Page 51 of Thief Taker

Marlborough lurched down the steps, following. The footmen exchanged a look but didn’t intervene. Elias didn’t blame them.

He couldn’t afford to be so wise and tried to pull Duvall further away, but the stubborn bastard wouldn’t move.

“Out of the way, man,” Marlborough roared at him.

Duvall lunged, but Elias got between them. “No,” he hissed into Duvall’s ear. “This ain’t the way. I’ll help you, I swear it, but not like this.”

“You—” Duvall began and then cut himself off. Elias could feel the fight go out of him all at once, muscles softening under his hands. But his anger didn’t fade. “Damn you, Marlborough,” he snarled, grinding the words between his teeth. “Damn you to the pits of hell.”

Marlborough snorted. “Then I’ll see you there, sir.”

For a moment, Elias thought Duvall would lunge again, but he shook off Elias’s hand instead and stalked away towards Piccadilly. Elias followed, not without a backwards glance. On the steps, Marlborough watched them leave, the silver head of his cane gleaming in the lamplight.

Elias felt cold at the sight of him. A dangerous man indeed.

Duvall’s long legs set a fast pace, and Elias had to run to catch up. “Wait—” he said, coming to walk beside him. “Sir—Duvall, slow down.”

He made no answer, didn’t stop or slow. Didn’t even respond to the informality. There was anger in every line of his body, across his shoulders, in the set of his jaw.

“What happened?” Elias said, dispensing with the last of his false servility.

Again, that resolute bloody silence. Curse the man.

“Duvall, what—?”

“It’s ‘Mr. Duvall’ to you.”

“Is it, now?”

No answer.

Duvall stalked on, the wilds of Green Park disappearing into the fog to their left, and Elias thought to hell with this. Grabbing Duvall’s arm, he yanked him off the street and into the dark of the trees.

“The devil—?”

“Shut up,” Elias snapped, dragging him far enough from the street not to be seen. The air was richer here, earthy beneath the bare branches of a great oak, the fog muting the city’s noise. Satisfied, he let go and rounded on Duvall. Kit. All he could see of him was the scant gleam of his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. For a moment they just stood there, breathing harsh and angry in the loamy silence. Then Elias said, “What the bloody hell was that all about?”

Duvall lifted his chin. “It’s my concern, Cole.”

“Not just yours.”

“A valet wouldn’t—”

“Bloody hell!” Elias shoved him back until he was pressed against the tree, held him there. “What were you thinking? Were you even thinking? He could have killed you.”

Duvall pushed him away, so hard Elias stumbled. “Leave me alone,” he growled, turning back to the road.

“The hell I will!” Elias grabbed him again, hauling him back around.

But this time it was Kit who shoved him against the tree, hands fisting into his coat and holding him there. “Damn you,” he snarled, so close Elias could feel his angry breath against his lips. It made him shiver. The man could be bloody intimidating when he chose. “What the devil do you want from me, Elias?”

“Nothing.” He sucked in a breath, tried to get a hold of his racing thoughts. “I want—I want to help you.”

“Ha!” Duvall tightened his fists in Elias’s coat, his expression sharp. “Help me? Well, I don’t want your help.”

“Maybe not. You need it, though.”

Furious, Duvall jolted him hard against the tree. “I need it?” His knuckles pressed against Elias’s neck, hot against his skin, and his eyes… Dear God, his eyes were fierce. “Maybe you need it.”