Chapter Eight
“TALYbrIDGE’S SAFE, CONTAINING your parure, is located in his study and is only opened with a Chubb key.”
Tommy delivered this piece of intelligence to his dear duke during a quiet early evening at Squire’s, where Ashington, Fitzsimmons, and Rossingley occupied their usual nook.
“How jolly super for him. A quick game of loo anyone?”
Tommy smiled indulgently at his lover. “You hate loo.”
“Not half as much as I hate talking about locks and safes belonging to other people with…with criminal intent. How do you know his safe has a Chubb lock?” Ashington winced. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Tommy and Mickey traded glances. They’d thoroughly enjoyed orchestrating this little escapade.
“As luck would have it,” Tommy began, “this morning, two separate reports of smoke in the vicinity of Talybridge’s town house reached the ears of a diligent fire officer working for the Sun Fire Office.
Although there was no smell when he arrived, the officer insisted on conducting a comprehensive check of the property—for the safety of its inhabitants, you understand—accompanied by Talybridge’s butler.
The upshot being, not only do we now know the type of safe and its whereabouts, but also the precise location of Talybridge’s ground floor study. ”
Rossingley’s lip curled with mischief. “And if, perchance, one was to attend the matinée performance at Drury Lane tomorrow, would the Sun Fire Office’s diligent fire officer be in the chorus line?”
One peep at Tommy’s barely contained grin showed him he’d guessed correctly. Tommy had strutted the boards himself for a few years after escaping the molly house. It didn’t hurt to keep in touch with his old friends.
“You think I’d leave that important task to a nobody from the chorus line?” He shook his head, tutting. “No, no, no. The lad is playing the role of Falstaff himself. And trebled his weekly earnings for his troubles.”
“Ever more super,” declared Ashington. “So, now we’re all set for a master lock picker to waltz into Talybridge’s study, take apart his safe, steal back my parure, and sneak out again undetected.
Oh, and never, ever mention it to anyone, even if Talybridge crows from the rooftops about the break-in.
” He ran a shaky hand through his thick black hair, despairing.
“Remind me how I ended up having this conversation?”
“Because, my love,” said Tommy, with a degree of patience Mickey never saw him show with anyone else, “Talybridge or his father killed your grandmother then filched something which is rightfully yours.”
“Um…I’m not sure a lock picker will be of much help, actually,” Fitzsimmons offered.
The duke tugged at his hair again. “That’s the part that bothers you?”
“Actually, Talybridge or his father murdering our grandmother and getting away scot-free bothers me far more,” answered Fitzsimmons mildly.
“But as I can’t do much about that, this is the next best thing.
” He threw his brother a barbed look of a kind that dukes rarely, if ever, received before carrying on.
“My understanding of locks engineered to take a Chubb key is that they immediately seize if subjected to an attempted picking or insertion of the wrong key. I believe a special key in the possession of the manufacturer is required to reset it.”
“Correct,” Tommy confirmed. That afternoon, he and Mickey had partaken in a little trip out to Smithfield to ascertain that exact information.
And, unfortunately, the path had stopped there.
“If such an attempt were to occur, the lock would instantly jam, rendering the safe unopenable. In that situation, the only person able to obtain the special key from the locksmith would be Talybridge himself.” He gave a little smile.
“And guess where the special keys to all the double steel-lined safes in London are kept?”
“Far, far away from here, thus rendering this hairbrained scheme null and void?” Ashington’s voice sounded hopeful.
“Inside another huge double steel-lined bloody safe,” continued Tommy, “with a four-barrel gated detector lock and a very special, very big key, all of its own.”
“Excellent. So, we won’t be able to steel the parure after all.” The duke sounded almost cheerful.
“Success is a marathon, my dear Ashington,” murmured Rossingley, “not a sprint. We can and we will steal it.”
“But we’ll need to steal Talybridge’s own copy of the key first,” finished Fitzsimmons. “Given that the manufacturer’s copy is locked up so very tight.”
“’Fraid so.”
Ashington stared at them both, aghast. “More thieving.”
“More thieving,” clarified Rossingley, then pursed his lips. “Now, where do we suppose a careful chap such as Talybridge might keep his own personal key?”
Mickey thought about Tommy’s safe in his office upstairs and how frequently the pair of them accessed it. At least once a day, sometimes more. “It needs to be somewhere both secure and convenient,” he offered. “There will be important documents in there, too, as well as money and valuables.”
“Mickey and I keep the keys to ours on a chain around our necks,” Tommy contributed.
