Page 20 of Thief Taker

Nothing in Rowsley’s rooms suggested a connection to Wessex.

But he supposed that would have been too easy.

As Sharpe had done, he gave the room a quick final glance to make sure everything was left undisturbed and padded over to the bedroom door. Pressing his ear against it, he heard nothing outside but silence, so he cracked the door open, peeked out, and slipped into the empty hallway.

He was disappointed but not surprised to have found nothing. Wessex was a clever man, after all. If he wasn’t, Elias would have tracked him down months ago. And a clever man wouldn’t leave his spoils anywhere so easy to find.

No, he’d have a lair. A secure place to stash things until he could fence them. Elias just had to find it.

Unfortunately, he was obliged to spend the rest of the afternoon hauling furniture around the house, putting the place to rights after last night’s rout. By the time the last of the chairs had been returned to the ballroom, the last of the vases restored to their perches, and the last of the detritus swept away, dusk was falling.

Elias stretched his back and thought, with an unexpected tug of longing, that he’d kill for a pint at The St. Giles Bowl. Something about spending this much time among nobs, and those who bowed and scraped to them, rubbed him up the wrong way. He found himself longing for the honest company of dishonest men. Which was a contradiction that Hal Foxe would have found amusing, and that Elias preferred not to examine.

He’d made his choice the day Hal refused to help him find Will’s killer. That very night he’d walked away from St. Giles and chosen a life on the other side of the law. He’d sworn himself to it on Will’s fresh grave. This occasional loneliness was as nothing to the satisfaction he found in seeing justice meted out to those who’d steal a man’s life as easily as they’d steal a purse of money. But on occasion, he did crave the comfort of being among those who understood him from the bones out. The comfort of home, he supposed.

Perhaps, later, he’d find time for a drink and—

“Cole.”

Tobin strode towards him across the freshly washed floor of the ballroom. Behind him, one of the maids had begun lighting the lamps. They cast a golden light across the room, glancing off the white powder on Tobin’s wig.

“There you are,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any valeting experience?”

Elias laughed, then stopped when he realised Tobin was serious. “Er, no. Something happened to Mr. Sharpe?”

“Mr. Sharpe is Lord Rowsley’s valet.”

“And?”

“And Mr. Duvall needs his own.” He frowned, apparently accosted by an unpleasant thought. “I offered to valet him myself, but he asked for you. He was concerned that my responsibilities were already rather heavy, a concern I appreciate. I warned him that you weren’t likely to have any experience, but…he said he didn’t mind.”

Interesting.

Helping a grown man dress felt ridiculous, but it was curious that Duvall should ask for him particularly. Elias wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, however. “Well,” he said, “I know which way a pair of breeches go on. How hard can it be?”

Tobin’s frown deepened. “If you’re going to be facetious…”

“Not at all.” He offered a smile, warm and reassuring. “I’m sure we’ll muddle through, don’t you worry. Is Mr. Duvall back?”

“No. I understand from Flannigan that he won’t be back until late. Naturally, as his valet, you’ll be required to wait up until his return.”

“Naturally.”

“It’s an honour, Mr. Cole, and a position of great trust.” Tobin fixed Elias with a meaningful look. “Do not abuse it.”

“I won’t.” Because he was aware, too, that it was a position of great use. In fact, he could hardly believe his luck. If Duvall was in on his brother’s business, Elias would discover it. And if he didn’t, proximity to one brother could only help him discover the truth about the other.

However, his sense of good fortune had tarnished considerably by the time the clock in the hall chimed fifteen minutes to one. The chair Tobin had told him to sit on was hard, and the wait was endless. Ridiculous, he grumbled to himself, for a man to sit up for hours waiting to help another man take his own bloody breeches off. Did these nobs realise how absurd they were?

But at last, just after the clock chimed the quarter hour, there came a loud rapping on the door. Jumping up, Elias opened it to a decidedly jug-bitten Duvall.

“Shh…” Duvall pressed a finger to his lips as he swayed on the threshold. “Don’t want to wake the staff. Enough of that with my bloody brother.”

Elias might have laughed at the sight of him had the man looked less morose. Instead, he reached for his arm to steady him. “You’d best let go of the door frame and come inside, then.” He glanced past Duvall to the street beyond, but there was no sign of a friend or even a carriage to see him home. How had he got back? Where had he been? And why was he drunk as a fiddler?

Keeping hold of his arm, Elias said, “That’s it, sir, in you come.”

“I’m rather foxed, I’m afraid.”