Page 59 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“They’re all going to miss it if they don’t turn up soon,” Mickey fretted. He peered over his shoulder, fruitlessly trying to spot their friends through the throngs milling behind.

“Ashington and Fitzsimmons are waiting for Talybridge to arrive first.” Rossingley twisted around too. “And if I know Talybridge, he’ll be waiting to ensure the gallery is full prior to his grand entrance. Ah, I do believe he’s finally elected to grace us with his presence.”

Talybridge’s arrival prompted a fresh round of restless murmurings. He took his time about it, pausing to be properly appreciated as if his very attendance was a favour to those around him. Taking a stately path towards the front of the courtroom, he waved his fingers in acknowledgement of a few acquaintances with the lofty condescension of a man who believed himself far above it all but obliged to tolerate the charade anyhow. In that moment, Mickey easily imagined him blasting a shotgun at a lover with the temerity to pick a quarrel with him.

“A pillock of the highest order,” muttered Tommy. “And yet a dangerous one.”

“Quite,” agreed Rossingley. “The very worst kind. As I shall demonstrate to the audience now.” He called out cheerfully, “Good day to you, Talybridge.”

His address was timed to perfection. Halting, the marquess turned on his heel, and his retinue, skulking behind, promptly banged into him. Papers flew in the air, and nearby onlookers tittered as Talybridge swore. No one in the gallery with a pair of functioning eyes could miss his frozen expression of distaste as he realised whom he tarried to greet. Nor could they mistake the ensuing internal battle playing out across his face. What to do? Did he give the highly respected, wealthy Earl of Rossingley a stare of blank refusal—the cut direct—and risk offending the higher echelons of the ton? Or should he practice forced civility with the father of the boy who’d pinched his fiancée from under his nose? Mickey would have found his mental wranglings amusing were the situation for Valentin not so dire.

“Rossingley,” the marquess eventually managed, accompanied by a thousand-needle glare. His cheeks bloomed an unhealthy shade of purple. Ignoring Tommy and Mickey’s polite nods of greeting, he added. “Your presence here is unwarranted.”

Rossingley adjusted his cuffs. “Perhaps, but I quite found myself at a loose end this afternoon.” He displayed his small pointy teeth in a smile Mickey had learned to recognise spelled trouble. “And given that this case shall be the talk of the ton for the rest of the season, I felt I might keep myself abreast of it.”

“The Old Bailey’s not a damned gentlemen’s club where one goes to amuse oneself,” harrumphed Talybridge. “It’s about the serious business of justice.”

“Indeed.” Rossingley beamed. “And one of the founding principles of our country’s marvellous judicial system is that proceedings are conducted in an open, public, and transparent manner. In the interests that the serious business of justice is served.” He spread his arms wide. “Along with everybody else here this fine afternoon, I am simply exercising my rights as a citizen, though, as I was only saying to Mr Maurice a few minutes ago, a courtroom bench is no friend to one’s backside.”

“I’ll…um…” Disconcerted, Talybridge shook himself. “Never mind your backside. If you weren’t bloody Rossingley, I’d tan the one belonging to your son. You planned that elopement.”

Thoroughly enjoying himself, Rossingley’s eyes widened dramatically. “My dear Talybridge, how could that have been possible? I was dancing in the arms of the delightful Mrs Catherine de Villiers all evening in your very own ballroom.” He put a hand over his mouth. “Oops. Not all evening. I distinctly recall a moment when the music paused for us all to examine that rather peculiar painting of yours. A very bold move by the artist, I must say.”

“Codspiffle, Rossingley! And don’t change the subject! Your blasted son and that chit have caused more trouble than they will ever know. Chesterton and I had an agreement dammit; I spent four months sweltering in that Italian furnace they call Florence securing it—Chesterton’s daughter, Miss Anna, and her inheritance, in exchange for access to my shipping routes.”

“Amelia,” corrected Rossingley. “Evidently, she meant a great deal to you.”

Talybridge waved him away. “She was a means to an end. A very profitable end.”

“A business transaction,” returned Rossingley coolly. “And there was I thinking it was a love match.”

“Love is for fools, Rossingley; nothing but a surging of blood in one’s loins. Learned to stay clear of it long ago.”

“How long ago, my lord?” Mickey interrupted. Just because his friends had allocated him to the chorus line didn’t mean he had to stay there. “Ten years ago? Twenty? Or was it thirty?”

A puzzled expression crossed Talybridge’s features. “Who the devil are you?”

Mickey affected a bow. “Michael Maurice, my lord. An associate of Mr Squire. And friend to Lord Cavendish.”

Talybridge’s look of disgust embraced all three of them. If the plan’s aim was to put him in poor temper before taking up his role in court, then it was succeeding.

“Dear Talybridge,” Rossingley placated, stroking his delicate fingers down the other’s arm. Talybridge would have thrown them off if he didn’t have such an attentive audience. “Business transactions come and go,” he continued. “There will be others. Just as there will be other duchesses—sorry, I meant to say marchionesses—to tup.”

A hint of confusion knit Talybridge’s brow as though the world had shifted, very slightly, out of alignment. And then it was gone. “Alas, wealthy American investors do not. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must—”

“If shipping routes were her only value, then Chesterton’s daughter is far better off with my Willoughby. And…ah, speak of the devil! Darling Willoughby is here. Oh, and look! With his new bride too.” Rossingley beamed again as if he had not a care in the world. “He sent word he might stop by. I believe the new Lady Cavendish has declared an interest in the case, given that she’s intimately familiar with the items of jewellery in question. I’m surprised they’ve found the time; they’re awfully occupied setting up their new home, and”—he dropped his voice to a stagey whisper—“between you and me, they’ve scarcely left the bedchamber.”

“Is it any wonder, Lord Rossingley?” Tommy smoothly joined the conversation. “Lady Cavendish is a diamond of the first water. I cannot recall having seen such a beauty in all of London. What say you, Lord Talybridge?”

Mickey had never believed people visibly swelled with anger, though as Talybridge inflated like a toad in front of his very eyes, he now fancied it might be true. The buttons on his waistcoat, taut over a barrel chest bloated with pride and rich living, looked fit to burst.

“Willoughby, darling,” Rossingley cooed around Talybridge’s fit of temper. “And dearest Amelia. Don’t be shy. I have saved you some room on the bench alongside us. The marquess here was just saying how he’s content to let bygones be bygones, and that there are plenty more duchesses—marchionesses—to be found.”

“I’m…um…”

“Come, come, Talybridge,” Rossingley fussed. “Young folk will do what young folk will. The heart cannot be told. Ah, goodness, one invites a couple of chums to a thing like this and they all turn up! Here’s Ashington and Fitzsimmons and— Oh, how marvellous! My dearest pal, Mr Angel. Darling Rollo too! Super! Shuffle along, Mr Maurice, Mr Squire, there’s good chaps. Let’s squeeze everyone in. Kit, you might have to squeeze around the marquess; his feet appear to have ceased working.”

Jostled by Rollo, Kit, and Willoughby, every inch of Talybridge screamed to remove himself as far from Rossingley as possible. Yet not even a marquess in a fit of pique would ever be excused for cutting a duke. Even one with whom one shared mutual loathing.