Page 5 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Keep your wits about you,” Tommy added, ever the nursemaid. He pointed to Mickey’s glass. “Refrain from too much of that.”

“Gladly.”

As Mickey glanced around the room, already on the hunt for Beauregard, his gaze alighted on a stout, middle-aged gentleman. “That chap over there is Talybridge, isn’t he? The marquess we talked about last night, betrothed to the American—Chesterton’s daughter?” He nudged Tommy’s attention to where the man was noisily blowing his bulbous nose into a pocket square. “Your duke and Fitzsimmons really don’t like him much at all, do they?”

“Not one jot.” Tommy’s expression was one of disdain. “After everyone left yesterday evening, Benedict told me that when he was a small child, the two families quarrelled at a summer shooting party held at Ashington. Being so young, he has very little recollection, of course, but the families have hardly spoken to one another in public or private since.”

“Quarrelled over what?” asked Mickey, curious.

“Their father tended to be tight-lipped on the matter,” Tommy replied, his own lips pursed. “But Benedict’s grandmother unexpectedly died during the same weekend.”

“An unhappy coincidence?” Mickey queried.

Tommy hesitated before answering, glancing across at the marquess, now knocking back a balloon of brandy. “Benedict and Fitzsimmons believe not.”

Like hyenas on the prowl, they split up and circled the packed dance floor. Despite the larger number of attendees, after a half hour, Mickey concluded the ball was much like others. Dressed in their finery, the women were pretty and a few of the gentlemen prettier still. Food was plentiful, though too fancy for Mickey’s tastes. And probably some better booze lurked once he reached the card rooms, along with decent company and a few games of basset. If this was work, then Mickey was all for it.

After wading through the crowds, he found himself standing beside Rollo and his twin, Lord Willoughby Cavendish. Outwardly, the two young men yakking non-stop to each other were indistinguishable, even more so side by side in matching evening wear and identical jade velvet masks. Their internal makeup, however, couldn’t have been more different. Whereas Rollo had inherited Rossingley’s dry wit and acerbity, his twin had not a cynical, unkind bone in his body.

Alas, Lord Willoughby also had a terrible habit of falling headlong in love with almost every unmarried brunette crossing his path.

“Mickey!” he called in greeting. “How lovely to see you! Tommy promised he’d drag you along. You must help me find my next dance partner. Rollo has bet me that if I fill my evening with a different deb for each dance, he’ll draw a moustache on that dreadful portrait of Lady Butterworth hanging in the dining room.”

“I’ll make it more lifelike,” chipped in a grinning Rollo.

“Finding a flurry of dance partners shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, should it?” Mickey suggested to Willoughby. “You’re Lord Cavendish, heir to Rossingley.”

“Yes, but…” For a second, Willoughby’s face fell. “I have this darned limp.”

“And his conversational skills are on a par with stepping into a tepid bath,” Rollo chimed in unhelpfully. “I think a rather flamboyant black handlebar will suit Lady B very nicely, don’t you?”

“If your brother’s conversation is tepid, Rollo, then your incessant chatter scalds one’s arse,” Mickey retorted. “Give me a lukewarm bath and a waltz in Willoughby’s arms any day.”

“Ooh, I had no idea you held such a tendre for me.” Willoughby chortled. “Flattered, I’m sure.”

Closer to his own age than the rest of the gang, these twins didn’t daunt Mickey half as much as Rossingley, Ashington, and Fitzsimmons. In fact, they’d fast become his best chums. He scanned the room. “What about that chit dressed in yellow, standing with those elderly ladies? Over there, by that enormous potted plant. She’s comely enough, and by the looks of things, you’d be doing her a favour.”

Willoughby’s eyes lit up as they landed on the young lady. Even a sequined mask couldn’t hide her obvious boredom. “Oh, yes, she’d more than do. Hold my drink, Mickey. I’ll trot over and…oh…oh! I say. Hello! Goodness gracious me. Eyes at three o’clock, chaps.”

Mickey and Rollo exchanged not again looks as Willoughby flapped his hand in front of his face like a swooning debutante. Though neither found the fairer sex especially beguiling, they obediently turned.

“Zounds!” exclaimed a breathless Willoughby. “She’s quite… Who on earth is she, Mickey?”

A young lady, dark chestnut hair piled high on her head and her figure an enticingly soft silhouette against the golden glow of the wall sconces, curtseyed and bobbed her way along Lady Butterworth’s receiving line. With natural grace, she turned her long, slender neck to acknowledge each introduction. A few errant brown curls escaped from beneath a ribbon, catching the light. Even Mickey recognised a stunning young woman when he saw one, despite that her eyes were hidden.

“Her hair.” Willoughby let out a pitiful whimper. “Her hair! Just look at it! It’s like…like threads of rich mahogany, teased and polished to burnished perfection.”

“Here we go again,” sighed Rollo as Willoughby clutched his arm. “Threads of mahogany? She’s a pretty girl, Willsy, not a Chippendale chair. Pull yourself together.”

“She’s that and more,” Willoughby breathed. “I…I do believe I’m in love, Rolly.”

A portly, mature gentleman clasped the young woman’s arm, his proud demeanour marking him out as the father. His evening dress was a little showier than that which Mickey had become accustomed, as if outdated or fabricated overseas. Though, for all anyone was paying him any attention, he could have worn nothing but his undergarments.

“Oh my! That dress, that exquisite shade of blush! Look! See how it pinches her tiny waist, Rolly, how the soft rose silk rounds the perfect globes of her behind, how delicately it cups her two most superb… Good lord, look at that bloody necklace!”

“I’m trying not to,” said his brother, blinking rapidly and shielding his eyes. “It’s headache-inducing.”

Mickey, too, couldn’t help but stare at the young lady’s bosom. Or rather, at the jewels framing it. The glittering row of sapphires and diamonds—each as big and as dazzling as any he’d ever seen before—was matched in size and opulence by the sapphire teardrops dangling from each of her dainty earlobes.