Chapter Nineteen
MICKEY COULDN’T REMEMBER a time Rossingley had ever looked so dishevelled. Or even a quarter as dishevelled. The following morning, the earl burst into the private room at Squire’s and collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Gadzooks.” He dabbed at his brow. “I feel as if I’ve single-handedly rowed the Galley of the Gods.”
Ashington stared at him, mystified. “What the blazes happened to you?”
“I was forced to…forced to…” Rossingley managed hoarsely, “break into a run. Along the entire length of St James.”
“Good heavens,” Ashington exclaimed. “How ghastly. Whatever prompted that? Tommy, my love, get the poor man a drink.”
After hastily repairing his wayward cravat, Rossingley smoothed down his lapels.
“I made the fatal error of listening to my valet’s suggestion that a short stroll might be of benefit to my soul, despite having several perfectly functional carriages at my disposal.
Which I pointed out to him.” Rossingley shuddered.
“Not a mistake I shall ever repeat. Talybridge spotted me from his barouche, accompanied by Mr Chesterton, when I was but one hundred yards from the house. Chesterton gave chase.”
“Why the devil didn’t you turn around again and toddle back home?”
Dramatically, Rossingley flapped his pocket square in front of his face.
“Because I needed to get here. Via an express from some grim northern town, I have news from Willoughby that can’t wait a single moment longer.
” He savoured an affected pause, letting the tension build as only Rossingley could.
“And?” demanded Ashington.
“And I have located the Ashington parure.”
“Good heavens above.”
“Quite.”
If a stunned silence were one of Rossingley’s beloved iced fondants, then this one would be stuffed with blackberry buttercream, its velvety centre smooth and delicious.
Every nerve in Mickey’s body uncoiled. He didn’t heed how the others responded because, as the earl’s news sank in, an intense rush of relief flooded his veins, warm and steady, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.
Now Fitzsimmons would have to accept that Valentin was telling the whole truth.
And Ashington would redouble his efforts to help.
Surely no man could be hung for grand larceny when the stolen items were—
“I’ll be damned,” cried Fitzsimmons. “Where? Where?”
“Ah…well…that part is rather tricky.” Rossingley plucked his delicate fob from his waistcoat, squinting at the tiny face.
“It all rather depends on whether Willoughby stuck to the main roads and changed the horses every fifteen miles. And a presumption that none were struck lame or that a broken carriage wheel didn’t befall them.
Factor in only moderate weather conditions, given the time of year, and pray that Willoughby still maintains an urgent desire to assuage his physical needs but is holding himself back until they reach Gretna…
” He cleared his throat with a dainty cough.
“If all those elements are taken into careful consideration, then I estimate your grandmama’s parure to currently be a few miles north of Carlisle.
” He made a moue of distaste. “Such a grisly way to travel. Frankly, if Miss Amelia and he are still inclined to wed and not stab each other after that heinous trip, then I wish them all the very best. It bodes well for a long and fruitful union.”
Mickey’s mind spun. “So, Willoughby did—”
“No,” Rossingley interrupted, raising a finger.
“He did not. He maintained his counsel regarding the plot and also his devout loyalty to us.” The earl sucked in a breath.
“Willoughby’s beloved—his darling future twelfth countess of Rossingley—however, had no such loyalties nor, indeed, an inkling that she’s ballocked up our perfectly good plan by half inching the parure herself.
That girl will be a force to reckon with one day, mark my words. My boy has chosen well.”
“I-I-I’m sorry?” Ashington’s stutters summed up Mickey’s own astonishment. “Miss Amelia Chesterton stole the parure?”
Rossingley answered with a thin smile. “’Fraid so. Although, as she described it to Willoughby, it was more of a deliberate oversight in returning the parure to its rightful jewellery case.”
“The bloody chit stole it,” Tommy stated.
“Absolutely,” Rossingley confirmed. “She loathes Talybridge almost as much as I loathe breaking into a run, but even that was not enough to return his betrothal diamonds and sapphires.” He adjusted his sleeves, fully returned to his usual, impeccable best. “Mind you, is it possible to hate any man sufficiently to return a gift of priceless diamonds and sapphires?”
