Page 46 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Visions of a fetid, dark dungeon filled Mickey’s head, filthy and overcrowded. Ten or more men—violent, lice-ridden men—packed together like rotten sardines in a fishmonger’s barrel. And in the middle of them, poor hungry Valentin defending his warm coat for as long as he could. Everyone knew the few that survived Newgate crawled away half-starved. Thin strips of mutton once a day if the governor’s gout was quiescent, two-penny worth of bread if not.

Mickey’s fingertips dug into his palms. “They say there is typhus fever amongst the men here.”

Valentin’s dry lips twitched. “Cheery sort of visitor, aren’t you?”

“How much blunt will ensure you are safe and fed?”

The Frenchman blew out a long breath and shifted as if no longer caring. “The prison is overflowing. Decent accommodations are sparse and only secured at an enormous price.”

“I can pay,” Mickey insisted. If he had to go begging to Tommy for blunt, he’d get down on his knees and do it. “Tommy Squire recompenses me well. I shall find whatever it takes.”

“That would be”—Valentin blinked hard, the briefest tremor in his eyelids, a flicker of something raw—“so very kind. At this present moment, all I have to recompense you with for your troubles is a silver tie pin, sitting far too close to my ballocks for true comfort, and three large pearls.”

“Keep them. Who knows when you may need to trade them. I don’t need your coin or your pearls.”

There was a rattle at the door. Too soon, Mickey thought. Too soon.

“It is I who should be I sitting there in shackles, not you,” he urged in a low whisper. “I’m the one who was trying to steal the damned parure. Selflessly exchanging your own freedom for mine is recompense enough.”

Chapter Seventeen

TIME HAD GNAWED at the sheet of paper. Though the edges had stayed crisp, the once-cream half-foolscap was dulled to a weathered beige. A crease ran down the middle, and several tracked horizontally, scars from where Valentin had hurriedly folded it and folded it again. The written words remained clear enough, though, the black ink bold and penned by a confident, tutored hand.

Three times, Mickey read through the tight script before showing it to Tommy, who immediately summoned Ashington, his brother, and then Rossingley. Their disbelief and anger swelled with each word swallowed down.

Ashington, Hampshire. August 8th, 1794

I, Samuel Valentine Roberts, second footman in the employ of His Grace, Twelfth Duke of Ashington, hereby confess to the reprehensible and unwarranted murder of Her Grace, Twelfth Duchess. In sound mind and body, I shot her in the belly until she was dead. I also confess to the theft of two sapphire earbobs and a necklace made up of seven diamonds and eight sapphires belonging to Her Grace and hung about her neck.

May I go to hell a sinner and be at one with the devil.

Samuel Valentine Roberts

“I have questions,” Ashington said at last, hunched over the scrap of paper, his dark eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. He turned it over in his hands as if hoping something new might emerge from the creases. “Several, in fact.”

From the puzzled expressions on the other’s faces, he was not alone.

“Why the blazes would a man confess to murder?” Fitzsimmons, ever the pragmatist, queried. “Nobody confesses to murder, not when the hangman’s noose is the inevitable outcome. Who was this Roberts, and why was his confession hiding in Talybridge’s safe all these years?”

Ashington tossed the letter back on the table. “More pertinently, what the hell has a scoundrel of a French vicomte got to do with any of it?” He rounded on Mickey. “Did he explain himself?”

“No. There was not time. But I believe that Roberts, this footman confessing to the murder of your grandmother, must be Beauregard’s father.”

Ashington’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

“There is no other explanation. Valentin Beauregard told me his father is English. This footman’s middle name is Valentine. He—”

“I’m all for digging to the bottom of this, but that’s a rather big leap,” interrupted Tommy. “The fellow delivering the bread to Squire’s every morning is named Valentine. It’s not that uncommon.”

“Beauregard also told me that his father had to flee England. To avoid being arrested and tried for a crime he didn’t commit. I didn’t pay it much attention at the time—all criminals are wrongly done by, are they not? Yet Beauregard said he’s since endured his entire life hiding in France, a country he purportedly hates, for fear of being detained on his return. It must be the same person. Why else would Beauregard risk everything to retrieve the letter from Talybridge’s safe?”

Tommy’s lips pulled up ever so slightly as if to say: is that really what you expect me to believe? Rossingley’s face adopted a similar expression, one you might find on someone who has heard too many exaggerated tales at the tavern.

“Assuming this Roberts is Beauregard’s father,” Tommy mused, “Beauregard stole the letter outlining his confession to murder because he believes his father innocent.”

“Yes,” Mickey insisted. “I cannot see another explanation.”

“But he didn’t confirm this,” Tommy clarified, “when you saw him at Newgate.”