Chapter Twenty
A PART OF Mickey had no desire to ever lay his eyes on that blasted parure again.
In one more day and night, Valentin would be sentenced to death.
No amount of pacing, fire prodding, fine liquor, or scheming had generated a plan to get Valentin off the hook whilst still retaining the jewels.
Mickey wanted to crawl under a heavy rock and die himself, but instead, he was jolting through town in a well-upholstered carriage on his way to sprawl in front of a roaring fire in a duke’s study, to drink his expensive brandy, and marvel at a handful of glittery gemstones.
Nonetheless, an equal part of him was drawn to the bloody thing.
And given that he didn’t have a suitable heavy rock to hand, he had to do something to pass the time.
He might even hold the diamonds. It wasn’t every day one had a chance to finger priceless jewels, and it was unlikely these exquisite specimens would see the light of day for many years to come.
After this evening at Ashington’s town house, whereupon Willoughby would hand it over to their rightful owner, the parure would be stuffed inside the Ashington safe, at least until anyone who could trace it back to Miss Amelia’s—or rather, Lady Cavendish’s—neck had dropped from their mortal coil.
“You are very much in love with him, aren’t you?
” observed Tommy as they trotted along Piccadilly, rousing Mickey from his miserable thoughts.
Rossingley sat opposite, having skulked in Tommy’s private salon for much of the afternoon.
Gazing out of the window, the earl was doing a poor job of pretending not to listen.
Mickey wasn’t sure he cared to conceal his heartbreak any longer.
He suspected he hadn’t fooled anyone anyhow.
“Unfortunately, yes.” He cut his eyes to Rossingley. “I thought his affections for me were nothing but romantic stuff and nonsense, but it seems they are sincere. And I…I have found myself similarly inclined.”
“Is Beauregard worthy of it? Worthy of you?”
Mickey smiled grimly. “Unfortunately, yes. For all that he is slippery, Valentin is surprisingly steady and…constant.” Some of Valentin’s own words came back to him.
“The ton only sees the peacock; he has worn that mask for many years as a means to an end. He wants nothing more than to return to Verdille and live a quiet, peaceful existence there. Underneath, he is kind, generous, and loyal, as his determination to avenge his father has borne out.” Mickey would defend the man robustly until his dying breath.
“More confusing is why on earth Valentin is equally as enamoured of me.”
Tommy and Rossingley traded amused glances.
“Not to us,” Tommy said. “For all his attributes, Beauregard has a weakness for collecting pretty things; you’ve said yourself he can’t help himself. And you, my favourite cousin, are pretty both inside and out.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “I’m your only cousin. And when he’s tired of them, he also sells his pretty things on.”
“It will be many a year until he’s tired of you, my friend.” Tommy put a comforting arm around Mickey’s shoulder. “Isn’t that so, Rossingley?”
“He couldn’t tear his eyes from you at Talybridge’s ball,” remarked Rossingley. “Nor at Lady Chalfont’s, so much so that he eventually spirited you away early.”
Trust Rossingley to notice. The pair of them had slipped from the crowd unobserved, or so Mickey had believed. Crossing through a dark Golden Square, en route back to Albany, Valentin had pressed Mickey against a tree and kissed him senseless.
“Yes, well…” Mickey tailed off, his throat unexpectedly closing. Halcyon evenings such as those were behind him now. “I…I must apologise, I have been no good for anything since he was incarcerated. My mind is elsewhere.”
With nightfall, the town had quietened. Though ledgers and tradesmen and orders for liquor had filled his time, every hour away from Valentin had slipped through Mickey’s fingers like quicksilver. Now he was futilely clinging onto something that had already begun to fade.
“Mine is too,” Tommy admitted, heaving a sigh.
“I keep expecting Rossingley here to spring an outlandish plot upon us, one in which Rollo gallops through the courtroom on a wild boar or something, distracting the judge and the jury, whilst Kit fashions a knotted rope from thin air and spirits Beauregard away through the roof of the Old Bailey.”
Rossingley gave a bark of laughter. “What excellent ideas, I shall suggest them to Rollo and Kit immediately. A rope shouldn’t be too hard to accommodate. If only one knew how to purloin a wild boar.”
He leaned forward, bringing his hand to rest on Mickey’s thigh.
“But I fear it’s not going to happen, my darling boy, and we must prepare accordingly.
