Chapter Twenty-Two
ACCORDING TO ROSSINGLEY, who knew these things, the Old Bailey boasted two courtrooms, the second, a necessary recent addition thanks to a mushrooming of windy barristers who enjoyed nothing more than the sound of their own pompous deliberating.
Personally, Mickey thought it was more likely a consequence of burgeoning crime rates, but what did he know?
Valentin’s case would be heard in the bigger Old Court, to accommodate public interest, a fact which made Mickey feel a little bit sick.
He’d never stepped foot in any courtroom and was starting with the most fearful of all, its vaulted ceiling and echoey chambers shadowed by the weight of centuries of justice and injustice alike.
“Don’t let this place bully you, darling,” Rossingley whispered, reading his mind as they took their seats on a row at the front of the packed public gallery.
No mad jockeying for position for them; Ashington’s Eight had the entire front row reserved by virtue of Ashington expressing his interest in the case.
The only people with a superior view would be those playing key parts in the whole proceedings.
“Just pretend we’re in the cheap seats at Drury Lane.” The earl wriggled on the hard narrow bench. “And very much not the royal box. Gadzooks. I should have brought a cushion.”
Mickey would perch on a pinhead if it meant Valentin walked free.
Nonetheless, Rossingley was right about likening it to a theatre.
Ranks of polished wooden pews fanned out and up behind them, disappearing into the dim recesses, whilst ahead lay the small stage.
The twelve men of the jury would line up immediately to the right of it, leaving the stage empty, set for the prosecution’s performance.
Presiding over all, behind an imposing carved oak desk, would reside the judge, whilst directly opposite him, the defendant’s box loomed, a sturdy, almost menacing structure.
“Let’s hope we’ve tickets to a drama, not a tragedy.” Mickey shivered, despite the heat radiating from the crowds squished onto the rows behind.
“Neither. It will be a farce,” Rossingley predicted. “Talybridge shall be the sculptor of his own downfall, you’ll see. Beauregard shall tie him in knots, and the carefully nurtured web he’s woven around himself will spring open. He’s so puffed up on his own self import; he’ll never see it coming.”
“And yet Valentin may still be tried and found guilty.” Mickey swallowed against the ever-present tide of tears.
Tommy, flanking him, put a consoling hand in his. “Have faith, sweet cousin, have faith. There is a plan. There is always a plan.”
“With me in the role of useless observer,” Mickey retorted petulantly. “Valentin is fighting for his life, and the three of us are not playing a part.”
“Speak for yourself.” Rossingley smiled his glittering smile. “I’m here to rattle Talybridge so much he’ll fear for the integrity of his teeth. And Tommy is here, as ever, to provide Ashington with a much-needed source of courage.”
“Just me then,” replied Mickey, even more petulantly.
Rossingley tutted. “Your presence, my darling, is paramount. It serves to remind our dashing Frenchman of all he has to lose.”
*
ONE MINUTE, MICKEY was trying to control an urge to cast up his accounts as he waited for Valentin to appear, and the next Valentin was there, stood in the dock and shackled by one slim wrist to a solid iron ring.
An immediate hush reverberated around the courtroom, followed by shifting feet and murmured cries as folks craned their necks over the rows in front and stretched up onto tiptoes to gawp at him.
As if Valentin were an exhibit in the Royal Menagerie with droves of visitors pressing their faces against the bars, pointing their fingers.
As though they could decide his guilt or innocence just by watching him move.
Despite growing excitement amongst the spectators, Valentin appeared utterly unmoved.
Three burly guards arranged themselves in a semicircle behind him, blocking the brick passage back to Newgate.
As if he’d ever want to escape in that direction.
He spoke to one of them, briefly, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips—almost as though he’d seen it all before.
His gaze, distant yet sharp, wandered over the courtroom, only softening when it landed on Mickey.
He brought the fingers of his free hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against them.
“And half the gallery swoons,” Rossingley pronounced drily. “The ladies of the ton would be delighted to have him thieve their most intimate trinkets, and plenty more besides.”
If Valentin was nervous, he showed no sign.
His lips moved as he spoke to the guards a second time, though his eyes, shrewd and calculating, continually swept across the floor before him.
It was almost as if he was tracing every line, every curve, every doorway and corner, and committing them to memory.
