Page 47 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“No.” Mickey shifted uncomfortably. “We had but a few minutes alone. I didn’t read the letter until I arrived back here, for fear of drawing the attention of the guards.”

Silence followed, only punctuated by Ashington’s fingers drumming in an erratic, restless rhythm against the mantel.

Fitzsimmons picked up the letter and shook it out. “Yet, for all Beauregard swears his father is innocent of killing our grandmother, we have a signed confession.” Head tilted to the side, his hooded eyes studied Mickey. “From another perspective—just to play devil’s advocate, you understand—one could argue if Samuel Valentine Roberts is Beauregard’s father and a murderer, then it is no wonder Beauregard was so desperate to get his hands on this letter. We know the man lies; we know he’s an inveterate thief. Perhaps the tale of his unfortunate, innocent papa is but another example of Beauregard’s poor character. Rotten trees produce rotten apples and all that.”

Mickey’s annoyance flared. “You are wary of his character, yet when he broke into a locked safe, he disregarded all the other valuables spilling from it.”

“With the greatest of respect,” Fitzsimmons retorted, “we only have his word for that.”

“The safe was full to bursting!”

“So you say,” Fitzsimmons acknowledged. “But in case it escaped your notice, our parure is still missing.”

“And Beauregard swears he doesn’t have it! And it was not found on his person!”

Fitzsimmons’s eyebrows raised warningly at Mickey’s tone. “You have been exceedingly helpful and loyal during this whole escapade, Mr Maurice, but—”

“Hush now. Hush.” Rossingley cut Fitzsimmons a quelling look. “Falling out amongst ourselves is unhelpful. And Talybridge hasn’t reported any other jewellery or money belonging to him missing. Though I hear Lady Chalfont has mislaid a pearl brooch and some chap reported a missing tiepin.”

Mickey schooled his features into what he prayed was a blank look.

Ashington scratched his head, pacing the floor. “Too bad, but given neither item was presumably in Talybridge’s safe, they aren’t our current concern. And time spent arguing will not further our understanding of why this confession was in Talybridge’s safe in the first place. Yet, as Lyndon has already observed, why would anybody confess to murdering a duchess?”

Leaning back in his chair, Rossingley steepled his fingers. “Let us put Beauregard’s role in the whole thing aside for a moment and consider it logically. To start, why does anybody confess to a murder?”

Mickey answered this one. His own anxious tiptoe across the rug in Talybridge’s study and then his panicked hobble through the foliage, with his pursuers hot on his heels, was all too fresh in his mind. “Being caught red-handed would do it. There would be little point in lying.”

“Possibly,” Rossingley accepted with a nod. “And the most likely reason, I’d wager.”

Though concurring with the general principle, Mickey wasn’t so sure. They were overlooking something. He’d been a footman himself when he’d first come to work for Tommy; thus, he’d made the acquaintance of several. None of them boasted handwriting as fine as that letter, if they could write at all. Nor would they waste precious coin on such decent quality paper—even less so, thirty years earlier, when one sheet of foolscap cost as much as a week’s wage. He supposed Samuel Roberts could have stolen the half-foolscap from his employer, given that he was allegedly capable of much grander larceny and murder. But…no. Something was off. Valentin was telling the truth about his father’s innocence; Mickey felt it in his bones.

“How about a burning desire to assuage one’s own guilty conscience of a moral or spiritual burden?” offered Ashington. “That brings men to confession.”

“Highly unlikely if Roberts is related to Beauregard,” his brother huffed, ratcheting Mickey’s annoyance up a notch higher.

“I suppose there’s always a grim resignation to one’s fate,” Tommy suggested. “Knowing that the inevitable has finally occurred.”

“Hmm…” Rossingley regarded them all in turn, his glittery gaze briefly softening as it landed on Mickey. “There is, of course, a fourth option to consider. That poor Samuel Roberts was the unfortunate witness to a murder committed by somebody else. Somebody powerful enough to put the fear of God in him.”

“Someone as powerful as Talybridge or his father,” butted in Mickey keenly. He very much approved the look of this scenario. “Someone capable of pointing the finger of guilt at a lowly footman, knowing his word would be taken as the gospel truth.”

“Precisely.” Rossingley was warming to his theme. “But why would Talybridge bother keeping the letter once Roberts has scarpered?”

“For insurance?” Mickey suggested. “To prevent Roberts returning to England and spreading the truth?”

Rossingley’s fine brows pinched together. “Yes. That works. If he did return, Talybridge would produce the letter and have Roberts arrested.”

“He could have done that thirty years ago,” Tommy interjected. “Had him arrested and settled the matter once and for all.”

It was an excellent observation. Why didn’t Talybridge simply claim he’d witnessed poor Roberts committing the murder, see the chap hung, and be done with the whole thing? A marquess’s word against a lowly footman?

“He didn’t do it because he knew that the Ashington’s hate scandal,” said Ashington himself. “What if my grandfather had an inkling that he was being cuckolded by Talybridge? There’s talk of a duel, after all.” He held up a finger. “Picture this— If Grandpapa suspected Talybridge of telling an untruth regarding the murderer, he was powerful enough—as a duke—to call the marquess out in a lie. Angry enough too. Talybridge would not have dared risk that. Better that he went along with a servant disappearing and the duke wishing to hush the whole matter up.”

He paced towards the window, deep in thought, then spun on his heel. “What’s more, if Roberts stood in front of Grandpapa and denied the crime, I have a feeling Grandpapa would have believed him over Talybridge. Our servants pride themselves on their fidelity. Most stem from generations of families who’ve served us well. One suddenly taking it upon himself to murder the duchess would be almost as unpalatable as the murder itself. Much easier that the servant simply vanished.”

“Couldn’t Talybridge have paid the footman off? Far simpler than making him disappear.”

“Hmm.” Ashington considered it. “Possibly, except that servants talk. Rumours would soon abound. Remember, they weren’t Talybridge servants at the shooting party, loyal to the Talybridge. They were ours. Loyal to Ashington.” He nodded, allowing himself a small moment of satisfaction.