Chapter Fifteen #3
In a fluid movement, Rossingley rose from his seat.
Frostily, he examined Pearson down his long, patrician nose as if finding him wanting.
“Between half past seven and half past eight, Mr Maurice was playing faro. Partnering me. The entire time.” He smiled, one of his ominous nonsmiles.
Usually, they foreshadowed a Rossingley victory.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr Pearson. ”
“No.” Pearson appeared irritated by the interruption. “And you are?”
Silence. Rossingley wasn’t accustomed to introducing himself. Those of his station in society tended to be introduced to others by a third party.
“May I present Orlando Duchamps-Avery, Earl of Rossingley,” Tommy supplied eventually.
Pearson’s lips puckered into a first-rate impression of a dog’s arse. Mickey wagered the runner was not an admirer of fops and dandies. Especially aristocratic ones intent on buggering up his investigation.
“I was also playing faro,” a deep, sonorous voice chimed. This time, Ashington climbed to his feet. Mr Pearson was possibly the only man within a mile of St James who didn’t know who he was.
“Ashington,” Tommy obliged, jerking his head towards his lover. “The fourteenth Duke of Ashington. And hopeless faro partner. We were down thirty pounds after four hands against these two, weren’t we, Ashington?”
“Lost forty-two pounds in total, old chap,” said Ashington breezily. “Some might say we were robbed.”
A few beats passed during which Pearson’s shoulders sagged, and Ashington tried not to look too pleased with his little joke.
The runner’s eyes, blurry behind his eyeglasses, switched between the two imposing aristocrats lending solidity to pure wind.
He was powerless to do a darned thing about it.
To call out an earl in a lie was, at best, grounds for instant dismissal, and worst, lifelong unemployment.
To question a duke’s version of events was tantamount to bashing one’s brains out with a blunderbuss.
Smart enough to know he’d reached a dead end, Pearson gusted out a long breath and performed a reluctant low bow.
“Your Grace. My Lord. Please accept my most humble apologies. I fear I have wasted everyone’s time.”
Mickey would almost have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t so overcome with relief.
“Not at all, Mr Pearson.” Rossingley smiled, a real one this time, showing all of his small pointy teeth. He ushered the man towards Sidney, who opened the door. “No harm done. You were simply doing your duty. After all, we’re all here to serve the King, are we not?”
“Good God. I know the sun is yet to creep over the yardarm, but is it too early for a brandy?” Ashington strode over to a neat row of decanters. “I always find the line between morning and afternoon rather arbitrary anyway, don’t you? Anyone joining me?”
“Gadzooks, yes. Make mine a large one.”
They clinked glasses. Ashington, flopping back into a chair, took a sizeable gulp. “Hard liquor before lunch. What have I become?”
“A robust defender of me.” Mickey’s hands still shook far too much to manage a drink without covering himself in it. “Thank you. To both of you.”
“None of us would have left you exposed like that,” Rossingley insisted. “That’s what friends are for, darling.”
“Here, here,” harrumphed Ashington, chinking glasses again with the earl. “But…but I lied! To a principal officer! Obstructing the administration of justice. Me, a duke!”
“Comfort yourself with the thought that it would only be a lie of any significance if Mickey had actually stolen the parure.” Rossingley swirled the brandy in his glass, then took a more conservative sip.
“What is truth anyhow? One man’s version might be another man’s lie, skulking behind a mask.
Inadvertently, Mickey took a wrong turn down a dark confusing passageway and ended up detouring home across a few flowerbeds and a stone wall, that’s all. ”
“The only crime Mickey committed was to open a safe not belonging to him,” added Tommy. “Rather than lie, we simply omitted to share that part of Mickey’s eventful evening with Mr Pearson. Relax, Benedict. Your holier-than-thou dukeness is still perfectly preserved.”
Ashington squinted at him, and then at Rossingley and Mickey, before returning his attention to his remaining brandy, which disappeared down his throat in a second gulp.
“You’re bending the truth, all of you, to make me feel better.
” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass before sucking it clean.
“But I like it. And it’s the least I could do, given that you nearly found yourself in shackles for me, Mickey. ”
Mickey waved his acknowledgement away, too tired and miserable to afford him a fuller response.
Despite hurling insults at Valentin and questioning Valentin’s morals, scruples, and pretty much everything else Mickey thought he knew about the man, Valentin had saved his bacon.
And also confessed that he loved him. So, whilst the others weren’t overly concerned with Valentin’s fate, Mickey was.
And he was determined to do something about it.