Chapter Nineteen #2
“I want to feel that I’ve done everything within my power to have Beauregard released,” the duke eventually declared.
“Producing the parure alone is insufficient; there is far too much rumourmongering associated with Beauregard’s name.
And even though he didn’t steal the damned thing, he was caught up to no good with a key to the safe about his person and running away.
” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
“But, when everything is said and done, I owe the man a debt. Without Beauregard, we would never have discovered the precise events of that shooting weekend, nor would we ever have known exactly how despicable a character the Marquess of Talybridge truly is. Not to mention his father, may God not rest his soul.” He eyed Rossingley thoughtfully.
“I’m thrilled your son has eloped, if only for poor Miss Amelia’s sake.
Willoughby is of excellent character. Please offer the happy couple my most sincere congratulations. ”
“It would be my pleasure, once I have scolded the both of them.” Rossingley coughed drily. “In a terribly feeble fashion.”
Tommy threw a fresh log on the fire. “Could we not take Beauregard’s letter to the marquess and simply suggest he drop the entire case against Beauregard? If he refuses, we could threaten to expose him as a thief and a murderer.”
Mickey was all for clutching at a solution, but even to his desperate ears that one sounded far too straightforward.
For a start, Talybridge was too wily to fall for it, and with the embarrassing elopement of his fiancée, he would be in an unpredictable temper.
Who knew how he’d respond? He might redouble his efforts to make Valentin pay.
Pursing his lips, it appeared Rossingley was in agreement. “If Talybridge possessed a modicum of intelligence, which, regrettably, he does, then his immediate response to that would be ‘Yes, but return my parure first.’”
Ashington’s dark brows beetled. “Which I shall never do.”
“Or,” suggested Fitzsimmons, “he’ll call our bluff and refuse.
He’ll say the letter is utter tosh, that he’s never seen it before in his life, and that the whole outlandish tale has been concocted by a smart French thief desperate to escape the gallows.
And then we’ve created a quarrel with the man, not to mention a fresh scandal. All for nought.”
Ashington stopped pacing. “We’ll have shown our hand too.
He’ll know we’re on to him. He’ll suspect we know the whereabouts of the parure.
He may even believe I set up Beauregard to steal the damned baubles and, for the remainder of his days, will make my downfall his main preoccupation. ” He resumed pacing. “No thank you.”
Rossingley returned the newspaper to the table. “Then we shall have to come up with another solution, won’t we? Ashington’s Eight is only hitting its stride, is it not?”
*
“TELL ME A secret.”
“A secret, or a fact?”
Mickey adjusted his ankle on the low stool. “Anything,” he answered. “I want to know what’s inside your head, everything it contains.”
Valentin’s trial at the Old Bailey was set for four days hence.
Thanks to Ashington’s influence, Mickey was permitted a private daily visit with him, lasting a half hour.
Ashington had also sought the best legal representation money could buy, and whilst the counsel was wise and thorough, his summing up of Valentin’s chances was bleak.
He was a foreigner, already suspected of numerous petty larcenies, and had been caught at the scene of a much grander, widely reported one.
His story did not scream innocence; on the contrary, it was the perfect mix of excitement and disgrace.
People would be baying for his blood. And, as the counsel so darkly and succinctly put it, everybody knew the best and most vulgar stories all ended with a grisly death.
So now, separated in the small cell by a narrow table and iron shackles, the only thief was time. The minutes and hours remaining to them both were crumbling into the past, the days ahead fewer and diminishing far too fast.
“The skylarks at Verdille sing in a French accent,” Valentin pronounced.
“They do not!”
Valentin shrugged. “C’est vrai. They warble from six in the morning until dusk. They remind me of the fresh waters of my river running over a bed of smooth stones, with voices far superior to your English ones.”
“Tosh!” Mickey laughed. “Our skylarks here in England are revered for their beautiful song. I believe there’s even a famous ode written about them.”
“Have you ever heard one?”
“No,” Mickey admitted. “I have not. Not here in town.”
“You have missed nothing.” Valentin gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your English allouettes suffer from melancholia. They make an unhappy chirrup chirrup sound. The weight of London fog lies heavy on their shoulders.”
Mickey regarded him suspiciously. Valentin had a lot of stories. Picking out the truth from the endless tales he spun for the purposes of making Mickey smile wasn’t always easy. “Do birds even have shoulders?”
“Of course. Very strong ones. How else would they attach their fluttering wings? With sealing wax?”
“I should like to hear your allouettes someday.” Mickey stumbled over the French. Some of their time had passed with Valentin teaching him a few short sentences, though Mickey would never pronounce any of the beautiful words nearly as seductively as his lover.
“You shall. You promised me you would journey there. Even if I’m no more. You will find the courage.”
When you are no more, the allouettes shall fall silent, Mickey wanted to say. Verdille will be naught without you.
“Willoughby returns tonight with the parure. It isn’t over yet. Surely, we can—”
“And he also returns with a young and beautiful wife.” Taking Mickey’s hand, Valentin rubbed his thumb over his palm. “Perhaps you, too, should find one after all this is over. Someone to taste your sweet lips as I have done and warm your body on these cold English nights.”
“I have no need of a wife because I shall have you.”
“London, you are young. We—”
“Do not say it, Valentin. I cannot bear it.”
A future without Valentin was a distant shore Mickey never wanted to reach.
The world would not stop for his sorrow after Valentin was gone.
Even his work with Tommy would barely pause, though his grief would cling to his bones regardless.
The thought that someday another man or woman could take Valentin’s place was unconscionable.
“You kissed me first, Valentin.” Mickey squeezed away his tears. There was no place for them in the few hours they had remaining. “And you are the man who shall kiss me last.”
“I would kiss you now.” Valentin’s chains rattled as his leaned closer.
“Except for the fear we are being observed. I would lie with you on a bed of lavender; the soft stalks would brush against your pale skin. I would make love to you with the sun warming my back and with the skylarks serenading us. And you would adore it, mon cher, so very, very much.”