Chapter Fourteen
NO ONE BATTED an eyelid when the overhead lighting in the card room trembled, momentarily flickered out, then sputtered back to life. Occasional sputters were what gas-fired lamps did, even modern ones.
The second time they performed a similar brief anxious dance—neither fully alight nor completely extinguished—garnered a few chunters, especially as the blackout lasted longer than the first. One wag accused another of plotting the malfunction to exchange his poor hand for a better one; a different fellow scoffed that their friend might play better in the dark than in lamplight.
When the lighting quivered with a pale, sickly glow for a third time, on-off, on-off, on-off, several players abandoned their cards, the better to concentrate on the swelling mussitations from the ballroom. Annoyance and irritation sounded very much as though they were giving way to…guffaws.
Tommy raised his eyebrows. “What on earth could that distraction be?” he mused, folding his hand. “I wonder.”
“The music has stopped.” Kit also folded his hand. “As has the dancing. It sounds very much as if…as if something else has captured everybody’s attention.”
“Indeed.” Tommy’s eyes lit up. “You might be right. Perhaps you should wander into the ballroom and have a gander, Mickey.”
With his heartbeat thudding in his temples and the key to Talybridge’s safe weighing heavy in his waistcoat, Mickey made his way to the packed ballroom.
Others were doing the same, drawn by the increasingly uproarious laughter.
Nobody noticed him skirting around the back, hugging the clammy walls; everyone faced the other way, too occupied staring up and pointing, or smirking behind their hands.
Mickey followed the direction of their gazes, trained above the overbearing mantel. And then a snort of laughter escaped him. Dear God.
The grandiose portrait of their ever so proper host now sported a well-groomed handlebar moustache. And if that wasn’t enough to set the ton on fire, a fat ring hung through the Marquess of Talybridge’s nose. Like he was a damned prized bull.
Rollo Duchamps-Avery, you’re a bloody genius.
Goodness knew how the boy had engineered the lights to fail for a few minutes so he could clamber up there.
Nor how he’d clambered up there—with the aid of Fitzsimmons’s broad shoulders was Mickey’s bet.
Now the bugger was nowhere to be seen, of course, probably rapidly disposing of his art supplies, (courtesy of Ackermann’s), and chortling his little blond head off on the far side of the gardens, egged on by Fitzsimmons.
With step two efficiently negotiated, Mickey slipped into a dark passageway unseen.
Thanks to Tommy’s actor friend, he had the layout of the downstairs memorised.
His biggest risks were from illicit lovers searching for a private nook, or a servant ascending from the kitchens directly underneath the study.
In the dim light of the corridor, the clashing of pans felt awfully close, and his footsteps awfully loud.
Mickey rapped on the study door, softly and just once, allowing himself a chance to apologetically back away if someone was inside.
He’d have to pretend he was searching for the privy or something, or reel from side to side as if too sozzled to find the proper way out.
Naturally, the theft would have to be aborted, but given a choice between the hangman and losing a duke’s priceless parure, Mickey knew which he’d choose.
When nothing stirred from within, he counted to twenty just to be sure, sucked in a lungful of air, and then slowly, deliberately, pushed open the heavy door.
The soft eek of a floorboard was as loud as a scream as far as Mickey was concerned, though his heart thumped even louder.
Beads of sweat broke out across his brow as the creak trembled in the air for what seemed like forever.
It was not too late to go back; he could abandon; he could lie and say the study was occupied. His friends would be none the wiser.
Or he could press on and make Tommy proud.
Thick drapes pulled across the windows; the low lamps back in the passageway cast only the thinnest threads of light through the crack beneath the door.
Mickey hesitated, letting his breathing settle and his eyes adjust to the jagged shadows.
The still air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wax polish, genteel scents belonging to a world far removed from safecracking and lawbreaking.
He spied the safe in the far corner atop a writing desk, squat and bulky in the grey light.
Swiftly but cautiously, he padded across a thick rug, his boots barely making a sound.
His trembling hand fumbled the key in the lock, his palm clammy.
Every movement hung heavy in the silence.
And then, with an anticlimactic clack followed by a muted thunk, the smooth tumblers of the lock mechanism dropped into place.
As the steel door noiselessly swung open, Mickey felt an intoxicating surge of triumph.
Hopes of the parure patiently waiting on a padded cushion for him to spirit away were dashed immediately.
