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.
Excerpt
To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul
Fearne Hill © 2026
All Rights Reserved
London, Winter, 1825
Most of Squire’s well-heeled patrons were unaware of the private room tucked away from the clamour of the main floor. The air held a comforting blend of cologne and aged leather, and a fire smouldered lazily in the hearth, sending shadows dancing across the rich mahogany wall panels. A thick Persian rug, worn smooth by years of use, stretched across the floor.
Only a very select handful of gentlemen were privy to this space. That Tommy Squire, his older cousin and boss, admitted him to this rarefied group was a privilege Mickey Maurice felt he’d waited for half his life. He had no intention of squandering it.
Two wingback armchairs framed the hearth, both boasting tasselled cushions and a whiff of superiority. Tommy’s darkly handsome lover occupied one—Benedict Fitzsimmons, Fourteenth Duke of Ashington. Tommy’s innocent lordling, all grown up.
The eleventh Earl of Rossingley sat opposite, of fairer, slighter frame, yet no less imposing. His own lover, Kit Angel, stood before a window draped in velvet curtains the colour of midnight, looking out onto a rainy St James. He sipped from a brandy balloon, the leaded crystal catching the flickering firelight as if he cradled a cup of glittering diamonds in his palm. On the deep, inviting settee sprawled the duke’s brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, a scapegrace whose fearsome reputation was in grave peril if he didn’t stop making doe eyes at the Honourable Rollo Duchamps-Avery, a blond wisp of a young man curled up next to him.
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.
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Meet the Author
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.Website | Facebook | X | Instagram
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