Page 3 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“No,” Mickey answered, gaining in confidence. “He’s a bit of a recluse, by all accounts, and is only visiting town to deliver a series of lectures to the Royal Society.”

“And half inch purses?” Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Unlikely.”

“Very unlikely,” Rossingley agreed. “Unless said purses are adorned with rare turquoises and morganite.”

“My thoughts too.” Mickey pointed to the second name. “So I think we can scratch him from our list. This next chap is an American, a Mr Chesterton, hailing from Virginia. Not shown his face for over fifteen years, so he’d been crossed off the members list for good. However, having completed a tour of Europe—last stop Florence—he arrived in London six days ago, intending to stay for the season and to see his daughter safely married off to the Marquess of Talybridge.”

“Talybridge?” spluttered the duke. “How old’s this Chesterton’s daughter? Talybridge must be over fifty, if he’s a day!”

“That, I didn’t ascertain, Your Gra—Ashington.”

Mickey wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to being on such familiar terms with a duke, despite his vague memories of Ashington as a shy youth, stealing visits to the molly house.

“Talybridge has also been touring Europe recently,” Mickey continued. “Chesterton and he travelled back together with the daughter in tow. The wedding date is set for the first day of the New Year. The marquess vouched for Chesterton’s temporary membership—they are friends of old, apparently. The marquess’s own record shows him to be beyond reproach.”

“I’d wager they show him to be a bore and an oaf,” muttered the duke.

“Bitter and spite-fuelled,” agreed his brother, Fitzsimmons, absently tucking back a strand of Rollo’s wispy blond hair.

“Odious,” offered Kit from over by the window.

“But, oh, so very, very titled and so very, very rich,” finished Rossingley. “Which, to an avaricious papa seeking a match for his darling daughter, sadly makes his age an irrelevance.” His pale eyes glittered. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ashington, but your family and the Talybridges have never seen eye to eye, have they?”

“No,” conceded the duke grumpily. “Our grandfather always gave the Talybridges a wide berth and tended to spit whenever one was close by.”

“Such intrigue,” Rollo mused. “And what a delightfully uncouth way to express one’s displeasure.” He grinned up at Fitzsimmons, his stern lover. “If you cease stroking my hair, I may adopt it.”

“Will this be Talybridge’s second or third wife?” Rossingley directed this to Ashington and Fitzsimmons. “One quite loses track.”

Mickey cleared his throat. Once the three of them began gossiping, it could go on for some time. He would not be side tracked by the Marquess of Talybridge’s betrothal to a wealthy young American. “Now, our final suspect is far more interesting,” he declared. “The Honourable Valentin Beauregard, Vicomte de Verdille. There’s very little in White’s records, except that he was last sighted in London five or six years ago. Allegedly, he has been living the high life in various European cities since.”

“Never heard of him,” Tommy stated. “Slippery?”

“As coal tar soap,” conceded Mickey.

“He’s a French vicomte,” Rossingley drawled. “Slipperiness will have been his principal source of nourishment since suckling at his nursemaid’s tit.”

Mickey waited for the titters to stop before continuing. “Considering the information I’ve gleaned on White’s three new members—a respected mineralogist, a wealthy American, and a French vicomte—it’s my humble conclusion that a slippery gentleman thief, if he exists, is, indeed, most likely to be the French vicomte, Valentin Beauregard.”

“Valentin Beauregard,” Tommy repeated, no doubt storing up the name. “Ring any bells with anyone? Crossed paths with him at any ton gatherings? Rossingley perhaps? Benedict?”

“Don’t bother asking me,” huffed Ashington. “Scarcely used to attend anything back then, if I could help it.”

“Surely, you must know him, Papa?” Rollo asked. “You know everything and everybody!”

Rossingley shook his head. “’Fraid I shall disappoint you on this occasion. Beauregard must have been in town during my…ah…fallow years.”

So far during this exchange, Kit Angel had remained quiet, which was often the way. But now he spoke up. “I believe you’re asking the wrong person, Rollo.” His lip curled. “Isn’t he, Fitzsimmons?”

All the gentlemen in this group fascinated Mickey, but Fitzsimmons intrigued him the most. How had the brother of an esteemed duke switched from being banished as a ferocious rake, gambler, and scoundrel, only to emerge triumphantly from his hidey-hole with Rossingley’s youngest boy swinging from his arm?

“Possibly,” Fitzsimmons conceded. “Valentin Beauregard, Vicomte de Verdille.”

As the soft French syllables rolled over Fitzsimmons’s tongue, Rollo looked fit to swoon. Mickey, himself, wasn’t far off. Having never travelled farther than Epsom, even the Frenchman’s title sounded like one of the mysterious lands he forever dreamed of visiting.

“There’s a name I never thought I’d hear again,” Fitzsimmons said. “Very interesting chap.”

“Pray tell, darling,” murmured Rossingley, clearly intrigued. “And be sure to make the tale salacious. November is such a melancholy, skeletal sort of month, don’t you find? It would benefit from a sprinkling of spice.”