Chapter Twenty-Four
“HIGHLY IRREGULAR.” DURING his absence from centre stage, Talybridge appeared to have puffed up even more. Mickey wasn’t the only one tormented by suffocating heat; unchecked, a bead of sweat ran down the marquess’s temple.
“Agreed,” stated Campbell-Allen. “You are not required to oblige him in this pantomime, Lord Talybridge.” Glaring at Valentin, he opened his mouth again as if to elaborate.
At that precise moment, Fitzsimmons chose to clear his throat. Loudly.
“Apologies,” he declared most unapologetically. Having drawn Talybridge’s attention, Fitzsimmons tapped over the left breast pocket of his tailcoat. Where the tip of a pocket square would normally sit, a triangle of paper peeked out.
Talybridge scowled at him. Even now, with that piece of paper providing an incentive to cooperate, the man still held on to his arrogance. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat a second time.
“Dry air,” he explained to no one in particular and tapped on the paper again.
“I suppose I shall indulge the damned charlatan.” Oozing with disdain, Talybridge moistened his lips. “Briefly.”
Tommy squeezed Mickey’s hand. “He’ll do more than that,” he whispered. “The bugger believes himself untouchable. He’s about to discover he isn’t.”
“I recall we first met in Florence, my lord,” Valentin began. “At a soirée held in the inner courtyard of the Palazzo Strozzi, I believe. You were with your fiancée and her father. Fun times, were they not?”
“Costly,” asserted Talybridge. “I mislaid an engraved silver snuff box, and you swore it had nothing to do with you. Chesterton footed the champagne bill, as you claimed to have mislaid your purse.”
“And we finished the evening at your luxurious accommodations, swapping stories,” continued Valentin, ignoring the insinuations. “I believe your temporary valet found me a bedchamber for the night; we were so foxed.”
“Hmm.”
“Your point, Beauregard,” interjected Campbell-Allen, sounding tired. “Get to it.”
“I remember one particular tale,” carried on Valentin, dismissing the interruption, “about a…a shooting party?”
“I don’t recall.”
“No?”
“No.”
Valentin inclined his head, the beginning of a smile playing at his lips. “Then allow me to refresh your memory.”
“No. It’s irrelevant.”
“Agreed,” said the judge. “As is talk of parties in Florence. Move things along.”
“Understood.” Hesitating, Valentin chewed on his lower lip.
“I…I only mention that evening in Florence as it was the first occasion when I saw the splendid parure on display, worn by your beautiful betrothed.” Searching for Willoughby’s new wife amongst the onlookers, he threw her a dazzling smile, which also somehow succeeded in encompassing every other woman in the gallery.
From behind Mickey came the unmistakeable swish of fluttering fans.
“And may I say how magnificently it suited you, Lady Cavendish.” Valentin performed as sweeping a bow as one chained wrist would allow before bashfully lowering his lashes. “Though I daresay beauty such as yours, madame, would shine even through a burlap bag.”
An incomprehensible sound emerged from Talybridge. If looks could kill, then Valentin would be lying dead amidst the wreckage of a battlefield. Campbell-Allen rapped his knuckles on his desk.
“I believe we have exhausted this avenue of questioning, Beauregard.”
“My sincere apologies, Your Honour.” Clasping the fingers of his chained hand in those of the free one, Beauregard was a picture of wide-eyed innocence.
“I only thought it worthy of note as—” He frowned as if puzzled by something.
“May I ask…how you came by such a splendid piece, Lord Talybridge?” His gaze swept around the public gallery.
“I think we’d all be interested in the origins of such a valuable and unique item. ”
A couple of “Hear, hear!”s emanated from the gallery. Mickey’s row was quick to join in; Ashington even raised a ducal finger to the judge.
“I, for one, would be fascinated to hear the story,” he declared.
“Then I’m sure the marquess will oblige, Your Grace,” answered Campbell-Allen, smooth as syrup.
“As much as I hate to disappoint His Grace, the parure’s provenance is not the business of this court,” retorted Talybridge, mopping his brow.
“Suffice to say the piece belongs in my safe and no one else’s.
Especially that of an accomplice to a common thief.
We are gathered here today to ensure justice is served, not tattle about evenings spent supping mediocre champagne in bloody Florence. ”
He glowered at Valentin. “Get on with it, man, or step down, and let these gentlemen of the jury go about their business.” He smoothed back his thin damp hair. “And somebody get me some water and open a bloody window. It’s as hot as bloody Florence in here too!”
