Page 54 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“If only we could read her mind,” mused Kit, standing next to him. “What a tale her thoughts would tell.”

“Yes.” Mickey didn’t trust himself to add much more. Dropping his eyes to the floor, he sipped at his brandy.

“Even those fabulous, damned jewels don’t soften her, do they?” Kit added. “She’s a beauty, to be sure, but I’ve picnicked with friendlier wasps.”

Dutifully, Mickey looked up at the portrait again, appreciating Kit’s efforts at levity but uncertain how to respond. Even in lamplight, the parure managed to sparkle, both the one in the painting and the physical one, already laid out on a table for them all to admire. He opened his mouth to say as much, a banal and uninteresting comment indeed.

And then…he stopped and closed it again. Something jarred about the portrait. Something about how the necklace sat on the duchess’s regal neck. Mickey squinted closer, trying to fathom what bothered him. It wasn’t so much the opulence of the painted gemstones—the actual things glittered not two feet from his seat.

Mickey took a step forward, peering even closer, the answer there, right on the tip of his tongue if he just stared long enough. One, two, three…he focused on the diamonds, all eight of them, and then the sapphires nestled in between, all seven of them, shaped like lozenges and a deep, velvety blue. And then he cast his gaze back down to the actual parure, carelessly strewn across one of the duke’s many occasional tables as if the baubles were worth nothing but thruppe…

“There’s an extra sapphire,” he burst out. “Here, on the table. Look! Count them. Your grandmother’s necklace only has seven. This one here has eight. And it has…only seven diamonds— There should be eight! In the painting there are eight!”

Everyone performed the same calculation, Tommy muttering it under his breath as, in unison, six heads craned up to the painting and then back to the table.

“Perhaps the artist painted them wrong,” Rollo suggested. “Artistic license, you know. He might have thought the portrait looked better that way. Fitz painted the church at Goule the other day. Two steeples!”

“One was a tree,” Fitzsimmons growled. “Insolent pup.”

“The artist got every other detail correct,” Ashington observed. “Down to Grandmama’s very last imperious frown line. My father always declared it an uncanny likeness.”

“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.”