Page 43 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“Mr Maurice. You attended the Talybridge ball yesterday evening, did you not?”

“Yes,” Mickey managed to confirm.

“A man fitting your description was seen running from the scene of the crime.”

“A man in evening dress, you mean?” scoffed Tommy. “Why, that could have been anyone!”

“A shortish, slim man with mid-brown hair, wearing a plain dark evening coat. He was limping.” Pearson glared at Mickey’s leg, resting on a stool.

“It was not me,” Mickey insisted, his voice wavering.

“I also wore a plain coat,” Tommy interjected, unruffled. “As did half the chaps I played faro with.” His lips thinned as he folded his arms. “What exactly are you suggesting here, Mr Pearson?”

“Nothing at all.” Pearson smiled blandly. “At this stage, I’m simply ruling out”—he shot Mickey a searching look—“the most likely suspects.”

The muscles in Tommy’s jaw tightened, drawing the whole of his face into something hard and unforgiving. The face of a man who had survived the stews and was now protecting one of his own. “Mr Maurice has been in my employ for five years, Mr Pearson. He is also my cousin and a close friend. Needless to say, I trust him with my life. If he insists that he was not involved in this theft, then I assure you, he was not involved.”

“The theft occurred at just before eight o’clock,” Pearson continued, as if Tommy had never opened his mouth. “Could you apprise me of your movements, Mr Maurice, at approximately eight o’clock?”

“I was…there was a ruckus in the ballroom.” Mickey stalled. “I was in the card room and…and I heard it.” Who had Pearson already interviewed? Any of the men in the card room might vouch that he left just before then, even though the lights flickered on and off. He might have been seen at the back of the ballroom, too, by a servant or another guest. “I…”

“He was with me.”

In a fluid movement, Rossingley rose from his seat. Frostily, he examined Pearson down his long, patrician nose as if finding him wanting. “Between half past seven and half past eight, Mr Maurice was playing faro. Partnering me. The entire time.” He smiled, one of his ominous nonsmiles. Usually, they foreshadowed a Rossingley victory. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr Pearson.”

“No.” Pearson appeared irritated by the interruption. “And you are?”

Silence. Rossingley wasn’t accustomed to introducing himself. Those of his station in society tended to be introduced to others by a third party.

“May I present Orlando Duchamps-Avery, Earl of Rossingley,” Tommy supplied eventually.

Pearson’s lips puckered into a first-rate impression of a dog’s arse. Mickey wagered the runner was not an admirer of fops and dandies. Especially aristocratic ones intent on buggering up his investigation.

“I was also playing faro,” a deep, sonorous voice chimed. This time, Ashington climbed to his feet. Mr Pearson was possibly the only man within a mile of St James who didn’t know who he was.

“Ashington,” Tommy obliged, jerking his head towards his lover. “The fourteenth Duke of Ashington. And hopeless faro partner. We were down thirty pounds after four hands against these two, weren’t we, Ashington?”

“Lost forty-two pounds in total, old chap,” said Ashington breezily. “Some might say we were robbed.”

A few beats passed during which Pearson’s shoulders sagged, and Ashington tried not to look too pleased with his little joke. The runner’s eyes, blurry behind his eyeglasses, switched between the two imposing aristocrats lending solidity to pure wind. He was powerless to do a darned thing about it. To call out an earl in a lie was, at best, grounds for instant dismissal, and worst, lifelong unemployment. To question a duke’s version of events was tantamount to bashing one’s brains out with a blunderbuss. Smart enough to know he’d reached a dead end, Pearson gusted out a long breath and performed a reluctant low bow.

“Your Grace. My Lord. Please accept my most humble apologies. I fear I have wasted everyone’s time.”

Mickey would almost have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t so overcome with relief.

“Not at all, Mr Pearson.” Rossingley smiled, a real one this time, showing all of his small pointy teeth. He ushered the man towards Sidney, who opened the door. “No harm done. You were simply doing your duty. After all, we’re all here to serve the King, are we not?”

“Good God. I know the sun is yet to creep over the yardarm, but is it too early for a brandy?” Ashington strode over to a neat row of decanters. “I always find the line between morning and afternoon rather arbitrary anyway, don’t you? Anyone joining me?”

“Gadzooks, yes. Make mine a large one.”

They clinked glasses. Ashington, flopping back into a chair, took a sizeable gulp. “Hard liquor before lunch. What have I become?”

“A robust defender of me.” Mickey’s hands still shook far too much to manage a drink without covering himself in it. “Thank you. To both of you.”

“None of us would have left you exposed like that,” Rossingley insisted. “That’s what friends are for, darling.”

“Here, here,” harrumphed Ashington, chinking glasses again with the earl. “But…but I lied! To a principal officer! Obstructing the administration of justice. Me, a duke!”