“The gallery is packed,” agreed Valentin, seemingly as cool as if taking a stroll on a crisp spring morn for the sole purpose of admiring drystone walls or hunting for rare species of moss.
Calmly, he scanned the crowds. Even with one hand tied and minus the assistance of decent washing and laundering facilities, his strong profile exuded elegance.
“I note a lot of older gentlemen in attendance. From all walks of life, I imagine—merchants, milliners, sailors…footmen. Some of whom I daresay have known the Talybridge family for many years.”
“Get on with it!” Campbell-Allen’s patience veered towards breaking point.
“They can all be vagabonds for all it bears any relevance. I am ignorant of how they conduct these matters in France, Beauregard, but in the Old Court—my court—you are here to be tried for Grand Larceny, not to pass the time of day indulging in idle tattle about the Talybridge family tree.”
Valentin bowed his head, suitably contrite, before returning his attention to a perspiring Talybridge. “Forgive me. Perhaps, on another day, someone might enlighten us as to the history of the parure. In tune with His Grace, it is of interest—”
Campbell-Allen sighed heavily again and brought out his fob. “Beauregard. I am failing to see the objective of all this, and the marquess is being far too reasonable in his humouring of it. You have two minutes before I shall ask the jury to retire and consider their verdict. Clear?”
“As the crystal waters of Verdille,” answered Valentin agreeably. “Very well.”
His demeanour instantly shifted, the languid friendly tones replaced by a sharp precision that sliced through the air.
“I deny stealing the parure on the night of the New Year ball. Despite all the evidence presented, no one witnessed the theft. Thus, I shall use the allotted time remaining to me wisely, by outlining an alternative theory.” He cleared his throat, no doubt in need of water himself, though none was forthcoming.
Talybridge gulped at his like a landed fish.
“In a word, my lord judge and gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that I have been set up. Malicious rumours about me have abounded since I set foot on English soil. I am of the opinion that the parure was never stolen from that safe at all; I believe the marquess became so addled at the ball by his betrothed fleeing to Gretna in the arms of another man, compounded by the wanton vandalism of his portrait, that he merely mislaid it. And, after raising such a rumpus, he is far too embarrassed to admit the truth. Covering up his feeble-mindedness by accusing me of the theft is nothing but the marquess directing the ton away from his own humiliating situation and, may I also suggest, provides a useful outlet for all of his frustrations.”
The courtroom, mere seconds ago filled with the low hum of dainty wooden fans, shuffling feet, and gasps of conversation, now stood unnervingly still, as though all in attendance were undecided whether to laugh, to mock, or to bury themselves in Valentin’s incredulous bold lies.
Standing tall in the dock, with his dark head held high, the Frenchman let his eyes land on Mickey, softening. Again, he pressed his fingertip to his lips.
“Oh, I say,” murmured Rossingley. “Bravo, Monsieur le Vicomte. Bravo.”
Meanwhile, across the courtroom from him, quivering with rage, Talybridge was in danger of succumbing to an apoplectic fit. Or at the very least, drowning in his own perspiration. “Did you dare to call me addled? Feeble-minded? This is…this…”
In shocked silence, all assembled waited for Talybridge’s next move. Even the judge seemed at a loss for words. The marquess’s lips worked furiously, but nothing emerged. When one of his men thrust a second glass of water at him, Valentin seized his chance.
“According to the runner—Mr Pearson—your safe was found hanging open, my lord. Am I correct?”
“Yes! Because you opened it, damn your eyes!”
“And your butler confirmed it was hanging open, yes?”
“Yes!” Talybridge’s skin glistened under the bright lights of the courtroom, the sheen of moisture and unhealthy shade of purple a testament to the storm raging within.
“And both men swore the parure was not inside.” Valentin, on the other hand, sounded the very model of cool reasonableness.
“Yes! Damn you, man.” Talybridge gulped at his water too fast; a dribble ran down his chin.
“To make a liar even more maddened, keep asking them questions,” Tommy hissed. “Sidney swears by it. See? Talybridge is starting to panic.”
“But your butler also describes Lady Cavendish handing him the jewellery box before the evening celebrations got underway, and returning the parure to the safe. So, to clarify, it was in your safe?”
“Of course it was in my damned safe! And now it’s not! As you of all people know!”
“But I don’t know that, Lord Talybridge. I believe you still have it yourself, my lord. It has never been stolen.”
“Stop saying that!”
“I believe you simply mislaid it. Or, even more perturbing, you have deliberately contrived to set me up for the theft in order to hide your own inadequacies. In fact, I’d go a step further, my lord. I’d suggest that you have since located it.”