Page 56 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Which means he won’t talk.” Fitzsimmons sat straighter. “If that was his last lecture, then I’ll warrant he’ll be setting out to return to the provinces at first light tomorrow anyhow.”

“Then there is no time to lose.” Ashington strode back to the fireplace and rang the bell firmly. “We need him here now. Hawkins can send a carriage for him.”

*

SIR GEORGE SHIPPAM surveyed Ashington’s fine study and the well-dressed group of gentlemen within, then blinked several times, like a mole. His black cravat clung desperately to his throat, askew, giving him the look of someone who cared not a jot about dress. His wild hair stood up in tufts, and his whiskers were almost as amateur as Rollo’s. Mickey didn’t want to know what the stains were on his hands and coat, and once the man pulled a monocle and an odd-looking little instrument from his tattered carpet bag, didn’t really care.

“Counterfeit, Your Grace,” he declared in a spindly voice as he squinted through the small brass instrument. “No question about it.” Shippam held the necklace up to the lamplight. “An excellent counterfeit though. Not fabricated here in London, that’s for sure.”

He tapped on one of the fake diamonds. “It’s very clever, but there are tells if one is wise to them. Examined through this”—he waved the instrument around—“the diamond facets should have a hard, cubic lattice arrangement, here and here. One simply can’t cut the stones any other way. And if this black speck were a true inclusion, then the refraction would be at an angle adjacent to this edge here, and here. This is lead glass, Your Grace. It has a substantial weight, which is generally enough to fool many, but lacks the mirrorlike adamantine brilliancy of a true diamond. I must confess, the vitreous lustre of these examples is impressive—lead glass stones cut by a true master—but their dispersion value is far too high. Far too high.”

He smiled at his befogged audience in the way of a rat catcher with a full bag. “Oh, and those sapphires are cheap glass. Anybody working in this field with half a wit can see that. I hope you didn’t pay a king’s ransom for them.”

“Nothing, thank God,” breathed Ashington.

“Excellent, Your Grace. Peel one of them away from the backing, and you’ll find the words Made By A Forger To Fool The Gullible Rich engraved on the bottom. Though not written in English, I’ll wager.”

Evidently pleased with himself, he pocketed his instrument. “And speaking of rich, Rossingley, you’ve grown into the very spit of your father. How the devil are you?”

*

“IT’S NOT REAL,” Ashington confirmed unnecessarily after the mineralogist departed, significantly richer himself than when he arrived. “My parure. It’s not real.”

“It’s not,” agreed his brother, folding the fake necklace over and over in his palm. “Which means it isn’t ours.” The words hung in the air as he studied the gleaming counterfeit stones. “Which begs the question. Where the blazes is the real Ashington parure?”

Chapter Twenty-One

“THERE IS A plan, London,” whispered Valentin. “Have you heard?”

“Yes.”

Mickey would not bite. They’d had a plan before and, like a map drawn in the sand, perfectly detailed until the tide came in.

“This is a good one.” Valentin leaned closer. “Yes?”

“Yes. Better than the last, as there is no cost to you.”

“Except the cost of losing you.”

Valentin squeezed Mickey’s hand. “Don’t say that. I believe it might work. If the stars align, I…I may even walk free of here.”

And pigs might fly, and wild boars run through the courtroom.

“Tell me then,” Mickey urged, even as reason whispered there was nothing left to be done. And yet, still, he reached forward, clutching at the smallest thread of hope.

“Ashington came to visit me with his brother. In the early hours of this morning. He expressed profound gratitude for furnishing him with the truth regarding their grandmother’s death.”

“And?” Mickey pressed. “Did he tell you about the fake parure?”

“He did.” The corners of Valentin’s mouth lifted in a small smile. In the dim light, it flickered across his face, then was gone. “It is a masterpiece of forgery, I hear.”

“Yes, an international authority on these things swore he’d never seen a counterfeit like it.”

“So Ashington informed me.” That knowing smile again. Valentin seemed buoyed by this news, though how could a fake parure assist his escape?

“What else did Ashington say? What is he planning? Will he speak to the judge?”

Valentin shook his head. “Even a duke as revered as Ashington can’t sway a judge. Not in a case such as this, not involving a marquess and the entire ton absorbed by its every detail. I hear even the King has expressed interest in the proceedings.”