Like its near replica in Tommy’s office, the safe was well used, chock full, and no one had yet invented a lamp illuminating the interior.
Mickey drew his tinderbox from his pocket, clammy fingers moving over it with practiced deliberation.
The flint was cold to his touch; with a quick flick of his wrist, he held it against the steel until a shower of sparks erupted—bright, fleeting, and sharp, catching on the dry char cloth.
As the tinder smouldered, he leaned closer, coaxing the flame to life. Then Mickey lit a nub of tallow.
Documents filled most of the box, some yellowed with time, some fresher.
Several thick wads of money were there, too, a small fortune, the notes neatly bound in tempting, easy piles.
Ignoring them, Mickey riffled beyond, tossing aside two silver fobs, seeking out the jewellery cases.
The first leatherbound case contained three signet rings, the next a wedding band, the next a set of diamond sleeve buttons.
His mouth dried as he cast them aside. Where was it? Where the hell was it?
Somewhere in the study, a longcase clock ticked, insistent and cruel, mocking Mickey’s furtive scramble.
In the kitchens below his feet, a door banged, turning his legs to water.
Any second now, Talybridge would realise his key was missing.
He’d raise the alarm, the study door would crash open, and Mickey would… Thank God.
As a warm, velvety fabric caressed his fingers, Mickey’s breath left him in a whoosh.
There it was, a solid rectangular black case, bigger than the rest, held shut by a tiny gold clasp.
Step three accomplished. He’d made it; he’d found the bloody thing.
All that remained was to escape the study undetected, return to the ballroom, and hand the damned baubles over to the duke.
Shoving the box inside his coat, he closed the safe door, extinguished his candle, and backed away.
The wheels didn’t fall off the cart until Mickey was roughly halfway across the rug.
A window drape rustled, bringing with it a gust of cool night air, a momentary sparkle of moonlight, and a rush of terror.
Then, another flash of movement caught his eye, causing his legs to seize.
His heart slammed against his chest like a trapped animal.
As Mickey stood paralysed in the middle of the floor, clinging to the box and the piss in his bladder, a familiar, amused voice rolled over him.
“It’s empty, I’m afraid, my dearest London,” Valentin informed him. “I’ve already checked. Bad luck.”
For a moment, Mickey forgot how to breathe, his lungs choked in a silent scream. From around the window drape, Valentin stepped into the room, adjusting his necktie and straightening his evening coat as if popping back indoors after an idle evening stroll.
“Hell and damnation,” Mickey managed, panting heavily. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Despairingly, he tugged at the velvet case, wrenching the clasp apart. Damn Zeus and damn the devil and damn Valentin. The blasted thing was empty.
“Goodness, you’re as white as a bed sheet,” the Frenchman drawled. “Forgive me. Scaring you was not my primary intention.”
“You…you…” Mickey held up the meaningless jewellery case. You promised me. “You…beat us to it.”
“Beat you to what?” Valentin’s lips twitched. “Calm down and use your words, mon cher. Do you mean the money? Or are you referring to Talybridge’s signet rings? Or…oh, I see.” He nodded gravely. “Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense. You mean the Ashington parure, don’t you?”
“What else could I bloody mean? You swore to me, Valentin! You swore that you wouldn’t take it, and I believed you! I believed you, dammit!” He stuttered. “And how the hell do you know it’s the Ashing—”
“And you swore to me you weren’t a thief, Mickey. And that you held no secrets.”
“I’m not! I don’t! I’m…this isn’t what it seems!”
Coming to a graceful halt in front of him, Valentin relieved Mickey of the empty case.
“You’ve already stolen it, haven’t you?” So stunned, Mickey gave the box up without a thought. “You…”
“No,” answered Valentin. “I swear to you, I have not removed a single item of money or jewellery—including the Duke of Ashington’s parure—from that safe. You have my word.” He regarded Mickey with a sincere, unwavering gaze. “As a gentleman and as—”
“As a jewel thief?” Mickey’s shock was rapidly replaced by blind fury.
“As a liar and a crook?” He was seconds away from punching the infuriating prick.
Valentin had lied! How had Mickey fallen for this?
For all of it? He curled his fists as, nose to nose, they breathed the same air.
“Begging your pardon, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I am swiftly discovering that your word counts for nought.”