“But the jewellery case was there, in the safe,” prompted Mickey. He’d torn it open; he recalled the plummeting sensation upon finding it empty. Unable to resist, he flicked his eyes to Fitzsimmons. “Even more evidence that Beauregard was telling the truth.”
“Correct.” Rossingley gave a small tilt of his head. “She handed the empty case over to Talybridge’s butler, choosing a time when the poor man was so harassed, what with arrangements for the ball and all, that it never occurred to him to check the contents first.”
And why would he? With those doe eyes and diminutive stature, Miss Amelia had the countenance of a dormouse.
Mickey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The world around him had started to tilt.
What had once been simple—a straightforward—plan to steal the parure, thus livening up a dull November, was now tangled in a web of contradictions, shifting like smoke between his fingers.
Whilst they’d been focusing on a plot to steal the parure, Willoughby had been scheming to elope to Gretna.
In the meantime, Willoughby’s beloved had already stolen the bloody parure, thus scuppering Ashington’s Eight entirely.
And then there was, of course, Valentin, behind bars waiting to be tried for a theft he didn’t commit, though he’d committed an entirely different one for entirely different reasons.
“Did Willoughby’s note explain why she felt the need to steal it?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, and it’s perfectly understandable.
Miss Chesterton’s father is a tyrant and, as surely as the blacksmith marrying them in Gretna will be going regimental under his kilt, Mr Chesterton will cast his daughter adrift without so much as a pot to piss in.
So, the darling thing thought she might need to sell the jewels in order to fund their elopement and future together.
” He sighed prettily. “Seems Willoughby overlooked mentioning that his own dear father, in contrast, is a benevolent liberal who would find the whole elopement thing jolly exciting and welcome a beautiful young American countess to his home with open arms.” He lowered his eyes in a display of false modesty, fooling no one.
“Poor thing imagined scrabbling for scraps in the street by day and darning Willoughby’s socks with a rusty needle by night. I shall be having words on his return.”
“With my parure safely in his hands,” Ashington said sternly.
“Yes, naturally. Which they will hand over to you. I expect them to report back within the week.”
“And then what?” demanded Fitzsimmons. “Do we go to that runner and say—look what we stumbled across lying in the street? Will that get Beauregard off the hook? Do we confess that Miss Amelia mistakenly had it all along? Or will you return it to Ashington where it rightfully belongs, then say and do nothing? Because, unless you’ve changed your mind, brother, you’re not going to confront Talybridge with it, are you?
Which seems damned harsh on that Frenchman sitting in Newgate, awaiting the gibbet for a crime he didn’t commit. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Fitzsimmons was an unlikely ally, but at that moment, Mickey could have kissed him.
“You of all people know that’s far too many questions for my meagre brain cells,” snapped Ashington.
Five minutes earlier, the duke had the dour air of a man who’d dropped a guinea and picked up sixpence.
Now he looked merely perplexed. “A firm no to the first and second, definitely a no to the third—Willoughby would never forgive me—a regrettable no to the fourth and fifth, because young Mickey here would kill me, and, yes, I vehemently agree with you regarding the sixth.”
“Not that meagre, my love,” murmured Tommy. “Which means we have little more than a sennight to come up with another scheme.”
“All I can say is that it had better be a fine one.” Whilst they’d been talking, Rossingley had picked up a copy of The Morning Herald and was leafing through it.
“The scandal sheets are full of the robbery, and no surprise. It’s the most exciting event in the ton since…
ah…you last appeared in the scandal sheets, dear Ashington.
A mysterious foreign jewel thief, a missing priceless parure, vandalism of an ugly portrait, and a romantic elopement.
” He sighed. “I’m rather mourning dreary November. ”
Ashington stalked towards the fireplace then turned and stalked back again.
When all this was over, his incessant pacing would be one of the things Mickey remembered most about this parure business—a restless pair of black boots travelling to and fro, hitting the floor with sharp, deliberate thuds, each footfall a small release of tension, only to be replaced by a fresh surge of unease.