Title: To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Four

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/01/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 308

Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, tall-dark-and-sexy Frenchman, thief, caper, murder mystery, family heirloom, family drama, courtroom drama, gentleman’s club, ballrooms, blackmail, the Ashington Eight (think Ocean’s Eleven), humorous

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Description

London 1825. When a young American heiress arrives at a Society ball draped in long-lost sapphires and diamonds belonging to the late Duchess of Ashington, jaws drop and tempers rise.

Thirty years earlier, those jewels vanished after a deadly shooting party. Now, they’ve resurfaced around the neck of the odious Marquess of Talybridge’s beautiful betrothed.

The current Duke of Ashington wants them back where they belong, and his close friends are only too happy to plot a daring heist on his behalf. But he’s not the only man with his eyes on the prize. A mysterious French viscount, new to London and shrouded in scandal, wants them too.

Enter Mickey Maurice, gambling hell owner Tommy Squire’s right-hand man. Loyal and discreet, Mickey glides through Society largely unobserved. Under the duke’s instruction, he’s tasked with seducing the truth out of the foreigner.

But when secrets, schemes, and seductions collide, the real thief might just be a matter of the heart. And for young Mickey, love might be the riskiest heist of all.

This fourth book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features friends old and new, a jewel heist, and lashings of falling in love. It can be read as a standalone.

To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul
Fearne Hill © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Mickey’s gaze settled on the vicomte as if an arrow hovered above Beauregard’s dark head. The Frenchman appeared to be relating a long story, holding the rapt attention of two of Squire’s more sedate members. He draws you in. And some, Mickey thought, and tried to pinpoint why. Something about the fluidity of his movements, maybe—like a quiet piano playing in a dim-lit room, sucking you deeper into the music whether you were otherwise occupied or not. Or perhaps it was his features, clearer now they were not half hidden behind a mask—sharp but not cruel, defined but not stern, his jawline strong but not hard. Lips, neither too full nor too thin.

“He’s certainly a feast for the eyes on a cold winter’s night like this, isn’t he, Mickey?” Tommy threw him a sly wink. “I lost you there for a minute, my friend.”

“I was watching his hands!” Mickey lied. “Making sure they didn’t wander too far.”

Tommy gave him a sly nudge. “Why? You jealous?”

London cock. “Possibly.”

Tonight, the club was standing room only. Conversations churned from every corner; bodies brushed up against one another as men drifted from group to group. Child’s play for a light-fingered thief.

“Go and circulate,” Tommy ordered, clearly of the same mindset. “Keep eyes on him.”

Mickey had become expert at this mingling malarkey. Sidney said his presence was like a shadow, and Mickey liked to think that was true. Slowly but purposefully, he moved through the murmurs of idle conversation and the clinking of crystal tumblers with the kind of unspoken ease that only the truly practiced could summon. A slight tilt of his head acknowledged a passing elderly lord, his lip curled ever so briefly into a smile at a jest shared between two younger card players. Mickey’s eyes, alert but never scrutinizing, skimmed the faces around him, storing away titbits of news, memorising those who were drawn to one another and those who remained apart. And always, always, circling closer to the leather club chair occupied by Beauregard, whereupon he announced his presence by executing the smallest of bows.

“Monsieur le Vicomte.”

“Hello, London.” Beauregard’s mouth widened in an easy smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Lust spiked in Mickey’s veins as the end of each word and the beginning of the next flowed seamlessly into each other. He could run barefoot through that bloody voice. And that was before he properly looked into Beauregard’s eyes. The damned things weren’t just moss green—no, they shifted with the light, morphing from the softest sage to a liquid jade and back again. Right now, they crinkled with amusement as Mickey stood before him, tongue-tied. The man shouldn’t be allowed out without a damned mask.

“Good evening,” he managed. “I was unaware you were a member.”

Again, Beauregard smiled carelessly. “Don’t lie to me, London. Squire is your boss, he sent me a personal invite, and you’ve both been spying on me from up there since the moment I arrived. And my familiars call me Beauregard.”

And those he’d robbed no doubt had a few other choice names.