The members of the jury trooped in next, sombrely clothed in black coats and officiousness.
Hailing from the middling ranks of society, they were merchants, professionals, wealthier shopkeepers, tradesmen, and artisans.
None of those men could possibly have avoided some knowledge of the case, and as their eyes darted towards the prisoner in the dock and his finely dressed friends filling the front row, Mickey prayed they hadn’t already judged Valentin’s character and found it wanting before they were even presented with the evidence.
A court clerk scurried in behind them to take up a corner adjacent to the judge’s throne, ink-stained fingers poised above his notes, ready.
“They’re all going to miss it if they don’t turn up soon,” Mickey fretted. He peered over his shoulder, fruitlessly trying to spot their friends through the throngs milling behind.
“Ashington and Fitzsimmons are waiting for Talybridge to arrive first.” Rossingley twisted around too. “And if I know Talybridge, he’ll be waiting to ensure the gallery is full prior to his grand entrance. Ah, I do believe he’s finally elected to grace us with his presence.”
Talybridge’s arrival prompted a fresh round of restless murmurings.
He took his time about it, pausing to be properly appreciated as if his very attendance was a favour to those around him.
Taking a stately path towards the front of the courtroom, he waved his fingers in acknowledgement of a few acquaintances with the lofty condescension of a man who believed himself far above it all but obliged to tolerate the charade anyhow.
In that moment, Mickey easily imagined him blasting a shotgun at a lover with the temerity to pick a quarrel with him.
“A pillock of the highest order,” muttered Tommy. “And yet a dangerous one.”
“Quite,” agreed Rossingley. “The very worst kind. As I shall demonstrate to the audience now.” He called out cheerfully, “Good day to you, Talybridge.”
His address was timed to perfection. Halting, the marquess turned on his heel, and his retinue, skulking behind, promptly banged into him.
Papers flew in the air, and nearby onlookers tittered as Talybridge swore.
No one in the gallery with a pair of functioning eyes could miss his frozen expression of distaste as he realised whom he tarried to greet.
Nor could they mistake the ensuing internal battle playing out across his face.
What to do? Did he give the highly respected, wealthy Earl of Rossingley a stare of blank refusal—the cut direct—and risk offending the higher echelons of the ton?
Or should he practice forced civility with the father of the boy who’d pinched his fiancée from under his nose?
Mickey would have found his mental wranglings amusing were the situation for Valentin not so dire.
“Rossingley,” the marquess eventually managed, accompanied by a thousand-needle glare. His cheeks bloomed an unhealthy shade of purple. Ignoring Tommy and Mickey’s polite nods of greeting, he added. “Your presence here is unwarranted.”
Rossingley adjusted his cuffs. “Perhaps, but I quite found myself at a loose end this afternoon.” He displayed his small pointy teeth in a smile Mickey had learned to recognise spelled trouble.
“And given that this case shall be the talk of the ton for the rest of the season, I felt I might keep myself abreast of it.”
“The Old Bailey’s not a damned gentlemen’s club where one goes to amuse oneself,” harrumphed Talybridge. “It’s about the serious business of justice.”
“Indeed.” Rossingley beamed. “And one of the founding principles of our country’s marvellous judicial system is that proceedings are conducted in an open, public, and transparent manner.
In the interests that the serious business of justice is served.
” He spread his arms wide. “Along with everybody else here this fine afternoon, I am simply exercising my rights as a citizen, though, as I was only saying to Mr Maurice a few minutes ago, a courtroom bench is no friend to one’s backside. ”
“I’ll…um…” Disconcerted, Talybridge shook himself. “Never mind your backside. If you weren’t bloody Rossingley, I’d tan the one belonging to your son. You planned that elopement.”
Thoroughly enjoying himself, Rossingley’s eyes widened dramatically.
“My dear Talybridge, how could that have been possible? I was dancing in the arms of the delightful Mrs Catherine de Villiers all evening in your very own ballroom.” He put a hand over his mouth.
“Oops. Not all evening. I distinctly recall a moment when the music paused for us all to examine that rather peculiar painting of yours. A very bold move by the artist, I must say.”
“Codspiffle, Rossingley! And don’t change the subject!
Your blasted son and that chit have caused more trouble than they will ever know.