“Mine is secured on a short chain attached to my trousers,” offered Fitzsimmons. “Especially on days when I’m wading through business matters. Much handier. I believe our father used to do the same.”
“He did,” Ashington clarified. “See? Mine is on a gold chain attached to my waistcoat.” He fished it out to demonstrate. “Do you recognise this, Lyndon? This was our father’s chain.”
“How about you, Rossingley?” Mickey enquired. It was seeming most likely that Talybridge would have his key secreted about his person.
Rossingley smiled. “Pritchard, my dear valet, guards the key to my safe with his life. I find its bulk ruins the line of my attire, so Pritchard attaches it to his own waistcoat instead.” His smooth brow pinched in a frown. “Though I sometimes find myself pleading with him to hand it over.”
Mickey laughed. “Does Talybridge have a valet such as Pritchard?”
“Nobody has a valet such as Pritchard,” the earl responded. “He’s the cross I have to bear.”
“So, we’re agreed that Talybridge will probably be carrying it about his person,” Tommy concluded.
“I can check, if you like,” suggested Fitzsimmons.
“He usually fences at Jack’s on Thursdays when I’m sparring in the room next door.
Invariably, most of us remove our waistcoats.
And recently, they have been encouraging a change of trousers for ease of movement.
I’m sure I can contrive to wander through. ”
“And steal it?” gasped Ashington.
“God, no.” Fitzsimmons shook his head. “He’ll spot its loss within the hour, I would think—at the end of his fencing match when he dresses again. We can’t steal it until we’re ready to rob the safe.”
“Which will require much more planning,” Tommy reassured.
Rossingley smoothed a hand across his jaw, frowning again. “What if Beauregard decides he doesn’t require much planning and simply accosts the marquess, plants him a facer, then pinches the damned key and breaks in? You know, some sort of dastardly snatch-and-run type robbery?”
“It’s not his style,” Mickey declared, and everyone turned to look at him.
He hoped his face didn’t flush. “I mean, I don’t know for certain, of course.
But no one steals the Devil’s Diamonds from a princess’s tiara by using smash-and-grab, do they?
Not if they hope to get away with it. So, Beauregard must be a planner too.
I’d wager he’s awaiting a perfect opportunity, just like the rest of us. ”
“We still don’t know if Beauregard has any intent to steal it at all,” Tommy pointed out, then threw Mickey a sly look. “How’s that befriending of him going, Mickey?”
Soft, London. So, so soft. This time, Mickey’s face certainly flushed. He could feel it, a prickly heat spreading up from his collar, from where Beauregard had stroked the delicate skin until he’d almost begged him to stop.
“I…um…I’m making progress.” He ignored Tommy’s curious look. “He professes to being quite taken by me. I’m not falling for it, of course.”
“So, you don’t think it’s the truth?” Rossingley’s clever pale eyes gleamed.
“I do not consider myself a person who turns heads.”
Rossingley and Tommy exchanged a look Mickey couldn’t fathom.
He felt himself blushing again. “Beauregard stated that he had business in town to complete before the year’s end.
Though when we were…um…talking privately, he seemed awfully interested in Ashington and Fitzsimmons for some reason.
I told him nothing, of course,” he added hastily at the alarm on Ashington’s face.
“His interest can’t be related to the parure; he has no way of knowing of your association with it. ”
“No,” Ashington hummed.
“I suggest you keep on talking,” said Tommy, “seeing as he’s taken a shine to you. Unless, of course, you’re finding it too onerous.”
Mickey’s scowl was lost amongst way too many knowing looks. Even Ashington had cottoned on. “I understand he’s staying at Albany,” he informed them all starchily, which only made Tommy smirk even more. “And has given me reason to pay him a visit.”
*
ANY SINGLE GENTLEMAN worthy of the name rented a set at Albany.
A few married ones evading inquisitive wives could often be found there too.
Not only was the place a sanctuary for men of Mickey’s persuasion, but the smart Piccadilly address also provided a refuge for eccentrics, for introverts, for male souls searching for peace, and—Mickey reflected as he presented himself at a discreet side entrance—a convenient, comfortable location from where to plot a jewellery swoop.
Mickey had the distinct impression he was expected.
“They were shiny. And so very pretty,” Beauregard said in greeting, with an unapologetic smile, as if that explained everything. He held the two sleeve buttons out to Mickey. “Much like their owner.”
“Good luck trying to pinch me,” Mickey retorted gruffly as he pocketed them.