Page 16 of Thief Taker

For a moment longer they stood staring at each other in silent confrontation, and then Duvall frowned and climbed back into his carriage. “Carry on,” he told Flannigan.

“Aye, sir,” said the coachman and turned back to his horses.

Elias had to run to catch the carriage before it joined the morning’s traffic.

Standing on the back, he spent half the juddering trip through town thinking that gentlemen should learn to say thank you to men who kept their heads from being caved in, and the other half trying not to think about the curious expression he’d glimpsed in Duvall’s angry eyes—that spark of something dangerous and knowing.

As the carriage moved off, Kit sat perfectly still and let out his breath slowly. His white-knuckled fingers gripped the seat, much as he was gripping his temper.

Borrowing from moneylenders. Bringing violence and shame to their doorstep.

His heart thumped painfully. Thank God his father wasn’t… There were few blessings to the earl’s infirmity, but this was one: he would never know how far James, the favourite son, had fallen. Or how much he had dragged down with him.

At least, Kit hoped he wouldn’t. God only knew what James had told him during his visit to Ashbourne.

As for Cole, Kit knew his game. He was trying to win Kit’s trust, perhaps hoping Kit would betray himself. He’d seen that particular tactic used before. Even so, defending him like that had been surprising. Cole fought with the brutal efficiency of a man used to brawling, proof had Kit needed it that he was no footman. But it irked him that Cole had intervened, that he’d thought Kit in need of his protection.

He’d been a soldier for three years. He needed nobody’s protection.

The carriage rattled on and Kit’s breathing slowed, his clenched fingers relaxing their grip on the seat. His thoughts returned to James, and to their upcoming conversation.

Confrontation.

While he’d been away, Charlotte had tried to protect him from the truth, but since his return, it had all become horribly clear. James had lived far in excess of his income for years, and had run up gaming debts that he could not pay. Worse than that, when his supply of ready cash had dwindled, he’d started selling off the family assets. Property, land, possessions.

Their late mother’s jewels were gone. As was Charlotte’s fortune, and with it her hopes of marrying as she chose. And the clamour of the creditors was only getting louder, so loud it had reached Ashbourne Abbey, the earl’s ancestral seat. Their staff was diminished, the house mostly shut up, and the doctor’s bills only grew.

James had to be stopped, no matter the cost.

“Mr. Duvall?” Kit jolted out of his thoughts at the sound of Cole’s voice. He was holding open the carriage door—they were already at White’s.

Embarrassed to have been so lost in thought, he quickly stepped out of the coach. Ignoring Cole, he ran up the steps to White’s. He was a member, of course, but had rarely attended before he left for America. And never since his return.

“I would like to see my brother,” he told the club steward, handing over his coat, hat and gloves to a footman. “Viscount Rowsley.”

The man’s eyes widened, slightly. “Mr…Duvall?”

“The very same. Is my brother here?”

“Ah… Lord Rowsley is currently in one of our private rooms on the second floor—”

Kit didn’t wait for him to finish. “Thank you,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time and ignoring the polite protests of the steward. Kit’s fury at the assault by the street ruffian, at being defended by Cole, only sharpened his anger towards James. He’d speak to him now and didn’t give a damn if he was still abed.

There were three rooms on the second floor, and he strode to the one his brother favoured. He’d roused him from it more than once. Today, Kit entered without the courtesy of knocking. It was dark inside and the air thick, musky with brandy, smoke and the reek of dissipation. Kit wrinkled his nose, but refused to be put off. Daylight seeped around the heavy velvet curtains and Kit stalked towards them, sweeping them wide. “James,” he said, whirling around to face him. “Get up.”

“Christopher?” James pushed up onto his elbows, bleary and the worse for drink. “What the devil…?”

“We must talk.”

With a groan, he dropped back onto the bed. “About what?”

“About why you visited Ashbourne.”

James went still. “Ah.”

“I’ve had a letter from Charlotte.” Kit kept his voice even, despite his anger. “Why were you there?”

With a sigh, James sat up again, his dark curls falling past his shoulders. “Visiting our beloved father, of course.”