Chapter Twenty-Eight
MICKEY LIKED THIS time of year. The ton faded away, back to the country.
In the main salon, discourse turned to rural and coastal affairs and weekend shooting parties.
Even Tommy was escaping town for a month to join Ashington at his secluded second hunting lodge, whatever one of those might be.
Two months earlier, Tommy had hired two new secretaries, despite Mickey insisting he was managing the ever-expanding work just fine.
After all, hard work kept his mind from straying to dark places.
One new secretary was overseeing the clubs, the other the race stands.
Both had been poached from Bootles and came highly recommended.
Annoyingly, they were proving excellent choices, leaving Mickey twiddling his thumbs somewhat.
In a word, it was the perfect time to break the news to Tommy that he wished to leave.
And he would, later today, once his good friends departed.
At the moment, they happily lolled around Squire’s private salon, seemingly in no hurry to go anywhere.
When no one looked, Mickey fingered Valentin’s gift through his shirt.
He hadn’t told Tommy about it; he’d hung it around his neck on the same sturdy chain that held Tommy’s safe key and prayed he never fell afoul of a footpad.
“Rollo has persuaded Fitzsimmons to take him on a grand tour,” announced Rossingley. “They leave in a sennight.”
“England will be far quieter without him.”
Ashington opened up a copy of The Morning Post. After meeting his grandfather’s footman, Roberts, the duke had provided him with a cottage on the Ashington estate for as long as he wanted. Mickey was unsurprised; Ashington was a good man.
“Quite, though I shall miss him dreadfully. But he’s always wanted to spread his wings, and now Willoughby and darling Amelia are disappearing off to America for the winter, he rather thinks it’s a good time to go. They’ll be away six months at least, I imagine.”
Mickey swallowed back a rush of bitter envy, mentally chastising himself. Rollo was his dear friend. Since when did Mickey become someone who measured himself between his allotted portion of good fortune and that of his friends?
Ashington folded the newspaper in half so he could focus on the racing page. “My brother is either a brave man or a foolhardy one, thinking he can single-handedly corral an excited Rollo for that length of time.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Rather him than me.”
“Kit said the very same,” agreed Rossingley.
“But Rollo is so excited, and one should only do these adventurous things as a young chap if accompanied by an older guardian. You know, predatory foreigners taking advantage of his na?vety and all that. Fitzsimmons has clearly taken that message to heart.”
Ashington snorted. “Woe betide the shady character who tries to hoodwink Rollo with Lyndon accompanying him. Where are they intending to visit?”
Airily, Rossingley waved his hand. “Oh, the usual trail. You know, Paris, Vienna, Florence, Rome. Athens, too, if Rollo doesn’t expire after the heat of Italy or decide he’s pining for his father and his home comforts too much.”
“Luckily for Fitzsimmons, they shan’t be entirely alone.” Tommy entered the conversation. “Not for the first part of the journey anyhow.”
His amused tone struck Mickey as rather odd, as did the glances he traded with his friends. “How so?” Mickey queried.
“Oh, there will be a third accompanying them as far as Paris,” Tommy explained. “The tickets are arranged already for that part of the journey. For the boat, the carriages, lodgings, and everything else.”
“Ah, Fitzsimmons is taking his valet.” Mickey understood now. Though it somewhat limited their privacy.
“No, there is no need.” Rossingley answered this time; he too seemed to be finding the entire exchange dreadfully amusing. “I’m told that once one reaches the capital, the French are rather good at providing suitable staff. And I rather think Rollo and Fitzsimmons will manage quite well without.”
“So…” Mickey frowned, puzzled. Now even Ashington smiled at him indulgently.
“What?” he said, suddenly self-conscious. “What are the three of you looking so pleased with yourselves about? Do I have remnants of shaving soap around my ears?”
“Your ears are as petitely divine as always, my darling,” purred Rossingley, his grin even wider. “Everything about you is divine, if only you realised it.”
Knowing better than to pursue Rossingley in this playful mood, Mickey searched Tommy’s face for answers instead. It was far too early in the day for any of them to be sloshed on brandy; as far as Mickey knew, they’d only imbibed coffee so far.
“What Rossingley is trying to say is that you have become surplus to requirement, dear cousin,” Tommy announced. “From today, I am insisting you leave my employ.”
“What?”
The words falling from Tommy’s mouth landed heavily in the pit of Mickey’s stomach.
He looked around at the elegant salon, all those armchairs, the crystal decanters, and discreet gas lamps that once filled him with a sense of purpose.
He knew trade here at the club dwindled over the summer months, and the new secretaries were already proving themselves more than adequate, but they didn’t know the nuances of the business, like Mickey.
And, more to the point, he was Tommy’s right-hand man.
His cousin, his only living relative. His second in command. Tommy needed him, dammit!
“I-I’m at a loss to understand.”
All three men were still smiling at him.
“I’m letting you go, dear cousin,” Tommy repeated more gently. “From today, you are no longer in my employ.”
“You’re…dismissing me? Is it something I’ve done wrong?”
“Hardly.” Tommy laughed. “You’re the best employee a man could wish for. No, we simply became weary of waiting for you to pluck up the nerve to ask me if you could leave, so we thought this was the best way.”
Mickey swallowed. He was leaving Squire’s. Tommy was dismissing him. Which meant he could…he could…
“You’re to visit Europe with Rollo and Fitz. As far as Paris, in the first instance.” Tommy smiled. “After that, it’s up to you. But I don’t expect to see you back here for a year or more. And only then for a visit.”
“You’re getting rid of me.” Mickey’s brain wasn’t fully working. His mouth was moving, but nothing sensible was coming out. Against his chest, Valentin’s gift burned.
“I believe I’ve already stated that. Go and track down that devilish vicomte of yours. The one giving you a face like an alley cat fallen into a hot bath.”
Rossingley was also smiling at him—his rare guileless one. It was disconcerting. And Tommy was still talking.
“But I—” Mickey tried again. He wasn’t sure what he was. Petrified? Elated? Exposed? “What if he…”
“Which bit of everything about you is divine are you failing to understand, Mickey?” interrupted Rossingley. “The man adores you, my darling, and why wouldn’t he? He rescued you from arrest and trusted you with Ashington’s parure. He even sent his old papa to find you!”
And gave Mickey a priceless gift. If the others had an inkling that a dark red diamond as big as a hazelnut lay hidden under Mickey’s shirt, they’d tumble from their comfortable chairs in shock. Even Rossingley, and he was virtually impossible to wrong foot.
Ashington roused himself from his newspaper.
Generally, these sorts of conversations he left to the experts, such as Rossingley.
Today, however, he chose to wade in. “Love makes a man vulnerable, Mickey,” he pronounced, his dark gaze lingering on Tommy.
“One’s heart will be quite wrung by it. One can choose to keep it to oneself of course, or one can spread it around the racetrack, or lavish it on one’s siblings.
” His eyes returned to Mickey. “Or on one’s cousin, who appreciates the value of your love intensely but can manage quite well without.
But even doing all those things with it, my dear boy, it is not safe.
Love will find you out and, frankly, is not worth fighting. ”
He shook out his paper. “Go to France, for heaven’s sake. If only to thank that devious vicomte of yours on my behalf, for doing the right thing and returning my original parure.”