Page 14 of Thief Taker

There was a second of uncertain silence, then another. “I, uh…” For the first time, Cole sounded awkward. “It’s probably not my place to approve or disapprove.”

“It certainly is not,” Kit agreed, rising from the table. “And you’d be out on your ear if Tobin heard your impertinence.”

Cole examined his shoes. “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry.”

Kit let him stew for a moment. “I, on the other hand, value candour.” He smiled insincerely. “I value honesty above all things.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be honest with me, Cole, and we’ll get along famously.”

Cole looked up from beneath his brows. “I understand, sir.” Then, with a twinkle of those bright eyes, “In the spirit of honesty, you need some help with your…” He gestured at Kit’s comfortable coat. “You’re not in the country now.”

Surprised, Kit glanced down at himself. Cole wasn’t wrong. He would have to find a valet, but having become used to doing for himself, he was uncomfortable with the idea of a servant in his bedchamber. It was dangerous too, for a man with secrets.

He wasn’t in New York anymore, though, and understood very well the need to dress the part, to do just enough to remain unremarkable. In London—in general—he found that being commonplace was by far the safest course.

“I must call at White’s this morning,” he said, turning towards the door. “Have the coachman bring the carriage around in half an hour.”

Cole gave an unpolished bow. “Yes, sir.”

“And ask Tobin to come to my room.” He sighed. “I suppose I must dress like a gentleman to fight with my brother.”

Chapter 6

“Understand this,” Tobin said, “if you make trouble for Mr. Duvall, I cannot permit you to remain in this household.”

“Me cause him trouble?” Elias said. “It’s his brother you should be talking to.”

“Viscount Rowsley—” Professional discretion cut Tobin short. Frowning, he said, “Mr. Duvall is a fine gentleman and if you make trouble for him—”

“I won’t!” Elias pulled on his footman’s coat. “And you’re right, Mr. Duvall seems like an upstanding gent. I’ve no interest in him at all.”

Well, not that sort of interest.

The thought came unbidden and provoked a secret smile. But no good ever came of those thoughts about highborn folk like Duvall, or Kit as his brother had called him last night. The diminutive suited him, Elias decided.

“…make myself clear?” Tobin asked, scowling under his bushy brows.

“Uh, yes?” Elias glanced towards the door, ready to go out with the carriage and take Duvall to visit his brother. He’d rather stay and poke about the house, but this was interesting in its own way. Clearly, there was trouble afoot—the visit must be something to do with last night’s quarrel.

“Well then.” Tobin indicated the door with a wave of his hand. “Get about your business. The carriage won’t wait for a tardy footman, and Flannigan will have your guts if you’re late.”

On the half hour, as appointed, Elias found himself standing on the back of the coach, waiting for Duvall outside the front of the house. Trussed up in his footman’s livery, the uniform too tight across his back, he felt uncomfortably on show. Like a dancing bear in a waistcoat.

A moment later Duvall appeared at the front door, dressed more appropriately for town. He wore a greatcoat against the cold, his hair tamed beneath a black cocked hat. He ran down the steps from the house and when he reached the carriage he caught Elias’s eye. There was a hint of something in that glance, but Elias couldn’t make out what before Duvall disappeared into the carriage.

He didn’t know a great deal about being a footman, but Elias was fairly certain that nobs didn’t usually exchange looks with their servants. He was still considering what it might mean when he heard a shout from behind.

“Rowsley!”

It was a St. Giles accent and a voice Elias recognised, unfortunately. His shoulders tightened at the approach of trouble.

Flannigan muttered, “Damnation,” and for a moment Elias thought he was going to reach for the horse pistol on the seat beside him. But the coachman just switched the reins with an urgent, “Walk on!”

“Rowsley!” The shout came again.

Turning around, Elias swore beneath his breath. A man wearing a familiar hang-gallows look swaggered towards them: John Bell, one of Hal Foxe’s least pleasant bullies. Bollocks.