Page 2 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Tommy sauntered to the drinks trolley and poured himself a generous snifter of brandy. Mickey envied him his poise in amongst all these toffs; he wasn’t sure he’d ever be accustomed to it. He hovered close to the door, feeling like an imposter and slightly ill at ease in his evening attire. Though thoroughly accepted into the group since Tommy had spruced him up, taught him some ton manners, and then insisted he mingle with society, Mickey still half expected one of the gentlemen demand he bring them a fresh decanter or call for a carriage.

“We’re unduly popular this evening, given the poor weather,” Tommy remarked to no one in particular. “Have been all week.”

“That’s because all the chaps are blackballing White’s,” piped up Rollo Duchamps-Avery from his cosy seat. Both his lover, Fitzsimmons, and Rollo’s father, Rossingley, regarded him fondly. “Willoughby thinks they should call in the runners to sort out the thefts before things get out of hand.”

Rossingley smiled indulgently. “It sounds as if Willoughby needs a reminder of the first rule of a gentleman’s club.”

“Yes, yes, one doesn’t talk about the doings of a gentlemen’s club,” Rollo chorused. “Which is all rather cloak-and-dagger and everything, Papa, but someone is stealing trinkets worth several hundreds of pounds! This isn’t a spot of card sharping to liven up a dull wintry evening, you know. It’s grand larceny!”

Fitzsimmons nudged him. “And the second rule?”

Rollo gave his lover an adoring, if exasperated look. “Yes, all right, all right. One still doesn’t talk about the doings of a gentlemen’s club.”

“And even more so when the culprit is purported to be a gentleman himself,” Fitzsimmons added, frowning.

“How many thefts have there been now?” This was from his brother—the duke—his deep brown gaze keen.

“The pilfering of Bannister’s pocket watch brings the total up to five,” Kit clarified from over by the window. “Three further items were reported to be taken from ladies’ reticules at Mrs Bowman’s gala dinner.” A small smile crept across his face. “And before anyone says it, no, I wasn’t present on any of the occasions.”

“Yet, no thefts reported here at Squire’s,” Tommy pondered. “If the pilfering at Mrs Bowman’s exonerates White’s household”—he shot Mickey a meaningful look—“then there is only one conclusion to draw.”

“A gentleman thief is at large,” agreed Fitzsimmons on behalf of them all.

“Yes. And, so far, he’s keeping his mitts to himself when he visits here,” said Tommy. “Unless, of course, he’s not a member.”

“If they had their wits,” Ashington commented, “White’s would ask for a gander at your members list to see if any newcomers have recently joined their establishment, but not Squire’s.”

He smiled faintly; he knew his lover well. Mickey guessed how Tommy would respond to a request like that too. A members list such as Tommy’s falling into the wrong grubby paws could turn the tide of empires. Far more than an inventory of gentlemen’s names and subscriptions, if there were a mote of dirt, gossip, or murk to be found, then it would be recorded on the list and locked up tight in Tommy’s office upstairs.

“Which I’d decline to produce.” Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “Though snooping at theirs would be interesting, just in case the bounder tries his luck here.”

“I…um…may have already looked into it,” Mickey offered, and his neck heated. He tended to stay quiet unless addressed directly, a habit Tommy patiently tried to eradicate. Along with Sidney—Tommy’s muscle—Mickey had spent most of the morning bribing, cajoling, intimidating, and charming one of White’s less loyal and far too naïve secretaries.

As all heads turned in his direction, Mickey flushed even harder. Even Rossingley, who so far had stayed quiet, seemed impressed. Tommy, on the other hand, tensed.

“Tell me you came to no harm, that no one threatened you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Anticipating Tommy’s needs was literally his job. “Sidney accompanied me. The poor fellow we spoke to is probably still cowering in a darkened room somewhere.”

“That’s my boy,” praised Tommy. “Out with it, then.”

Mickey gritted his teeth. He wasn’t Tommy’s boy any longer; he was one and twenty! Nonetheless, he tried not to preen. If lumbering, granite-hewn Sidney was Tommy Squire’s shield, then Mickey Maurice prided himself on being his sword. He was his older cousin’s fixer, his eyes and ears, and Tommy’s most ardent admirer, excepting the duke. Tommy Squire had dragged himself up from the gutter by his bootstraps, then returned five years ago to fetch Mickey. Starting as a lackey, then a footman, he was now Tommy’s right-hand man and, as such, rubbing shoulders with the ton. God knew when he’d get used to it. Or be allowed out and about to do his job without Sidney in tow.

“White’s hasn’t signed any new members in the last month,” Mickey confirmed.

Tommy pursed his lips. “Disappointing.”

From the wine table at his side, Mickey retrieved a document. “So, with Sidney’s able assistance, I pressed my source a little harder.”

“Excellent.” Tommy turned to where the duke already pretended to examine his nails. “You might want to close your ears, my love.”

“As usual, I shall deny all knowledge.”

Devoted to the service of his family and dukedom, Ashington preferred to overlook some of his lover’s murkier business matters. The others, however, were agog.

“Over the last two weeks,” Mickey began, “three members of White’s who haven’t been sighted for several years reappeared.” He passed the list of names over to Tommy. “The top one, I believe we can exclude. Sir George Shippam. One and sixty years of age, he spends most of the year at his hunting lodge in Cambridgeshire studying rare minerals.”

“Gadzooks, I assumed he was dead,” interrupted Rossingley. “My father and he were once great chums. Not heard that name in aeons.”