Page 48 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“I agree.” Fitzsimmons leaned forward. “Assuming—and it is only a theory at this point—that Beauregard’s father was innocent. Publicly blaming the footman for the murder was a risk Talybridge couldn’t take. Even though our grandfather preferred the matter to be brushed under the carpet, sooner or later, the Talybridge name would have been tainted with suspicion. And even a wealthy marquess would be reluctant to have tittle-tattle as dreadful as murdering a duchess hanging over him for all of time.”

“Paying someone off also exposes one to future bribery,” Rossingley pointed out, his voice level. “People become greedy. One payment is never enough.” He pinched his lip, considering. “I suppose it’s feasible that Talybridge could have killed Samuel Roberts, as well as the duchess.”

“And create more problems?” Tommy shook his head. “More possible witnesses to a second murder? More suspicion? And, according to Beauregard, he’s alive and well and living in France.”

“And, lest we forget,” Ashington added, “they dragged the lake twice. How does one swiftly dispose of a dead body during an afternoon shooting party on somebody else’s estate?”

“With lashings of fretfulness and several stiff brandies, I would wager,” Rossingley concluded.

“Agreed,” said Fitzsimmons. “The whole thing sounds far too Machiavellian. I’ve heard all the arguments, but I still don’t think we can rule out Beauregard’s father, Roberts, as the culprit.”

Mickey felt he might scream. Either Fitzsimmons was deliberately overlooking the obvious or found it too extraordinary to contemplate. That Ashington himself believed otherwise was vital.

“Your Grace,” Mickey began, addressing a befuddled Ashington. “If you would, for one minute, consider accepting that Beauregard is telling the truth and that Samuel Roberts is his father, then the footman is not buried under the Ashington sod at all. He survived, escaped to France, and begat a son.”

Mickey didn’t quite glare at Fitzsimmons but came rather close. He’d persuade these gentlemen of Beauregard’s constancy if it was the last thing he did. “Talybridge could have threatened Roberts with a pistol to his head whilst he signed a confession and then given him enough money to disappear. That would fit with the evidence, wouldn’t it?”

The question hung in the air as the men contemplated all they had discussed. Mickey didn’t have answers to any of it, not really, and especially not to the most important question of all: how to release his lover from prison and return him to Mickey’s arms.

“But if Roberts is Beauregard’s father, why has Beauregard waited until now to act?” Rossingley queried, throwing up yet another unsolved riddle. “He’s been practising the deceptive arts for over a decade if the story of him pinching the Devil’s Diamonds at Versailles is true. If he knew Talybridge had this document in his possession all along, why not steal it and expose him years ago so his father could return to England?”

“His father is now quite old,” replied Mickey, “and desperate to return to his homeland.”

“All the more reason to have done it sooner.”

“Maybe Beauregard didn’t know it was in Talybridge’s possession until recently.”

Ashington huffed out a frustrated breath. “Maybe we’re on a wild goose chase with all this speculation, going around in circles and getting nowhere.” Hands on hips, he stared at his brother, a muscle in his jaw ticking and his mouth a determined grim line. “Nonetheless, my ire has been well and truly provoked. Several pressing courses of action present themselves.”

“Let me hazard a guess at one of them.” Fitzsimmons’s smile was equally resolute. “You’d like to bloody Talybridge’s nose. Allow me to pin him down for you.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Ashington’s fists clenched. “And I want my parure too. But most of all, more than anything, I want to see justice served for my grandmother.” He wheeled round to face Mickey. “Where are they holding your vicomte? I believe it’s time I paid him a visit.”

Chapter Eighteen

AT NEWGATE, ONE received a remarkably different reception with a duke and a duke’s brother in tow. Thanks to Mickey greasing numerous fists the day before, Valentin had been moved to the Stone Hall, a prison wing housing debtors and those able to pay for better accommodations. Even so, as they were escorted along a dark passageway, there was no escaping the purpose of the place, with its grey, cold walls and the air thick with the stale scent of stone. Time felt like a slow drip. There was no warmth here, no sense of human touch, just the dull monotony of concrete and iron.

At least now, Valentin only shared a cell with two others. The chains around his ankles clanked behind him as, in deference to the presence of a duke, he was hauled into a private room. Thank heavens he appeared vaguely clean. And, judging by a resumption of his usual languid style, he had also been somewhat rested, fed, and watered.

“Tell me who you are, monsieur,” Ashington stated without preamble, whilst Fitzsimmons simply adopted the habitual glower that most chaps found themselves on the receiving end of, unless their name was Rollo Duchamps-Avery.

“Valentin Beauregard, Fifth Vicomte de Verdille.” Beauregard eyed them both coolly, as if he’d summoned the duke to his drawing room. “Your Grace,” he added with a slight nod after a noise not dissimilar to a growl emanated from Fitzsimmons. Mickey loved Valentin to death, but good God, the man wasn’t helping himself.

“Stop buggering about,” the duke’s brother barked. “Until you have proven yourself otherwise, you are nothing but a common thief like every other lice-ridden fiend in this damned place.”

“I heard you used to be moderately adept yourself, dear Fitzsimmons,” drawled Valentin. “I distinctly recall one evening not so long ago at the Café de la Paix in Paris, where I was gossiping with some chaps just arrived from London. They took great delight in telling me that when you were on your uppers, you—”

“This is unhelpful.” Ashington very rarely drew upon his ducal might, but when he did so, people tended to stop and obey. Even his brother and Valentin were not impervious. “Let me rephrase, Beauregard. Tell me who you were prior to adopting that blasted foreign title. I need convincing pretty damn sharpish that you are not the son of a man who murdered my grandmother. Otherwise, my itchy brother here—” He jerked his chin to a thunderous Fitzsimmons. “—may do something rash.”

“His Grace has read the letter you gave me,” Mickey added testily, hoping his frown and tone were enough to get his message across. “He is here to seek clarity and may perhaps be able to assist you in clearing your name.”

“Informing us what it really is would be a start,” grumbled Fitzsimmons.

Unhurriedly, Valentin crossed his legs, the chains sliding over each other, each abrupt clink like a series of doors slamming, one by one. “I am Valentin Beauregard-Roberts. My father is Samuel Valentine Roberts. He worked as a footman for the twelfth Duke of Ashington. More than a quarter century ago, during a shooting party held by the duke, he witnessed a private quarrel between the duchess and a much younger drunken male guest with whom it had been rumoured that she was conducting an affair. The young male guest could barely stand; in my father’s words he was ‘as sloshed as Napoleon on the eve of Waterloo, knowing he was about to get spanked’. The quarrel ended when the guest drunkenly waved his shotgun around and, possibly accidently, shot the unarmed duchess in the belly. At point-blank range. I swear on all that’s holy I’m telling the truth as relayed to me by my father.”

Ashington’s hand flew to cover his mouth. Even Fitzsimmons paled. Knowing your grandmother had been killed in cold blood was one thing, hearing the bleak account first-hand another entirely. It was such a pithy, tawdry short tale. From his mien, even Fitzsimmons, previously convinced Beauregard had snaffled the parure, no longer seemed to question the veracity of it.

Valentin’s features softened. “You have my deepest sympathy, Your Grace. My father’s eternal regret is in not having interceded sooner. Alas, when he reached Her Grace’s side and shouted for assistance, the duchess was no more.”