Chapter Twenty #2
“Perhaps there are two parures in existence,” Rossingley offered. His elegant features adopted a pained expression. “Which is a plot twist I’m not entirely sure I’ve imbibed enough brandy to contemplate.”
Fitzsimmons shook his head. “No, there’s only one. Definitely. We have a letter from the King, penned by his own hand and saying as much.”
Ashington’s gaze remained fixed, unblinking, on the parure spread out across the table. Light caught at the edges of each gemstone, their shadows curling across the polished mahogany tabletop beneath. “Suppose that—” He pointed gingerly. “What if…what if this one isn’t real?”
“A fake, you mean?” Fitzsimmons stared in bewilderment at his brother. And all seven of them, Mickey, too, hurriedly crowded around the necklace in the middle of the small table as if it would suddenly reveal its secrets.
“One quick way to find out would be to chuck it in the fire,” Rollo declared cheerfully.
“I’m sure I read somewhere that real diamonds resist the intense heat perfectly.
One can lob them into a scorching hot hearth in the evening and pick them out again from the cold ash the next morning.
” He grinned. “Blow the soot off and there they are, as good as new.”
Why anybody would ever want to do that was beyond Mickey. From the horrified look on Ashington’s face, he was of accord.
“That could turn into a terribly expensive experiment,” he stated.
“What about sapphires?” Fitzsimmons looked doubtfully at the merrily roaring fire presided over by Grandmama. “Do they resist heat too?”
Rollo winced. “Alas, the book didn’t mention sapphires.”
“Best not, then, eh?”
Cautiously, as one might a brumating snake, Rossingley picked up the necklace, holding it up by the clasp between his finger and thumb. “It feels heavy enough to be real.” He held it away from him. “Though I don’t have another to compare.”
Tommy peered at it over his shoulder. “Aren’t paste gemstones always far too perfect? Real ones have natural flaws, don’t they? Flecks of amber or grit or something. Even the most precious ones, such as those a king or a duke might own?”
“These do look jolly perfect,” Rossingley acceded, lifting the chain up to the lamplight. He then lifted his gaze to the painting. “But hers do, too, from here.” He inspected the necklace again. “Better an imperfect diamond than perfect paste.”
“Real diamonds are cold when one sucks on them,” Fitzsimmons volunteered. “Much colder than paste.”
Ashington raised an amused eyebrow. “The mind boggles as to how you came by that peculiar knowledge.”
Fitzsimmons treated his brother to a rare, charming smile.
He really was devilishly handsome when not glowering.
“You should have realised by now that I’m a gentleman of broad appetites, brother.
I have also gleaned, over my varied lifetime, that they sink far faster than pieces of glass masquerading as diamonds.
Never more so than when hurled from a sailing boat into deep water, such as a lake, in a fit of pique.
Something to do with density, so I’m told.
A devil of a job to fish out afterwards too. ”
“Do I wish to know?” Rollo prodded.
“Not really, my lambkin. It was a long time ago now, when I was much younger and far too foolish for my own good.” He bent his mouth to Rollo’s temple. “Now I have a perfect diamond all of my own.”
“Gadzooks, where’s Willoughby and his retching when we need him,” muttered Rossingley, then laughed wickedly. “Oh, that’s right, busy tupping Talybridge’s affianced.”
“One could use a knife to prise off the gold claws holding each stone in place,” Kit suggested, and thank goodness, because…
lambkin? Mickey felt decidedly nauseous himself.
“The diamonds might not reveal much, even if they are glass, but the sapphires would. If they’re made from paste, then they will have a foil backing to lend them the blue colour. ”
Ashington coughed. “I…ah…as wonderful a suggestion as that is, I’m not entirely sure I want the thing damaged.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair, an activity which usually pre-emptied a bout of pacing. “How the blazes have you all gleaned this useless information?”
“Looks as if we’re back to chucking it in the fire, then,” Rollo said cheerfully.
“No,” Ashington replied sternly. “We’re not. Lambkin.”
“Mother used to say that only a diamond could scratch a diamond,” Kit offered. “Even the hardiest of other natural gemstones would fail. She never actually put it to the test, of course, not being in a position to ever own any diamonds. But it was a good story.”
“So, if that’s true—” Rossingley fiddled at his necktie. “—then the ruby at the blunt end of my cravat pin would scratch these easily, if they’re fake. But not mark them if they’re real.”
With a flourish, he produced a gold pin topped by a spherical lump of rock, glittering against the dark fabric of his coat.
“Are you sure your ruby is real, Papa?”
Rossingley threw his son a withering look as Tommy took the pin from him, admiring it. He took the necklace too.
“How firmly do you think one should press?” Tommy asked.
Kit shrugged. “Um…quite?”
Rubbing the pad of his thumb across the surface of Rossingley’s ruby, Tommy then rubbed the stone against one of the clear gems in the necklace. Everyone crowded around as he performed the action again, pressing a little harder, and then made a third attempt.
The results were disappointingly equivocal.
“Shouldn’t it be pointy, Kit?” Tommy queried. “To scratch something?”
“Um…quite possibly. My mother’s story may have omitted a crucial step.”
“We could suck the ruby on the tiepin, then suck the diamonds in the necklace, and compare them for temperature.”
“No!”
“I still think we should toss the whole thing in the fire and see if it burns.”
“No!”
“Hold a candle to up to it, then.”
“No! What if it melts?”
In frustration, Tommy dropped the necklace back onto the table where it skidded to a jumbled halt.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Ashington declared. The pacing resumed. “Perhaps I should send for someone from Rundle and Bridge. Their senior jeweller—Martins—would confirm the diagnosis within seconds. First-rate chap.”
“And you would find yourself the talk of the ton tomorrow morning,” drawled Fitzsimmons. “He’s also a first-rate gossip.”