Page 55 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“One could use a knife to prise off the gold claws holding each stone in place,” Kit suggested, and thank goodness, because…lambkin? Mickey felt decidedly nauseous himself. “The diamonds might not reveal much, even if they are glass, but the sapphires would. If they’re made from paste, then they will have a foil backing to lend them the blue colour.”

Ashington coughed. “I…ah…as wonderful a suggestion as that is, I’m not entirely sure I want the thing damaged.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair, an activity which usually pre-emptied a bout of pacing. “How the blazes have you all gleaned this useless information?”

“Looks as if we’re back to chucking it in the fire, then,” Rollo said cheerfully.

“No,” Ashington replied sternly. “We’re not. Lambkin.”

“Mother used to say that only a diamond could scratch a diamond,” Kit offered. “Even the hardiest of other natural gemstones would fail. She never actually put it to the test, of course, not being in a position to ever own any diamonds. But it was a good story.”

“So, if that’s true—” Rossingley fiddled at his necktie. “—then the ruby at the blunt end of my cravat pin would scratch these easily, if they’re fake. But not mark them if they’re real.”

With a flourish, he produced a gold pin topped by a spherical lump of rock, glittering against the dark fabric of his coat.

“Are you sure your ruby is real, Papa?”

Rossingley threw his son a withering look as Tommy took the pin from him, admiring it. He took the necklace too.

“How firmly do you think one should press?” Tommy asked.

Kit shrugged. “Um…quite?”

Rubbing the pad of his thumb across the surface of Rossingley’s ruby, Tommy then rubbed the stone against one of the clear gems in the necklace. Everyone crowded around as he performed the action again, pressing a little harder, and then made a third attempt.

The results were disappointingly equivocal.

“Shouldn’t it be pointy, Kit?” Tommy queried. “To scratch something?”

“Um…quite possibly. My mother’s story may have omitted a crucial step.”

“We could suck the ruby on the tiepin, then suck the diamonds in the necklace, and compare them for temperature.”

“No!”

“I still think we should toss the whole thing in the fire and see if it burns.”

“No!”

“Hold a candle to up to it, then.”

“No! What if it melts?”

In frustration, Tommy dropped the necklace back onto the table where it skidded to a jumbled halt.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Ashington declared. The pacing resumed. “Perhaps I should send for someone from Rundle and Bridge. Their senior jeweller—Martins—would confirm the diagnosis within seconds. First-rate chap.”

“And you would find yourself the talk of the ton tomorrow morning,” drawled Fitzsimmons. “He’s also a first-rate gossip.”

Mickey felt like punching something. Ashington was right; they were getting nowhere, and certainly no closer to freeing Valentin. All the returned parure had achieved was complicate things even more. If it turned out to be fake, would that help Valentin’s cause? Who knew? But if they were going to explore new avenues, as Rossingley had promised, then it might be a good place to start. Despite feeling like a last chance, Mickey sensed they were close to something. He was sure of it. Things were unravelling; there was more to the parure, the shooting, Valentin, the whole business. If only they could bloody fathom what it was.

Ashington paced to the window as the other men sat down again. Idly, Kit picked up the scandal sheet, the same one Rossingley had perused with Valentin’s impending trial splashed across its pages. They’d all passed it around at some point; Mickey’s tortured mind had tried to focus on a story about the wonders of visiting Herculaneum squeezed between a row of notices about a concert at Hanover Square Rooms, a choral evening to be held at St George’s in Mayfair, and a scientific lecture at the Royal Society, featuring a world-renowned mineralogist…

“Pass me the paper, Kit,” he demanded. A faint sliver of hope stirred in his chest. “I’ve an idea.”

He riffled through it until he found the page. “Sir George Shippam is still in town. That famous mineralogist staying at White’s. He’d know if the parure was real, wouldn’t he?” Mickey held up the newspaper, tapping the page. “Look! His last lecture was at four today. Remember, Tommy? Back when we were pontificating on having a gentleman thief in our midst? You asked me to find out if there were any new faces at White’s. He was the first of the three—travelled from Cambridgeshire. We dismissed him as our culprit immediately.”

“That means he’ll be rooming at White’s until early tomorrow.” Tommy nodded rapidly. “You described him as a hermit, didn’t you, Rossingley?”

“His companion of choice is absolute silence,” Rossingley pronounced. “Unless he’s radically changed since I last saw him.”