna Green.”
Good lord. A knot tightened in Mickey’s stomach.
“For God’s sake, be careful.” He couldn’t stop Willoughby eloping, and, in truth, he didn’t want or need to; the young man would protect the girl with his life.
Miss Amelia was far better off with him than Talybridge, and if Gretna was the only solution, then he wished them both the very best of luck.
“Talybridge watches her like a hawk, Willoughby. As does her father. I suspect your mutual fondness has not passed unnoticed.”
Willoughby shot Mickey a quick glance. “I am fully aware. But Rolly is creating a distraction, remember? He won’t let me down.”
Tommy ambled over, looking every inch a man perfectly at ease in such a cathedral of opulence for the simple reason his lover’s ballroom was even more superior.
“Beauregard’s already here, come to steal our parure,” he murmured. “He’s standing at five o’clock, to the left of the musicians.”
“Relax. He’s not interested in it. He told me so himself.”
“Hmm.” Tommy didn’t seem convinced. “Regardless, he’s already turning ladies’ heads. Try not to dribble excessively, Mickey. Drool is the devil to get out of a silk cravat.”
Cursing him, Mickey resisted his instinct to turn and stare, instead letting his gaze travel a slow arc across the ballroom, taking in Fitzsimmons and Rollo, tittering together over something lewd, no doubt.
Close by, Ashington was doing his hated ducal thing, looking terribly austere and constipated.
People fawned around him as if he might think upon them kindly and bestow them a castle in Scotland or his hand in marriage.
Mickey made himself wait a further minute before he allowed himself to rest his gaze on Valentin.
Tonight, his lover had dressed in an impeccably tailored midnight-blue evening coat, paired with a mossy waistcoat, matching his eyes.
As if knowing Mickey was there all along, the Frenchman nonchalantly looked up from his drink.
As their eyes locked, the crowded space folded away, along with the laughter, the music, and the shadowy dancers, until only the two of them remained.
It wasn’t a showy, dramatic kind of connection; there were no shooting stars, flashes of lightning, or sudden revelations. Simply a subtle, undeniable pull.
He draws you in.
Didn’t he just. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat a fraction of a second too long to be natural.
Without question, Valentin must feel it too.
If this were to be the last time they saw each other, if Mickey were denied another night in his lover’s embrace, then he would store this memory of his lover alongside the others—Valentin dazzling in a world designed for those born to it, outshining them.
Seconds passed until Valentin blinked, then forced his gaze away. Mickey’s pulse didn’t slow.
“Hate to interrupt, old friend.” Tommy gave his elbow a jolt, the two of them now standing alone. So enraptured, Mickey hadn’t even noticed Willoughby wander off. “But things are about to get interesting. Rossingley’s arrived.”
Mickey followed the direction of Tommy’s gaze, feigning indifference despite the thudding of his heart.
In the grand entrance, as though waiting for the very air to be split in two to make way for his arrival, stood Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley.
The stylish Mrs Catherine de Villiers hung from his arm, almost as eye-catching in scarlet.
Kit, dressed in black from head to toe and as darkly handsome as ever (not that anyone took a blind bit of notice), brought up the rear.
Frankly, Kit could have chiselled off, rolled up, and stolen the damask wallpaper from the very walls of the ballroom for all the attention anyone paid him.
Every eye was trained on Rossingley. His coat, a masterpiece of deep violet and silver brocade, twinkled under the chandeliers whilst his flawless white silk cravat rivalled a swan’s plume, and his black boots had been polished to such a degree they could blind the unprepared.
With his usual languorous grace—as though the laws of physics had no dominion over him—Rossingley stepped forwards to greet Talybridge, his lips shaping words undoubtedly as elegant and smart as his manner.
No one would ever believe he detested the marquess almost as much as his good friend, Ashington, did.
Unquestionably, as Rossingley lay a friendly hand on the marquess’s arm, they would never spy his shadowy lover’s nimble fingers slipping inside Talybridge’s waistcoat.
Even Mickey missed it. If it wasn’t for Kit’s subtle nod to Rossingley over Mrs de Villiers head as they made their way more fully into the ballroom, one might assume nothing had occurred.
“Step one successfully accomplished,” murmured Tommy. “Time for the real fun to start.” He nodded as Kit sauntered over, patting both Mickey and Tommy on the back in greeting. Something cold and hard dropped into Mickey’s waistcoat pocket.
“Evening, chaps.” Kit smiled cheerfully. “Fancy a couple of hands of faro?”