Page 105 of Thief Taker

The weight of the pistol hung heavy in his coat—Wessex’s pistol. Kit’s pistol. He’d been aware of it the whole ride down, smouldering like a coal that had fallen from the grate onto the hearthrug. Not dangerous yet, but with potential. Hal’s words felt the same; Elias had been turning them over in his mind since he’d left the Brewery.

Of the two, who’s more deserving of the gallows?

He hadn’t settled on an answer, but he was here, nonetheless. That must mean something.

Quietly, he slipped into the inn through the side door. The skills of a thief taker, he’d long ago discovered, mirrored the skills of a thief.

Inside was darker than outside, and much quieter. Yet the inn breathed around him: a snore from somewhere above, the tick of a cooling range, the creak of old timber settling. He stood and listened until he was satisfied, then crept quietly up the stairs.

The corridor was narrow and low-ceilinged, with two doors facing each other across it. Front left, as he’d expected, and one directly opposite it, a closed door with a thread of darkness beneath it. No light, no sound. Marlborough’s footman, most likely, sleeping close enough to hear his master call.

Close enough to hear other things too.

He’d need to be quick, and quiet.

He put his hand on Marlborough’s door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked; a man like Marlborough would lock his door as a matter of course. The lock resisted Elias’s first two picks and he crouched lower, slowing down despite everything in him wanting to hurry, feeling for the pins. The lock was better than average—the George clearly kept decent ironmongery for its guests. But he’d known worse and after a few minutes something in the lock shifted, gave, and Elias stood. Carefully, he eased the handle down, applying the steadiest pressure he could manage.

The door swung open without a sound.

Inside, it was darker still. The fire had burned down to almost nothing, and shapes emerged slowly from the gloom as his eyes adjusted. The grey light at the window’s edge revealed a washstand, a chair with a coat draped over it, and a writing table by the window with a leather bag on top. And against the far wall, the bed, a shape in it breathing slowly and evenly.

Elias eased the door shut behind him and crossed to the writing table.

The bag wasn’t locked. He went through it carefully, by touch, finding a letter, a pocket book, a heavy purse, and papers. Carefully, he drew the papers out and held them to the window.

The first document was thick, folded. He could make out enough: conveyance of the estate and lands known as Ashbourne Abbey. And beneath it, folded separate, the disentailment deed. He held both of them and something loosened in his chest, just briefly, before the breathing behind him changed.

He heard it shift from sleep to something lighter, more aware, and then Marlborough’s voice came out of the dark.

“Who’s there?”

Elias didn’t answer, turning his body away from the window. Marlborough was already sitting up, reaching for the thing he kept at the head of the bed; he was never without his cane.

The cane that had killed Hawker.

Marlborough got to his feet faster than Elias expected for a man of his size.

“A thief,” he said, with relish. “In my room. Damned unfortunate. For you.”

He charged without warning, swinging viciously for the knees. Elias got his arm down, took it on the forearm, and the impact cracked up to his shoulder. He thought, with a beat of horror: that’s what Hawker felt. He moved back. Marlborough came with him, no hesitation, and the second swing was higher. Elias ducked under it and drove his elbow hard into the man’s ribs.

Marlborough grunted, staggered back, stumbling over something on the floor.

He glanced down. “The deeds! You came for the damned deeds to Ashbourne.” His hard gaze found Elias in the dark. “You’re that blasted footman. Duvall sent you, did he? After he failed on the Bath Road, I’ll wager.”

Elias said nothing, but his stomach pitched. Marlborough knew.

“Or you came yourself, for Duvall.” He said it slowly, piecing it together. “Bedding you, is he?”

Another swing of the cane.

Elias caught it in both hands, the silver head stopping an inch from his face. They stood there, both gripping it, breathing hard. Close enough that Elias could see him clearly—and see that Marlborough wasn’t afraid. Not of someone like Elias. He was too impressed with himself to fear anyone. Always the bully. Always the brute. Always the victor.

Abruptly, Marlborough let go of the cane with one hand and punched Elias in the face.

His head went back, grip loosening. Marlborough wrenched the cane free and hit him with it across the shoulder. Wrong angle, a wild swipe. Elias went sideways and down, grabbing for the chair by the fire. It went over, taking both of them with it. He hit the hearthrug hard on his hands and knees, breath knocked clean out of him.

Marlborough moved above him, breathing heavily.