Chesterton and I had an agreement dammit; I spent four months sweltering in that Italian furnace they call Florence securing it—Chesterton’s daughter, Miss Anna, and her inheritance, in exchange for access to my shipping routes. ”
“Amelia,” corrected Rossingley. “Evidently, she meant a great deal to you.”
Talybridge waved him away. “She was a means to an end. A very profitable end.”
“A business transaction,” returned Rossingley coolly. “And there was I thinking it was a love match.”
“Love is for fools, Rossingley; nothing but a surging of blood in one’s loins. Learned to stay clear of it long ago.”
“How long ago, my lord?” Mickey interrupted. Just because his friends had allocated him to the chorus line didn’t mean he had to stay there. “Ten years ago? Twenty? Or was it thirty?”
A puzzled expression crossed Talybridge’s features. “Who the devil are you?”
Mickey affected a bow. “Michael Maurice, my lord. An associate of Mr Squire. And friend to Lord Cavendish.”
Talybridge’s look of disgust embraced all three of them. If the plan’s aim was to put him in poor temper before taking up his role in court, then it was succeeding.
“Dear Talybridge,” Rossingley placated, stroking his delicate fingers down the other’s arm.
Talybridge would have thrown them off if he didn’t have such an attentive audience.
“Business transactions come and go,” he continued.
“There will be others. Just as there will be other duchesses—sorry, I meant to say marchionesses—to tup.”
A hint of confusion knit Talybridge’s brow as though the world had shifted, very slightly, out of alignment. And then it was gone. “Alas, wealthy American investors do not. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must—”
“If shipping routes were her only value, then Chesterton’s daughter is far better off with my Willoughby.
And…ah, speak of the devil! Darling Willoughby is here.
Oh, and look! With his new bride too.” Rossingley beamed again as if he had not a care in the world.
“He sent word he might stop by. I believe the new Lady Cavendish has declared an interest in the case, given that she’s intimately familiar with the items of jewellery in question.
I’m surprised they’ve found the time; they’re awfully occupied setting up their new home, and”—he dropped his voice to a stagey whisper—“between you and me, they’ve scarcely left the bedchamber. ”
“Is it any wonder, Lord Rossingley?” Tommy smoothly joined the conversation. “Lady Cavendish is a diamond of the first water. I cannot recall having seen such a beauty in all of London. What say you, Lord Talybridge?”
Mickey had never believed people visibly swelled with anger, though as Talybridge inflated like a toad in front of his very eyes, he now fancied it might be true. The buttons on his waistcoat, taut over a barrel chest bloated with pride and rich living, looked fit to burst.
“Willoughby, darling,” Rossingley cooed around Talybridge’s fit of temper.
“And dearest Amelia. Don’t be shy. I have saved you some room on the bench alongside us.
The marquess here was just saying how he’s content to let bygones be bygones, and that there are plenty more duchesses—marchionesses—to be found. ”
“I’m…um…”
“Come, come, Talybridge,” Rossingley fussed.
“Young folk will do what young folk will. The heart cannot be told. Ah, goodness, one invites a couple of chums to a thing like this and they all turn up! Here’s Ashington and Fitzsimmons and— Oh, how marvellous!
My dearest pal, Mr Angel. Darling Rollo too!
Super! Shuffle along, Mr Maurice, Mr Squire, there’s good chaps.
Let’s squeeze everyone in. Kit, you might have to squeeze around the marquess; his feet appear to have ceased working. ”
Jostled by Rollo, Kit, and Willoughby, every inch of Talybridge screamed to remove himself as far from Rossingley as possible. Yet not even a marquess in a fit of pique would ever be excused for cutting a duke. Even one with whom one shared mutual loathing.
“Your Grace. Fitzsimmons.” Talybridge nodded curtly, a renewed purple flush painting his cheeks. “Your presence here is surprising.”
“Whereas yours, of course, isn’t,” replied Ashington in a pleasant low voice, quiet enough to exclude all but the gathered friends. “I’m here to witness a spectacular fall from grace. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Fitzsimmons clapped Talybridge on the shoulder, a little too hard. “The only surprising part is that the man in question has remained on this side of the dock all these years.” He grinned wickedly. “Though that may soon change.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Never mind.” Leaning forwards, Fitzsimmons pressed his mouth to Talybridge’s ear. “A private word, if you will, Lord Talybridge.”