Page 49 of Thief Taker

And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Hartwell said, “Circumstances in which you’re not a highway robber and he’s not a thief taker?”

“Or I’m not the son of a peer and he’s not the son of a blacksmith.”

“And manna falls from heaven.” Hartwell poured another drink, the neck of the bottle clinking against his glass. “You want to know him better? Lie in the grass and stare at the stars together, perhaps? Read poetry to him in front of the fire? Compose an ode to his soft brown eyes—”

“His eyes aren’t brown. You’re being a devil.”

“And you’re being a hot-blooded fool. What you want is to tup him. So go ahead, if you must. Take him to bed and be done. But make sure you use it to your advantage.”

Kit allowed a wry smile. “Well, he doesn’t want that. He’s made it clear. And he’s right, that’s the devil of it.” He pushed a hand through his hair, trying not to remember the feel of Elias’s body as they wrestled tonight. “He’s absolutely right. Madness to even think of it.”

“And yet clearly you are.”

Kit glared.

“Look, if you’re not going to tup him, get him out of your house. And for God’s sake get him out of your thoughts. It’s dangerous, this distraction, it’s making you even more rash than usual.”

But Kit shook his head. “I need to keep him close, where I can see him. It’s safer that way.” He knocked back a mouthful of whiskey. “I’m a grown man. I’ll keep a hold of myself.”

Ned snorted.

“Very funny.”

“Another, then?” Ned lifted the bottle of whiskey. “We’ve fifteen guineas apiece to toast.”

Kit huffed a weary laugh and lifted his glass. “To small victories.”

“Small victories,” Ned repeated, knocking their glasses together. “And vengeance on the bastards who’ve wronged us.”

Kit knocked back his drink and held his glass out for another.

Chapter 17

A strange kind of energy hummed beneath Elias’s skin as he walked back to Curzon Street. Every so often, he’d check over his shoulder but caught no sight of Wessex.

Or Rowsley, if it were him.

Twice now, they’d scuffled, and each time Elias had been left with a hot, unsatisfied tension. This time was worse and he found himself angrily kicking at stones as he walked, a growing need for the release of a fight.

Not that he’d get one in these parts; London was growing increasingly respectable the further west he walked. Between St. Giles and Mayfair, the city shifted from degrading poverty to shabby respectability, and finally to obscene wealth and grandeur.

Three worlds within half an hour’s walk.

By the time he reached Curzon Street, the sky was fully dark. The fight in St. Giles hadn’t been kind to his clothes, and he spent a good half an hour cleaning off his boots in the mews behind the house. Then he sneaked inside in his stockinged feet, left his muddy greatcoat by the door, fetched an ewer of water, and hurried up the back stairs to his room. There, he washed the grime from his hands, and from his face where Wessex had pressed him hard against the alley wall.

He could still remember the hard weight of Wessex’s body against his back, the hot, rapid breaths stirring the hair on the back of his neck. The furious whisper in his ear.

What if I am justice?

Elias shivered, no doubt because the water was cold.

His coat had been spared much damage, but he spent a few minutes sponging dirt from his breeches. He didn’t have a spare pair, and Tobin wouldn’t tolerate anything less than presentable. Then he changed into white stockings, retied his neckcloth, and combed his hair. It was the best he could do.

But when he came downstairs, he realised something was different. The servants’ hall was too quiet. Poking his head into the kitchen, he found Cook sitting at the table with a vinegary expression on her face.

“Mr. Duvall missed his dinner,” she told him in answer to his unasked question. “Without even a by-your-leave.”