Page 23 of Thief Taker

“I can’t walk away. No matter what he’s done, James is my brother.”

He should have just said ‘Yes, sir.’ It was on the tip of his tongue. But the thought of Duvall blundering around trying to help his brother made him wince. If he went looking for Hal Foxe, he’d get his head caved in before he reached Bainbridge Street. As for Marlborough, Elias suspected he was no better than Hal—worse, in fact. More subtle; less principled. A hunter. Elias had seen the need for violence in his eyes, and the love of it.

Besides, and he squirmed as he thought it, what better way to uncover the truth about Rowsley than by using his brother to get closer? When it came right down to it, he’d be a fool to do otherwise.

And Elias Cole was no fool.

“Let me help you, sir.”

Duvall looked astonished. “Help me how?”

“I have…certain associates in St. Giles. I could see what they know about your brother’s situation. St. Giles is no place for a gent like yourself, sir.”

Duvall gave a bleak, self-mocking laugh. “Quite so.” But then his expression changed, growing sharper. “But why should you help me, Cole? Rather beyond the remit of a valet.”

Elias paused, concerned suddenly that Duvall suspected something. Carefully, he said, “Is it? I ain’t never been a valet before.” He smiled. “Truth is, sir, I shouldn’t like to see you get your head bashed in. Where else would I find a position like this?”

Another of those startled laughs. “Where indeed?” After a thoughtful pause, Duvall added, “Perhaps it is in both our interests to collaborate…” He lifted a hand before Elias could say anything. “You should know that I intend to stop my brother. For the sake of my family, I must. Nothing is more important to me.”

Elias offered a bow. “I understand, sir. And will do all in my power to help you.”

Duvall considered him carefully before he said, “Thank you, Cole.”

Elias offered a slight bow. “Goodnight, sir.”

But as he closed the door behind him, he had to stop to take a breath.

Sometimes, after a snowfall, his father would take him and Will to Hampstead Heath, and they’d go flying down the hill on a tin tray. The exhilaration of dashing down the slope, helpless to stop, with the wind in his hair and his stomach balled into knots was not one he’d ever forgotten. And he felt something like it now, something like that moment at the top of the hill with the intense desire to fly down pounding in his chest, all tied up with the thrill and the danger of the ride.

It was probably madness to encourage Duvall’s confidence, to suggest any kind of partnership. It risked revealing his true purpose in Curzon Street—and, if he wasn’t careful, rather more than that too.

But he could no more turn back now than he could have done at the top of that hill, despite the danger of the ride. In fact, because of the danger of the ride.

Chapter 8

Kit awoke to the armed revolt of head and stomach. The thought of staggering to the privy was intolerable, so he opted for lying perfectly still in the dark and hoping it would all go away. He passed the time inventing curses for Hartwell and his wretched raw whiskey.

At some point, the door opened and he smelled the sickening aroma of chocolate. His stomach rolled and he growled something incoherent and was left alone again.

Shortly afterwards, his persecutor returned, but this time accompanied by a faintly acrid herbal scent. “Come on, sir, up with you,” said a voice.

Cole. It had to be Cole; no one else would speak to him so.

“This will help.”

Kit peeled open one eye; the vague outline of a man hovered next to his bed. “Go away,” he said, or tried to say. It came out little more than a groan.

He got no reply, but a moment later the curtains were swept back to let in the cold morning light. Kit flung an arm over his eyes to keep his brain from burning. “For the love of God!”

“Here,” Cole said, “sit yourself up. Unless you need a hand?”

“I don’t need—” It was humiliating enough, without being helped like an invalid. Squinting, Kit forced himself to sit up and accept the steaming cup of… “What is this?”

“Special recipe,” Cole said. “Good for what ails you.”

Kit sniffed at it, nose wrinkling. “It smells like dead leaves.”

“Just drink it down. You’ll feel better.”