Page 3 of Thief Taker

These days, Kit knew all about such things.

He nodded a greeting as he passed the parlour door, but she called his name, stopping him. “Mr. Duvall? A moment, please.”

She rose from the chair and crossed the room, one of the little ones on her hip. “There’s a letter come for you, sir,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her apron.

Kit stilled. A letter for him, here?

“There you go,” Mrs. Coolidge said, offering him the crisp folded letter.

He relaxed, but only a fraction, when he recognised the writing. It was from his sister, Charlotte.

With a shameful sense of reluctance, he took the letter. No need to read it; it would say the same as always. News of his father’s worsening health, of the mounting doctor’s bills, and a reluctant request for more money to help pay the few staff remaining at Ashbourne Abbey.

Money he did not have, thanks to last night’s disaster at The Red Lion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Coolidge,” he said, tucking the letter into his pocket. “Much appreciated. Good day to you.”

Outside, the morning was dank and chill, coal smoke heavy in the misty air. For a moment, he longed for the clear, cold air of New York with its sharp blue skies and golden leaves.

But then he remembered Francis, smiling bitterly in the sunlight, and the memory froze harder than the morning.

Better to leave such memories in the past where they belonged.

Pulling on his gloves, he flexed the fingers of his left hand, sore from the blow he’d landed on the Bow Street man chasing him last night. By nature, Kit was not a violent man, but he could fight if he had to—and he couldn’t allow himself to be captured, his identity revealed. Not with his family’s survival hanging by a thread. There’d been a time, before his hell-blasted brother had decided to destroy everything, when he could have weathered almost any scandal. Indeed, he had. Now, though, everything was different.

He turned his feet towards The Wig and Pen, not looking forward to facing Hartwell; he’d lost the pocket watch and garnet dress ring when he’d fled The Red Lion last night. It meant he’d need to ride out again if he was to have a hope of giving Charlotte anything this month. Not that he objected to taking more money from the devils who fleeced his brother at the gaming tables, but each robbery was a risk and the more risks he took the greater the chance of capture. Last night’s encounter proved the point.

I’ve got your scent, the Bow Street man had yelled after him.

As a boy, Kit had watched his father ride to hounds. Last night, he’d fled like a fox and hadn’t enjoyed the chase one bit. Hunching deeper into his coat he walked on, trying not to jump at every shadow in the fog.

The Wig and Pen was already open, and he was met by a fug of moist heat and tobacco-smoke as he stepped into the public house. He made his way through the tables, sparsely populated this early, keeping his hat low so as to avoid any greeting. These were Hartwell’s compatriots, pinch-faced colonists driven from their homeland with little more than the shirts on their backs, huddling together for mutual support in a city indifferent to their plight.

Kit met the innkeeper’s eye over the heads of his customers and gestured towards the room at the back of the inn. The innkeeper gave a curt nod and carried on about his business; the less he knew about what went on in that room the better for all concerned.

With a rasp the inside bolt was drawn back, and the door opened a crack. A pale eye and a slice of smile appeared behind it and then the door opened fully. “You look grim,” Hartwell said.

“I know. Let me in.”

Ned Hartwell opened the door and let Kit slip inside, closing and locking it behind them. The room was small. A couple of wooden chairs sat around a crooked table, a measly fire burned in the grate, and the window high in the back wall was grubby and cracked.

Hartwell ran a hand over his hair, worn unpowdered and tied back in a queue. “Trouble?”

“Yes.” Sinking into one of the chairs, Kit dropped his head into his hands. “Men from Bow Street raided The Red Lion last night.”

“Mother of God, Kit.” His American inflection stretched the vowels long, making him sound angrier. “I told you not to go there. I warned you it wasn’t safe.”

“You did. I’m sorry.” Kit couldn’t quite meet his friend’s eyes. “I lost the watch and the ring.”

Hartwell said nothing, simply walked to the mantel and picked up the bottle of whiskey that sat there. “Here,” he said as he returned to the table, setting the whiskey and two glasses down between them.

Kit reached for the bottle, poured a measure into each glass, and threw back a mouthful. It was cheap and raw. “I’ll have to ride out again.” He glanced at Hartwell’s wary face. “It’s too soon, I know. I understand if you don’t want to take the risk, but I must. For my sister’s sake, I must.”

“How much do you need this month?”

He sighed. “Charlotte wrote to me again this morning.” He pulled the letter from his pocket, tapped it against the table. He hardly dared open it.

Hartwell watched him across the table. “You’ll find ignorance is rarely bliss,” he said. “Better to know the worst.”