Page 58 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“What?” Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “Am I a child now?”

“No, but you are as precious as one to me.”

“And you to me. I want to help!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Valentin shuffled closer. “Listen, mon amour. You did enough last time, attempting to steal the parure. Ashington says that Pearson—the runner—may be called as a witness. There is suspicion over your head already. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have you anywhere near the courtroom.”

“I’m coming,” Mickey said stubbornly. “And you can’t stop me.”

Valentin gave his chains a regretful shake. “I know.”

“I still can’t see how you will be free in all of this. A distraction, you say. Even Rollo Duchamps-Avery can’t paint a moustache on a living, breathing judge. And even if he did, how will it assist you?”

Valentin put a finger to his mouth. “My lips are sealed. Ashington needs those not involved to behave naturally, otherwise the judge, the guards, and Talybridge will realise everything is not as it seems.”

Mickey huffed. Behave naturally. What did that even mean when one’s lover had one foot already on the steps leading up to the gallows? There was no secret recipe, no elusive cocktail of behaviour that would make Talybridge confess to murder, Ashington to keep his parure, and Valentin to walk away free. The plan was nothing but a pipe dream, a distant flickering star, forever just beyond the reach of Mickey’s outstretched hand. Behave naturally? For all the good it would do, he might as well dance a hornpipe down The Mall.

Chapter Twenty-Two

ACCORDING TO ROSSINGLEY, who knew these things, the Old Bailey boasted two courtrooms, the second, a necessary recent addition thanks to a mushrooming of windy barristers who enjoyed nothing more than the sound of their own pompous deliberating. Personally, Mickey thought it was more likely a consequence of burgeoning crime rates, but what did he know?

Valentin’s case would be heard in the bigger Old Court, to accommodate public interest, a fact which made Mickey feel a little bit sick. He’d never stepped foot in any courtroom and was starting with the most fearful of all, its vaulted ceiling and echoey chambers shadowed by the weight of centuries of justice and injustice alike.

“Don’t let this place bully you, darling,” Rossingley whispered, reading his mind as they took their seats on a row at the front of the packed public gallery. No mad jockeying for position for them; Ashington’s Eight had the entire front row reserved by virtue of Ashington expressing his interest in the case. The only people with a superior view would be those playing key parts in the whole proceedings.

“Just pretend we’re in the cheap seats at Drury Lane.” The earl wriggled on the hard narrow bench. “And very much not the royal box. Gadzooks. I should have brought a cushion.”

Mickey would perch on a pinhead if it meant Valentin walked free. Nonetheless, Rossingley was right about likening it to a theatre. Ranks of polished wooden pews fanned out and up behind them, disappearing into the dim recesses, whilst ahead lay the small stage. The twelve men of the jury would line up immediately to the right of it, leaving the stage empty, set for the prosecution’s performance. Presiding over all, behind an imposing carved oak desk, would reside the judge, whilst directly opposite him, the defendant’s box loomed, a sturdy, almost menacing structure.

“Let’s hope we’ve tickets to a drama, not a tragedy.” Mickey shivered, despite the heat radiating from the crowds squished onto the rows behind.

“Neither. It will be a farce,” Rossingley predicted. “Talybridge shall be the sculptor of his own downfall, you’ll see. Beauregard shall tie him in knots, and the carefully nurtured web he’s woven around himself will spring open. He’s so puffed up on his own self import; he’ll never see it coming.”

“And yet Valentin may still be tried and found guilty.” Mickey swallowed against the ever-present tide of tears.

Tommy, flanking him, put a consoling hand in his. “Have faith, sweet cousin, have faith. There is a plan. There is always a plan.”

“With me in the role of useless observer,” Mickey retorted petulantly. “Valentin is fighting for his life, and the three of us are not playing a part.”

“Speak for yourself.” Rossingley smiled his glittering smile. “I’m here to rattle Talybridge so much he’ll fear for the integrity of his teeth. And Tommy is here, as ever, to provide Ashington with a much-needed source of courage.”

“Just me then,” replied Mickey, even more petulantly.

Rossingley tutted. “Your presence, my darling, is paramount. It serves to remind our dashing Frenchman of all he has to lose.”

*

ONE MINUTE, MICKEY was trying to control an urge to cast up his accounts as he waited for Valentin to appear, and the next Valentin was there, stood in the dock and shackled by one slim wrist to a solid iron ring. An immediate hush reverberated around the courtroom, followed by shifting feet and murmured cries as folks craned their necks over the rows in front and stretched up onto tiptoes to gawp at him. As if Valentin were an exhibit in the Royal Menagerie with droves of visitors pressing their faces against the bars, pointing their fingers. As though they could decide his guilt or innocence just by watching him move.

Despite growing excitement amongst the spectators, Valentin appeared utterly unmoved. Three burly guards arranged themselves in a semicircle behind him, blocking the brick passage back to Newgate. As if he’d ever want to escape in that direction. He spoke to one of them, briefly, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips—almost as though he’d seen it all before. His gaze, distant yet sharp, wandered over the courtroom, only softening when it landed on Mickey. He brought the fingers of his free hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against them.

“And half the gallery swoons,” Rossingley pronounced drily. “The ladies of the ton would be delighted to have him thieve their most intimate trinkets, and plenty more besides.”

If Valentin was nervous, he showed no sign. His lips moved as he spoke to the guards a second time, though his eyes, shrewd and calculating, continually swept across the floor before him. It was almost as if he was tracing every line, every curve, every doorway and corner, and committing them to memory.

The members of the jury trooped in next, sombrely clothed in black coats and officiousness. Hailing from the middling ranks of society, they were merchants, professionals, wealthier shopkeepers, tradesmen, and artisans. None of those men could possibly have avoided some knowledge of the case, and as their eyes darted towards the prisoner in the dock and his finely dressed friends filling the front row, Mickey prayed they hadn’t already judged Valentin’s character and found it wanting before they were even presented with the evidence.

A court clerk scurried in behind them to take up a corner adjacent to the judge’s throne, ink-stained fingers poised above his notes, ready.