Page 19 of Thief Taker

As he closed the door quietly and stood in the empty back corridor, he heard voices coming from further along. From the butler’s pantry, in fact. One of those voices he recognised as Tobin, the other, younger voice was unfamiliar.

“…it’s not the custom of this house to facilitate gaming, Mr. Sharpe.” Tobin’s voice rose with every word. “The earl is a devout man.”

“The earl isn’t here,” said the other. “But the viscount is, and it’s his desire to gather his friends here next week.”

While Tobin blustered, Elias crept closer. Close enough that he could see through the half-open door.

Tobin sat at his desk, an array of silver to be polished laid out before him. The other man—Sharpe, presumably—lounged against the window frame, ankles crossed. He was well turned out, immaculate in a servant’s black coat and breeches, his cuffs and stockings spotless, silver buckles shining at his knees.

“And does his lordship have the means to pay for it?” Tobin asked, lowering his voice. “Unless we pay the creditors soon, we won’t be able to—”

“Of course.” Sharpe waved the matter away. “That won’t be a problem.”

Elias’s ears pricked up.

“It’s been a problem for the last two years,” Tobin said. “I can’t see that much has changed, Mr. Sharpe.”

“You may be the butler in this house, Mr. Tobin, but I am Viscount Rowsley’s valet. Everywhere. As such, I am privy to certain information that you are not.” Sharpe stood up straighter, clearly very satisfied with his position. “It’s not our place to debate his lordship’s decisions, Mr. Tobin, simply to follow his instructions—which you are receiving from me. Le Grand Jeu will take place here on Friday week. I’ll inform the viscount that you’re making the necessary arrangements.”

Tobin’s ruffled feathers were almost audible, but Elias didn’t linger to hear his reply. Edging back from the doorway, he made a dash for the stairs and headed up.

He’d heard enough.

If Rowsley’s fortunes had changed, Elias intended to find out how.

Making the most of the viscount’s absence, Elias headed to his bedchamber. He paused at the door, but there was no sign of movement from within. So, glancing up and down the corridor, Elias slipped inside. It was a neat room, almost sparse—like a guest room—but opulent, with a large bed and velvet curtains at the windows. Elias turned in a slow circle, considering where to look. If he were Wessex, where would he hide his stolen goods? Somewhere the servants wouldn’t stumble over them. There was a writing desk by the window, and he tried the drawers. The first one opened but revealed nothing beyond blank paper, a few scraped quills, and a pen knife. The second one was locked.

That was more like it.

He searched for a key, but there was none, so he crouched down and examined the lock. Simple. Fishing his picks from his pocket, he had the drawer open in a moment. Of course, he didn’t really expect to find it full of stolen jewels and gold coins. And it wasn’t. Instead, he found letters. Lots of letters, all in the same hand. Love letters, perhaps? He unfolded one at random and began to read.

Sunday, 7th December

My dear James,

I trust you are in good health and have received my recent letters. I imagine your replies have fallen victim to the terrible roads this winter, though the mud does not seem to have delayed the correspondence from your creditors who are most assiduous and write frequently.

I must beg you, again, to return to Ashbourne. There are matters here that need your urgent attention and upon which a mere sister is, unfortunately, not empowered to act.

Yours etc, Charlotte

So, Rowsley and Duvall had a sister, and a lady none-too-pleased with her brother. A quick look at some of the other letters confirmed they were all from Charlotte, and in a similar vein: pleas for Rowsley to return, for his creditors to be paid, for him to write with news. Some of her more recent letters, Elias noticed, had not even been opened. All in all, they confirmed his opinion of the viscount and the deep financial water in which he was floundering. They did not, however, prove he was Wessex.

Shoving the drawer shut again, Elias considered the bed. Under the mattress, perhaps? It was the oldest of tricks, but in his experience, people were very unimaginative when it came to hiding their valuables. And a man might easily keep a purse of money there, or a stolen necklace or two. Elias was a step away from the bed when he heard a noise in the corridor outside. He froze as the door handle moved.

Shit.

He had two choices: brazen it out or hide.

Elias dropped to the floor, rolling under the bed, and pressing himself as close as possible against the back wall. He held his breath as the door opened and a pair of legs stepped into the room. Black shoes and stockings, silver buckles at the knee: Sharpe. The valet’s footsteps moved away, another door opened—the dressing room—and Elias heard a closet door swing open and closed. Then the legs were back, moving closer to the bed. Elias wanted to screw shut his eyes. If he were caught hiding under the bloody bed, he’d be out on his ear and that would be that. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

A whisper of sound as Sharpe smoothed a crease out of the bed cover, then came the glass clink of a decanter being unstoppered and topped up. The stopper was returned, and Sharpe’s feet walked back to the bedroom door. He paused there, as if checking the room was as he wished, and then left, closing the door behind him.

Silently, Elias let out a breath and rolled from beneath the bed, scrambling to his feet. On the table next to the bed sat a glass decanter, now filled with ruby wine, and he remembered the sight of Rowsley sloshing the stuff over his fingers as he’d argued with Duvall last night.

Clearly the viscount liked his decanter kept well-filled. If he was Wessex, it was a wonder he was ever sober enough to keep his seat on the bloody horse.

Keeping one eye on the door, Elias checked under the pillows, then ran his hands beneath the mattress. Nothing. After that, he slipped into the dressing room and searched the closets and drawers. He even checked the pockets of dozens of coats hanging up—how many could one man possibly need?—all to no avail.