Page 22 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Not half as much as I hate talking about locks and safes belonging to other people with…with criminal intent. How do you know his safe has a Chubb lock?” Ashington winced. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Tommy and Mickey traded glances. They’d thoroughly enjoyed orchestrating this little escapade.

“As luck would have it,” Tommy began, “this morning, two separate reports of smoke in the vicinity of Talybridge’s town house reached the ears of a diligent fire officer working for the Sun Fire Office. Although there was no smell when he arrived, the officer insisted on conducting a comprehensive check of the property—for the safety of its inhabitants, you understand—accompanied by Talybridge’s butler. The upshot being, not only do we now know the type of safe and its whereabouts, but also the precise location of Talybridge’s ground floor study.”

Rossingley’s lip curled with mischief. “And if, perchance, one was to attend the matinée performance at Drury Lane tomorrow, would the Sun Fire Office’s diligent fire officer be in the chorus line?”

One peep at Tommy’s barely contained grin showed him he’d guessed correctly. Tommy had strutted the boards himself for a few years after escaping the molly house. It didn’t hurt to keep in touch with his old friends.

“You think I’d leave that important task to a nobody from the chorus line?” He shook his head, tutting. “No, no, no. The lad is playing the role of Falstaff himself. And trebled his weekly earnings for his troubles.”

“Ever more super,” declared Ashington. “So, now we’re all set for a master lock picker to waltz into Talybridge’s study, take apart his safe, steal back my parure, and sneak out again undetected. Oh, and never, ever mention it to anyone, even if Talybridge crows from the rooftops about the break-in.” He ran a shaky hand through his thick black hair, despairing. “Remind me how I ended up having this conversation?”

“Because, my love,” said Tommy, with a degree of patience Mickey never saw him show with anyone else, “Talybridge or his father killed your grandmother then filched something which is rightfully yours.”

“Um…I’m not sure a lock picker will be of much help, actually,” Fitzsimmons offered.

The duke tugged at his hair again. “That’s the part that bothers you?”

“Actually, Talybridge or his father murdering our grandmother and getting away scot-free bothers me far more,” answered Fitzsimmons mildly. “But as I can’t do much about that, this is the next best thing.” He threw his brother a barbed look of a kind that dukes rarely, if ever, received before carrying on.

“My understanding of locks engineered to take a Chubb key is that they immediately seize if subjected to an attempted picking or insertion of the wrong key. I believe a special key in the possession of the manufacturer is required to reset it.”

“Correct,” Tommy confirmed. That afternoon, he and Mickey had partaken in a little trip out to Smithfield to ascertain that exact information. And, unfortunately, the path had stopped there. “If such an attempt were to occur, the lock would instantly jam, rendering the safe unopenable. In that situation, the only person able to obtain the special key from the locksmith would be Talybridge himself.” He gave a little smile. “And guess where the special keys to all the double steel-lined safes in London are kept?”

“Far, far away from here, thus rendering this hairbrained scheme null and void?” Ashington’s voice sounded hopeful.

“Inside another huge double steel-lined bloody safe,” continued Tommy, “with a four-barrel gated detector lock and a very special, very big key, all of its own.”

“Excellent. So, we won’t be able to steel the parure after all.” The duke sounded almost cheerful.

“Success is a marathon, my dear Ashington,” murmured Rossingley, “not a sprint. We can and we will steal it.”

“But we’ll need to steal Talybridge’s own copy of the key first,” finished Fitzsimmons. “Given that the manufacturer’s copy is locked up so very tight.”

“’Fraid so.”

Ashington stared at them both, aghast. “More thieving.”

“More thieving,” clarified Rossingley, then pursed his lips. “Now, where do we suppose a careful chap such as Talybridge might keep his own personal key?”

Mickey thought about Tommy’s safe in his office upstairs and how frequently the pair of them accessed it. At least once a day, sometimes more. “It needs to be somewhere both secure and convenient,” he offered. “There will be important documents in there, too, as well as money and valuables.”

“Mickey and I keep the keys to ours on a chain around our necks,” Tommy contributed.

“Mine is secured on a short chain attached to my trousers,” offered Fitzsimmons. “Especially on days when I’m wading through business matters. Much handier. I believe our father used to do the same.”

“He did,” Ashington clarified. “See? Mine is on a gold chain attached to my waistcoat.” He fished it out to demonstrate. “Do you recognise this, Lyndon? This was our father’s chain.”

“How about you, Rossingley?” Mickey enquired. It was seeming most likely that Talybridge would have his key secreted about his person.

Rossingley smiled. “Pritchard, my dear valet, guards the key to my safe with his life. I find its bulk ruins the line of my attire, so Pritchard attaches it to his own waistcoat instead.” His smooth brow pinched in a frown. “Though I sometimes find myself pleading with him to hand it over.”

Mickey laughed. “Does Talybridge have a valet such as Pritchard?”

“Nobody has a valet such as Pritchard,” the earl responded. “He’s the cross I have to bear.”

“So, we’re agreed that Talybridge will probably be carrying it about his person,” Tommy concluded.