Ashington has tried everything. And I’m so very, very sorry.
Your vicomte is a spirited, interesting chap with eyes and a voice most of us would gladly take a swim in.
He would have been a welcome addition to our circle, as well as your bed. ”
“Then we should not yet give up,” Mickey responded fiercely.
“We still have twenty-four hours remaining. Though our life together has been but a few weeks, I believe, with time, we could have lasted much longer. You have all shown me that for men like us, admiration and friendship can also sit well alongside…comfort and caring.” He swallowed hard.
“I wanted a piece of your good fortune for myself, and…and I believed I had it.”
Above his head, Mickey sensed Tommy and Rossingley exchanging a look.
Rossingley patted his leg again. “Then you are right. We shall not stop until every single last avenue has been explored. Who knows? Perhaps the return of the parure may prompt something.”
*
“GADZOOKS!” ROSSINGLEY STARED with horror at his youngest son’s pitiful attempt to grow a moustache. “There appears to be a rare species of albino caterpillar crawling along your upper lip.”
Not put out in the slightest, Rollo fingered the tiny, defiant sprout of facial hair as everyone assembled in Ashington’s library and took up their usual positions around the room.
“My fabulous doodlings at Talybridge’s inspired me, Papa.
I felt I might stimulate a new fashion, though I fear my own effort seems to have become a tad stuck on its way to greatness.
Fitz is rather taken by it, though, especially when I rub—”
“Brandy, anyone?” a shuddering Ashington interrupted. “’Fraid I’m with your father on this one, Rollo old chap. Perhaps try again in a few years’ time. Pick a moment when I’m out of town.”
Even Mickey laughed—albeit briefly—a weapon of defiance against despair.
Not for the first time did he acknowledge the blessing of these men’s friendship.
Looking around at the varied group—and God knew they weren’t an easy bunch—he took strength from them and a renewed determination to find a route to Valentin’s release.
As the last members of the Eight arrived, after drinks were poured and the footmen dismissed, Mickey gazed up at the handsome woman brandishing her parure from high above the white marble mantel.
Unyielding as granite, the twelfth duchess’s penetrating stare betrayed not a hint of emotion.
Her posture—straight, commanding—suggested that even in death she believed herself far superior to all those gathered below.
“If only we could read her mind,” mused Kit, standing next to him. “What a tale her thoughts would tell.”
“Yes.” Mickey didn’t trust himself to add much more. Dropping his eyes to the floor, he sipped at his brandy.
“Even those fabulous, damned jewels don’t soften her, do they?” Kit added. “She’s a beauty, to be sure, but I’ve picnicked with friendlier wasps.”
Dutifully, Mickey looked up at the portrait again, appreciating Kit’s efforts at levity but uncertain how to respond.
Even in lamplight, the parure managed to sparkle, both the one in the painting and the physical one, already laid out on a table for them all to admire.
He opened his mouth to say as much, a banal and uninteresting comment indeed.
And then…he stopped and closed it again.
Something jarred about the portrait. Something about how the necklace sat on the duchess’s regal neck.
Mickey squinted closer, trying to fathom what bothered him.
It wasn’t so much the opulence of the painted gemstones—the actual things glittered not two feet from his seat.
Mickey took a step forward, peering even closer, the answer there, right on the tip of his tongue if he just stared long enough.
One, two, three…he focused on the diamonds, all eight of them, and then the sapphires nestled in between, all seven of them, shaped like lozenges and a deep, velvety blue.
And then he cast his gaze back down to the actual parure, carelessly strewn across one of the duke’s many occasional tables as if the baubles were worth nothing but thruppe…
“There’s an extra sapphire,” he burst out. “Here, on the table. Look! Count them. Your grandmother’s necklace only has seven. This one here has eight. And it has…only seven diamonds— There should be eight! In the painting there are eight!”
Everyone performed the same calculation, Tommy muttering it under his breath as, in unison, six heads craned up to the painting and then back to the table.
“Perhaps the artist painted them wrong,” Rollo suggested. “Artistic license, you know. He might have thought the portrait looked better that way. Fitz painted the church at Goule the other day. Two steeples!”
“One was a tree,” Fitzsimmons growled. “Insolent pup.”
“The artist got every other detail correct,” Ashington observed. “Down to Grandmama’s very last imperious frown line. My father always declared it an uncanny likeness.”