Page 4 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“And be sure to repeat this French chap’s name many times over in the telling,” Rollo chipped in. “Using that accent.”

Fitzsimmons’s hooded eyes flashed with amusement. “I first encountered Valentin Beauregard in Paris during the long, hot summer of 1819. We shared a mutual acquaintance, thus frequently attended the same soirées. From what I recall, wherever he went, Beauregard was beset by rumours; it would not surprise me if he had sowed many of them himself. Regardless, they certainly served to distort and twist any hard facts about the man. One could spend a whole evening in his charming company and leave with nothing but the vaguest feeling of having been hoodwinked, conned, and enchanted. Yet, unsure precisely how.”

“And with a lighter purse too? Did he frequent the hells?”

Fitzsimmons’s brow furrowed. “As I recall, Beauregard wasn’t much for the tables. Neither did he dance nor ever return an invitation. My acquaintance had a theory the man wasn’t a vicomte at all. No one had heard of the canton of Verdille until Beauregard appeared out of the blue and claimed it to be the most beautiful, unsullied place on earth. Mind you, his manners were impeccable; if he hadn’t been born with his own silver spoon, he’d licked several belonging to other people since.”

“Stolen them, perhaps,” observed Ashington from his seat by the fire.

“Quite,” agreed his brother. “The ladies tattled that he’d served as a soldier; some spoke of a love lost. Others whispered—out of his earshot—that he’d spent several years as a highwayman. And so on. Even more rumours were unleashed when he vanished one night, never to reappear. People wagered he’d drunkenly fallen into the Seine or stolen the Devil’s Diamonds and legged it across the continent.”

“And what did you think?” Ashington enquired.

Fitzsimmons regarded his brother thoughtfully. “I concluded that he possessed a moral compass even more detachable than my own. Beauregard was a chameleon. He wore an endless array of masks, each as carefully crafted as the next. His masks eventually became part of him, until he could no longer remember who he was without them.”

“What on earth are the Devil’s Diamonds?” Rollo butted in.

“Ah.” His father smiled across at him. “The blissful ignorance of youth. The story of the Devil’s Diamonds was the talk of the summer, even back here in England.”

Briefly, Fitzsimmons squeezed Rollo’s hand. “The Devil’s Diamonds, my sweet, were the centrepiece of a priceless tiara, a birthday gift from old Boney to his darling Joséphine. Five huge flawless gemstones, set in a sort of flower arrangement around an even bigger rare red one.”

“A red diamond? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“That’s because only a handful have ever been dug up. Anyhow, after her death, much of Joséphine’s jewellery ended up in the hands of the Norwegian royal family, the tiara along with it. One night, during a costume ball held at the palace of Versailles, the Devil’s Diamonds were snatched from atop a comely Norwegian princess’s fair head. The tiara was later discovered decorating a stone gargoyle in the palace gardens. The central diamonds, as big as hazelnuts, were never recovered.”

“And it is pure coincidence that Valentin Beauregard fell into a fast-flowing cut the following day, never to be seen again,” Tommy surmised wryly. “Regardless, as amusing as speculation on their whereabouts is, we must return to the present. We have three men recently reacquainting themselves with White’s, one of whom may, or may not, be a gentleman thief. One is an elderly, respected mineralogist, here to deliver a series of lectures. The second, an American, is determined to see his daughter wed to the wealthy but unpleasant Marquess of Talybridge. And the third is a somewhat shady French vicomte who strangely disappeared from Society at the same time as the Devil’s Diamonds.” He threw everyone a pointed look. “With all of this in mind, I shall permit the American, Chesterton, to join Squire’s if he requests. But if Beauregard demands entry, I may have to find an excuse to disallow it.”

Rollo pulled a face. “He’d brighten a lacklustre November. Far more than a boring American industrialist.”

Kit sauntered over from the window. “If Beauregard truly was behind the theft of the Devil’s Diamonds, then pilfering ladies’ reticules at dinner parties is quite the comedown, is it not?”

“Fabulous gossip though.” Rollo beamed. “If this chap stays around, perhaps November won’t be quite so dreary after all.”

“He’ll have a field day dipping his hand inside reticules at Lady Butterworth’s upcoming masked ball.” Fitzsimmons smiled grimly. “Assuming he’s on the guest list.”

“Of course he’ll be on the guest list. He bears a title, albeit French,” pointed out Rossingley. “Mind you, old Boney used to dish them out like chocolate drops.”

“Even I have been persuaded to attend.” Ashington didn’t sound terribly pleased, but then, the duke wasn’t one for large social gatherings.

“My informants tell me the vicomte is expected at the masked ball,” Mickey clarified.

“What fun!” exclaimed Rollo. He gazed up at Fitzsimmons. “Shall we befriend him? He sounds fascinating.”

“I daresay I can renew our acquaintance.” The corner of Fitzsimmons’s mouth ticked up. “I recall several amusing evenings in his company. For some reason, he used to find the whole Ashington history fascinating.”

“Probably scoping you out for diamonds worth pilfering,” said Ashington gloomily. “But how on earth will we spot him at a masked ball?”

Rossingley’s silvery eyes gleamed. Mickey wasn’t sure how he achieved it, but no matter the company, the man effortlessly commanded the room. “That’s very simple, my dear. Fitzsimmons said it himself. He’ll be the one hiding behind more than one mask.”

Chapter Two

THE GRAND BALLROOM at Lady Butterworth’s town house shimmered with candlelight. Hundreds of waxen tapers cast lambent shadows across gleaming marble floors. The air hummed with excited chatter; the notes from a string quartet desperately strained to rise above it. Though this was his second season, Mickey had never attended an occasion so splendid, and if truth be told, he hadn’t ever especially wanted to. But Tommy, forever striving to expand his business empire, insisted opportunities arose at occasions such as these, and thus, Mickey should attend and blend in. So, attend and blend in, he would.

“Keep a weather eye open for this Beauregard fellow,” Tommy advised as they sipped something ghastly. There were solid reasons for why different fruits grew on different continents, thousands of miles apart. To an unschooled chap like Mickey, this was unfathomable. As far as he was concerned, they should stay that way, not be plunged together in the same concoction, then garnished with a sprig of mint.

“According to Fitzsimmons, he’s tall,” Tommy continued, which didn’t exactly narrow things down much. Money and height went hand in hand. “And dark. Fitzsimmons says you’ll know him when you see him, even wearing a mask. Beauregard has something about him that draws one in, apparently. Fitzsimmons’s words, not mine.”

Draws one in? Being in love must have addled Fitzsimmons’s brain. Mickey had lain with plenty of wealthy men before Tommy returned and whisked him away from that life—old, young, ugly, even occasionally handsome. For all he supposedly had a grand foreign title, Beauregard would be much like any other. A chap who scratched his ballocks, broke wind, and picked his nose. Mickey would coolly observe him because Tommy had requested it. He’d then file away anything gleaned in Tommy’s locked office for a day when that information would be required.