Page 63 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“HIGHLY IRREGULAR.” DURING his absence from centre stage, Talybridge appeared to have puffed up even more. Mickey wasn’t the only one tormented by suffocating heat; unchecked, a bead of sweat ran down the marquess’s temple.

“Agreed,” stated Campbell-Allen. “You are not required to oblige him in this pantomime, Lord Talybridge.” Glaring at Valentin, he opened his mouth again as if to elaborate.

At that precise moment, Fitzsimmons chose to clear his throat. Loudly.

“Apologies,” he declared most unapologetically. Having drawn Talybridge’s attention, Fitzsimmons tapped over the left breast pocket of his tailcoat. Where the tip of a pocket square would normally sit, a triangle of paper peeked out.

Talybridge scowled at him. Even now, with that piece of paper providing an incentive to cooperate, the man still held on to his arrogance. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat a second time.

“Dry air,” he explained to no one in particular and tapped on the paper again.

“I suppose I shall indulge the damned charlatan.” Oozing with disdain, Talybridge moistened his lips. “Briefly.”

Tommy squeezed Mickey’s hand. “He’ll do more than that,” he whispered. “The bugger believes himself untouchable. He’s about to discover he isn’t.”

“I recall we first met in Florence, my lord,” Valentin began. “At a soirée held in the inner courtyard of the Palazzo Strozzi, I believe. You were with your fiancée and her father. Fun times, were they not?”

“Costly,” asserted Talybridge. “I mislaid an engraved silver snuff box, and you swore it had nothing to do with you. Chesterton footed the champagne bill, as you claimed to have mislaid your purse.”

“And we finished the evening at your luxurious accommodations, swapping stories,” continued Valentin, ignoring the insinuations. “I believe your temporary valet found me a bedchamber for the night; we were so foxed.”

“Hmm.”

“Your point, Beauregard,” interjected Campbell-Allen, sounding tired. “Get to it.”

“I remember one particular tale,” carried on Valentin, dismissing the interruption, “about a…a shooting party?”

“I don’t recall.”

“No?”

“No.”

Valentin inclined his head, the beginning of a smile playing at his lips. “Then allow me to refresh your memory.”

“No. It’s irrelevant.”

“Agreed,” said the judge. “As is talk of parties in Florence. Move things along.”

“Understood.” Hesitating, Valentin chewed on his lower lip. “I…I only mention that evening in Florence as it was the first occasion when I saw the splendid parure on display, worn by your beautiful betrothed.” Searching for Willoughby’s new wife amongst the onlookers, he threw her a dazzling smile, which also somehow succeeded in encompassing every other woman in the gallery. From behind Mickey came the unmistakeable swish of fluttering fans.

“And may I say how magnificently it suited you, Lady Cavendish.” Valentin performed as sweeping a bow as one chained wrist would allow before bashfully lowering his lashes. “Though I daresay beauty such as yours, madame, would shine even through a burlap bag.”

An incomprehensible sound emerged from Talybridge. If looks could kill, then Valentin would be lying dead amidst the wreckage of a battlefield. Campbell-Allen rapped his knuckles on his desk.

“I believe we have exhausted this avenue of questioning, Beauregard.”

“My sincere apologies, Your Honour.” Clasping the fingers of his chained hand in those of the free one, Beauregard was a picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I only thought it worthy of note as—” He frowned as if puzzled by something. “May I ask…how you came by such a splendid piece, Lord Talybridge?” His gaze swept around the public gallery. “I think we’d all be interested in the origins of such a valuable and unique item.”

A couple of “Hear, hear!”s emanated from the gallery. Mickey’s row was quick to join in; Ashington even raised a ducal finger to the judge.

“I, for one, would be fascinated to hear the story,” he declared.

“Then I’m sure the marquess will oblige, Your Grace,” answered Campbell-Allen, smooth as syrup.

“As much as I hate to disappoint His Grace, the parure’s provenance is not the business of this court,” retorted Talybridge, mopping his brow. “Suffice to say the piece belongs in my safe and no one else’s. Especially that of an accomplice to a common thief. We are gathered here today to ensure justice is served, not tattle about evenings spent supping mediocre champagne in bloody Florence.”

He glowered at Valentin. “Get on with it, man, or step down, and let these gentlemen of the jury go about their business.” He smoothed back his thin damp hair. “And somebody get me some water and open a bloody window. It’s as hot as bloody Florence in here too!”