Page 49 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Your father would most likely have been shot too, if he had.” Ashington’s voice cracked as he shook his head. “And perhaps then we’d never have known the truth.”

And Mickey would never have known love.

“I heard my father make the same observation,” answered Valentin. “The young gentleman’s behaviour had been unpredictable all afternoon.”

Moistening his lips, he continued. “Drawn to the noise, another gentleman appeared, older, whom my father understood to be the shocked young gentleman’s own father.” Valentin permitted himself a tiny smile. “My father described this chap as astonishingly unperturbed by the scene unfolding. His primary concern was that a lowly servant bore witness to his son’s dreadful lapse in decorum.”

Valentin swallowed drily, giving away that he was more moved by the ghastly tale than he was letting on. “To cut a distressing story short, in amongst all the hoo-ha that followed, the older gentleman escorted my father to his bedchamber, threatened him with a pistol, and forced him to sign a confession to murder, with his motive being the theft of the duchess’s jewellery. With a pistol an inch from his head, my poor petrified father had very little choice but to comply.”

“And then the chap threw your father some blunt, ordered him to scarper, and threatened that if he ever returned to England or told his tale, his confession would be handed over to a magistrate quicker than he could say it wasn’t me, your honour,” finished Mickey.

“Correct.” Valentin threw him a grateful look. “For what it’s worth, my illiterate father can barely sign his own name, let alone pen a confession.”

“Who was this man?” Ashington demanded. “The one who shot my grandmother?”

“There were a lot of guests that weekend, and my father wasn’t privy to his name, Your Grace.” Valentin gave a rueful smile. “He never knew, in fact. But he took his money and hastened to France on a naval boat and made a moderately happy life for himself there.” He gave a rueful shrug. “When I became of suitable age, he told me his story, and I determined to avenge him.”

Ashington’s deep brown eyes bored into Valentin. “By finding the true murderer.”

“Yes. It has taken me many, many years and much money to track him down.”

Money earned by disreputable means, thought Mickey. By stealing and selling the Devil’s Diamonds, amongst others, the profits buying smart manners, a title, a position in European society. But how else could one track down a member of the ton who’d attended a shooting party decades earlier? Especially a shooting party the host never spoke of again. That Valentin had got this far was a minor miracle. The whole enterprise sounded akin to finding a single particular grain of wheat in an entire field.

“How did you finally achieve it?” questioned Fitzsimmons sharply.

Valentin turned to offer him a smile. “At first, I travelled to England many times. Alas, I never came close; the former Duke of Ashington wasn’t much for society.”

“Like the present one,” muttered Ashington.

“Yes, so imagine my excitement when Fitzsimmons here—” Valentin smiled again. “—appeared in Paris one evening?”

“I told you nothing, though you plied me with liquor. I remember that evening well.”

“Precisely.” Valentin nodded. “You and your forebears are all cut from the same cloth. Thus, a year ago, I almost resigned myself to never discovering who the murderer and his father were. Then, by chance, whilst idling the summer months in Florence, I came upon Miss Amelia Chesterton. I attended a ball, whereupon the girl was wearing an unusual and striking parure, which appeared awfully like that which my father had described. It was hardly difficult to ingratiate myself with the Chestertons, and upon deepening that acquaintance, I discovered the parure had been lent to her by her betrothed, a certain…Marquess of Talybridge.” Valentin held out his chained hands, still somehow managing to make the gesture elegant. “The rest, as they say, is history. I sent for my father, who confirmed Talybridge’s identity by contriving to pass the marquess in the street as he exited his bootmakers.” Valentin’s eyes lifted to meet the duke’s. “I have it on my father’s authority that the man is the spit of his deceased father.”

“He is,” Ashington confirmed. “I recollect him.”

The room fell quiet as the weight of Valentin’s story pressed against all of them. Valentin sat calmly, awaiting whatever would come next. That Ashington and Fitzsimmons believed him was no longer in doubt.

“Where is the parure that Miss Chesterton was wearing now?” Ashington asked.

“It was not in the safe.” Valentin’s eyes slid to Mickey. “As Mr Maurice can attest. I did not remove it. The only item of interest to me in that safe was the letter preventing my father from returning to England, which is now in your possession.”

Fitzsimmons snorted disbelievingly. “There were other valuable belongings in the safe. Rings, watches, and money. Given that you loathe Talybridge, and theft is your trade, why did you not take the opportunity to steal those?”

The smallest of smiles glimmered on Valentin’s lips. “Recently, I’ve found my appetite for thieving on a grand scale has been quite ruined. My financial situation is more than comfortable, thanks to…ah…various business matters. Over the last few weeks, other objectives”—again, his mossy gaze flicked to Mickey—“have taken precedence.”

Not entirely ruined, Mickey would have pointed out if they were alone. One didn’t conceal pearls and a tiepin beneath one’s sensitive collywobbles for mere pleasure.

Ashington regarded him with interest. “What other objectives?”

The Valentin Beauregard that Mickey had fallen for had rallied somewhat, despite his dire predicament. He raised his eyebrows at Mickey in a thoroughly roguish manner.

“I came to England seeking revenge on Talybridge. Once taken, I intended to hastily return to France and live out a quiet life in my country home. If my innocence could somehow be proven, that still remains my goal. And yet”—his eyes softened affectionately—“somehow returning there alone feels like it would be less sweet.”

The duke’s innocent gaze darted between the two of them. “Oh…oh. I see. I thought you were simply a…a dalliance. But…ah…jolly good.”

“It is, Your Grace,” Valentin answered, never taking his eyes from Mickey. “Jolly, jolly good.”