Chapter Fourteen #2
Valentin huffed a half laugh. “Calling me a thief is bold, considering you’re the one caught with his hand in the safe.”
Mickey hissed a curse. “My presence here is not your concern, but rest assured, I am not here on my own behalf.” Defeat and anger rolled over him.
“Whereas you, Valentin Beauregard—” He jabbed a finger at the Frenchman.
“—if, indeed, that is your name, and frankly, I have grave suspicions it’s not—are a liar and a crook and have done nothing but rob the ton since your arrival.
You cannot help yourself; you promised to stop.
You swore you wouldn’t, yet you shall do it until your dying breath.
” He pushed his lover away, biting back tears of frustration.
“You lied to me, Valentin. And I thought we were…dammit, I thought we were true.”
Valentin clutched Mickey’s hands in his own. “We were, my love, believe me. The truest thing I have ever known.”
“You lie, monsieur.” Mickey threw him off, glaring. “You are a thief of jewels and a thief of the truth.”
“No, not this time. I would never lie to you. I swear.” The curve of Valentin’s lips faltered as he pleaded, caught between his natural instinct for bravado and something Mickey couldn’t quite interpret.
Then he blinked, slow and deliberate, as if each one took far more effort than it should, before stepping back.
“You are very wrong. I promise you. I have stolen nothing from this safe of value to you or your friends. And never did I intend to.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here, if not thieving jewels? You know of nothing else but thieving.”
“Not true, my dear London. And you have so thoroughly plundered my heart that my appetite for thieving has been quite ruined by it.”
“Do not say such rot,” Mickey bit out. “You are slippery. You lie like a snake.”
As harsh words spilled from him, something inside Mickey broke.
He’d woken that morning, his soul a quiet hum, filled with a soft certainty that everything would somehow be all right.
That he’d retrieve the parure, and Tommy would be proud of him.
So proud, in fact, that when Mickey asked to leave his employ to pursue his lover, he’d shoo him away with his blessing and a promise to welcome him back if his adventuring in France fell flat on its face.
And now, a heavy, shattering weight already dragged at his ribs. Everything was spoiled.
“Your word counts for nothing,” he managed, holding back an overwhelming urge to cry. “All your fine words count for nothing. They never did, did they?”
“Mickey.” Beauregard’s moss green eyes, always so vibrant, were now dim. “Believe me when I say that somebody has indeed stolen what you believe rightly belongs to Ashington from that case. But I promise you that, on this occasion, it wasn’t me.”
A snide riposte caught in a knot of dread Mickey couldn’t quite swallow.
Christ he’s beautiful, he thought. And Valentin was still everything Mickey believed he wanted, despite ruining his dreams. He should leave, walk away from this man and his quick clever tongue, put this disaster behind him and return to the ballroom.
Yet, when Valentin’s palm landed on Mickey’s arm, when his desperate fingers trailed down to find Mickey’s, he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw them off a second time They tasted too much like a goodbye, another farewell whispered too soon.
“You’re a damned liar,” he said, though the words killed him. “And I should never have—”
The air filled with shouting. Heavy footsteps thundered along the passageway. Valentin jerked his head; they stared at each other, horrified, until Valentin grabbed Mickey’s sleeve.
“Quick! This way!”
The pair plunged through the open window at the exact moment the study door smacked open. Mickey landed heavily on his left ankle, and with the twist, agonising pain ripped through him; his knee crumpled.
“Come on!” Valentin yanked him up, pulling him along. “This way.”
Blindly, they hurtled through flowerbeds and crashed into prickly shrubs.
His arm gripping Mickey’s shoulders, Valentin half dragged, half carried him.
Behind them and gaining fast, more men yelled and took up the chase.
A glass window splintered. They rounded a corner, spurred forwards by the thump of feet hitting gravel, then took another corner, and another still, until they skidded to a stop.
Before them lay a solid, impenetrable, drystone wall.
Valentin didn’t hesitate. “Quick,” he urged, pushing Mickey ahead of him. He bent low, cupping his hands into a cradle. “Step onto here with your good leg then heave yourself up and over. And I’ll follow.”
Behind them, the ballroom drapes were flung aside. The garden bathed in brightness, lighting up Mickey and Valentin as if they were the opening act at Drury Lane. Angry shouts drew closer.
“But you…you’ll get… There isn’t time,” Mickey hissed frantically. Time does not wait.
“Shh. I’m French, London,” Valentin whispered back. “We always make time for love. And this French peasant loves you as much as life itself. Now hurry.”
Roughly shoving his hands under Mickey’s arse, Valentin propelled him up and onto the wall. Mickey took a last look down, catching a flash of a grin, of wicked eyes, an exotic wildness. A glimpse of the very thing he’d searched for, found, and now lost. Love.
“Go, mon cher,” Valentin urged. “Find the duke’s or Rossingley’s carriage, and do not look back. I shall meet you on the other side.”