Page 11 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“And what if Talybridge suspects something’s amiss?” added Fitzsimmons. “The parure may disappear again for another thirty years. Has the marquess ever visited this study, Benedict?”

“Not to my knowledge.” The duke shook his head. “And there aren’t any other paintings of the thing in the house.”

“Good,” said Fitzsimmons. “Then he has no reason to believe we recognised it.”

Ashington’s dark eyes pleaded with Tommy. “You know how much I loathe being the subject of tittle-tattle. Please promise me you won’t do anything rash.”

“I won’t,” Tommy reassured. “And I have no intention of going anywhere near Talybridge.” He bestowed the duke with a rare, sweet smile, one reserved for that diffident man alone and no one else. “I propose we reconvene tomorrow. Mickey and I will have the information by then; you can be sure of that.”

“Oh Lord, do I want to know how?” Ashington sighed, long and heavy.

Tommy smiled again, a different sort of smile, one that spelled mischief. “Probably not, my love.”

Chapter Four

EARLY NEXT MORNING, with dawn still spattering the horizon in hesitant streaks of gold, Tommy’s sturdy pair of bays trotted in the direction of Ashington’s town house. As the orange glow of the gas lamps stuttered and the town awakened, Tommy was in a rare fine mood. Seated next to him and only half-awake, Mickey still wasn’t entirely sure of the purpose of the visit, given that the duke was tucked up fast asleep in a bedchamber two storeys above Squire’s, safely separated from the club by a private staircase and several locked doors.

“Fucked rigid to kingdom come,” Tommy reported happily. “Cheered him up, at any rate.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Mickey smiled to himself. Neither of them had much in the way of secrets from each other; Tommy knew Mickey wouldn’t tell a living soul. His Grace worked hard to maintain his upstanding reputation and that of his lineage. Discretion at all costs was the price he paid.

“I’ve been looking for an excuse to take Benedict’s butler, Hawkins, down a peg or two,” Tommy declared as they trotted through the damp, half-empty streets. “This parure debacle has presented me with one.”

On a trip to bloody that snotty fella’s nose? Mickey was all for it.

“You heard Benedict,” Tommy continued. The way he used His Grace’s first name so freely had taken Mickey a long time to get used to. Even Rossingley usually deferred to the duke as Ashington. “Hawkins was serving at that damned shooting party as fifth footman twice removed or whatever. He may have been young and insignificant at the time, but servants see and hear everything. And they talk.”

“To each other, yes,” agreed Mickey. “But Hawkins is as loyal to Ashington as the day’s long. Why would he spill the family secrets to you? All due respect, Tommy, but I don’t think he likes you very much.”

“No.” Tommy sounded amused. “And he’ll regret how clearly he’s made that opinion known. Watch and learn, Mickey, my boy. Watch and learn.”

Hawkins received both gentlemen at the front door, his face a mask of unflappability. Mickey expected nothing less from the head butler of one of the most distinguished households in England.

“His Grace is not home to visitors at this hour. If you care to leave your card, Mr Squire, I’ll see that he receives it.”

More likely throw it out with the privy slops, thought Mickey. Tommy visited this house thrice weekly, and the bugger still acted as though he was nothing but a merchant caller chancing his luck.

“Splendid,” answered Tommy with the confident good cheer of a man who had His Grace asleep in his bed and traces of his seed still up his arse. “Because it isn’t His Grace I’m here to see.” He took a step forward, using the toe of his boot to ensure the door stayed propped open. “If you could spare us a minute of your time.” When Hawkins didn’t budge, he added, “Unless you want this household’s dirty laundry aired on the front doorstep?”

No one ever came calling at sunrise unless they had reason, and the reason, more often than not, was unwelcome. Evidently having reached this conclusion, Hawkins allowed them entry as far as the cavernous hallway. With a curt nod, he dismissed a hovering footman.

“Say your piece, Mr Squire, and be on your way.”

Tommy’s cool blue gaze raked over the ageing butler. “Seven years and three months ago, Hawkins, you took a period of leave from your duties due to poor health. A troublesome kidney stone was diagnosed. Is my information correct?”

Hawkins stiffened. “Grubbing around in other people’s business, Mr Squire, is an unusual way of passing the time.”

“Fruitful though.” Tommy’s smile didn’t extend to his eyes. “I understand the current duke’s father generously covered the cost of your physician’s bills, seeing as your family had been in his employ for half a century or more.”

“His Grace, rest his soul, rewarded faithfulness in much the manner of the present duke. What of it?”

Tommy brushed a mote of dust from his black kidskin gloves. “Except, Hawkins, you didn’t have kidney stones, did you? You took the duke’s money and used it to pay your feckless son’s debts, didn’t you? Of which both the previous duke and the current one remain blissfully unaware.”

Tommy paused, letting his revelations settle between them. Hawkins’s small, faded eyes flicked instinctively towards the door, towards the exit, towards escape.

“I doubt His Grace would dismiss you,” Tommy continued—soft, calm, but razor-sharp, “should this tawdry little story reach his ears. He’s far too generous for his own good, and you have served his family long and devotedly. But…” Again, he lingered. “His Grace’s good regard is so very, very important to you, is it not, Mr Hawkins? I can only imagine how one would hate to…to have that tainted, at the end of such an illustrious half century of service.”