Mickey resisted the temptation to look up to where Tommy doubtlessly observed from the balcony. Instead, he slipped into the chair next to Beauregard. “Bravo. You have been busy, haven’t you?”

Beauregard acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. “I’m aware of my reputation—all lies, of course. I’m nothing but a man of business. Nonetheless, owners of gentlemen’s clubs don’t tend to proffer invites to foreigners with rumours attached to them.”

“Do they not?”

“No.” Beauregard shifted closer. “And their pretty young employees certainly don’t pleasure them so willingly, not unless they want something in return. I don’t take kindly to being ambushed. I did some homework.” His voice dropped even lower. “So, tell me. What is it you and Squire want?”

Mickey’s mind raced. He must tread carefully. Diving straight in, quizzing the man about his time in Florence and whether he encountered the Chestertons there would only raise his suspicions. Instead, Mickey fell back on what he knew best, and strictly speaking, none of it was a lie.

“Tommy Squire is my friend and cousin, as well as my boss,” he began evasively. “We help each other out in all matters, if you catch my drift.” He let his hand fall to his side, the smallest finger brushing lightly against Beauregard’s. “Perhaps I wanted nothing more than to see you again, and Tommy’s invitation facilitated that.”

“Is that so.” Beauregard didn’t sound especially convinced, though he didn’t move his fingers away either.

“Yes. If one wishes to remain discreet, then there are slim pickings for men like us amongst the ton.” Throwing Beauregard his most beguiling smile, the one that used to have desperate punters creaming before he’d barely pleasured them, Mickey dropped his voice to a low murmur. “It might interest you to know that I have rooms upstairs.”

For his troubles, Mickey received a crooked, enticing smile.

“And I daresay we shall make excellent use of them, London. But I want you to talk to me first. I fancy I would like to be seen hobnobbing with the persons running this esteemed establishment.”

Again, Mickey resisted lifting his gaze to Tommy. “Then I shall start by asking you what brings you to our town. I believe it is quite some years since you last visited?”

“Five or more. As I said, I am a man of business, and I have unfinished business here.” Beauregard’s lips thinned. “I intend to remain until it is completed.”

His keen eyes searched the room as he sipped at his port. Was he looking for someone? Or merely, like Mickey himself, appraising the clientele? Seeking opportunities, deducing who was careless with their belongings? Mickey wasn’t sure, yet secrets sheltered behind those mesmerising features, and Mickey owed it to Tommy and the duke to unearth them.

“Are you at liberty to divulge the nature of your business?” Mickey would eat his cravat if he got a straight answer to that question.

“I am.” Beauregard’s eyes crinkled lazily. “But, alas, I would have to kill you afterwards. Very slowly.” Throwing back his head, he laughed. “I jest. It’s all very dull. Important to me, but dull. And when it’s done, I…” He blew out a breath, and for a moment, Mickey caught a glimpse of something real, someone behind the mask, someone weary of the whole game. “I shall be a happier man.”

“And how long do you imagine this important business will take?” Mickey flicked Beauregard a glance through the curtain of his lashes. “I would like to enjoy your company a little longer.”

“Before the end of the year, if all goes according to plan.” Beauregard’s gaze returned to Mickey. “And then, I fancy I shall return to Verdille. I have a small estate there, and it is several years since I attended to it properly. Are you well-travelled, not-so-plain Mr Maurice?”

“Sadly, no,” Mickey admitted. “I was born within the sound of Bow Bell and have never journeyed more than twenty miles from it. You are, I understand, very well-versed in the cities of Europe.”

Beauregard nodded.

“Do you have a favourite?”

“Naturally, I have a fondness for Paris,” he said. “I am French. It is the finest city on earth. I have wonderful reminiscences of my time spent there, especially the wonders of Versailles.”

I bet, thought Mickey. Pinching those great shiny rocks—the Devil’s Diamonds Rossingley had called them—and getting away with it, for instance. He let his hand brush once more against the other man’s. “Surely, that city’s scent is not as enticing as London’s?”

Leaning a fraction closer, Beauregard inhaled deeply. “Your scent has me stiff, London. I cannot get enough of it.” He sat back again with a soft laugh as Mickey cursed and turned crimson.

 

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Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.

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