Page 71 of Thief Taker

“That was for luck,” Elias said, breathless.

But Kit didn’t let go. Instead, he hauled Elias back in and murmured, “So’s this,” before he kissed him again.

When he let go, Elias took a flustered step backwards. Damn, but the man could drive him to distraction and the pleased little smile on Kit’s lips told Elias he bloody well knew it.

Biting down on a smile of his own, he took a couple of steadying breaths and started to climb. It wasn’t difficult: a foothold on the corner of a misaligned stone, fingertips to the edge of a drainpipe, toes braced against the rough stonework, and then his hands on the windowsill and one foot atop the arch over the door.

Lifting himself up, he peeked into the room—a small scullery. Used to speed up service to the gentlemen in the gaming rooms, he imagined. A place to stage food and drinks on the way from the kitchen, but at this time of day, it was deserted.

“What do you see?” Kit called up, keeping his voice low but still too loud. Elias gestured with one hand to silence him, then took a grip on the bottom of the sash and pushed the window up. It moved with well-greased ease. With a heave, Elias pulled himself up and wriggled on his belly over the windowsill and onto a small workbench. The room was tidy enough and he hauled himself in and dropped down, landing quietly. He stopped then, counted slowly to thirty, and listened for the sound of movement from inside the building. There was nothing.

The only sound was a scuffling from below and a shallow hiss of breath. Kit was already climbing, the impatient bastard.

Elias leaned out of the window just as he gained the top of the arch, moving with more ease than Elias had expected, despite his bruised hand. When Kit reached for the windowsill, a smug smile curved his kissable mouth. Elias was torn between exasperation and a terrifying fondness. Ignoring both, he put a finger to his lips and then held out his other hand to help Kit up. Not that he needed much help; he moved with an athletic grace Elias hadn’t noticed before and that reminded him Kit had once been a soldier. What had he said? Queen’s Rangers, whoever they were.

Kit dropped to the floor quietly, glancing around with evident interest. “There will probably be private rooms on the top floors,” he whispered, “for assignations, private meetings and so forth.”

Elias nodded. “I reckon there must be strongboxes somewhere. For men to secure their winnings?”

“Yes—they’ll be wherever Salter keeps his offices. Guarded too, no doubt.” Kit made a face. “You have a scheme to gain access?”

Elias didn’t; he usually relied on wits and charm. “Naturally,” he said, deploying both with a quick grin. “Just follow my lead and be prepared to lie like the devil.”

“I’ll do my best.”

With that, Elias cracked open the scullery door. He waited, listened again, and then slipped out into the hallway. It was a service corridor, and he followed it until it opened up into a large club room, scattered with deep leather chairs and small tables. The walls were wood-panelled and the whole place smelled of beeswax, leather and privilege.

“Those are the gaming rooms,” Kit said, indicating the glass-panelled double doors that led into a darker chamber.

Elias could make out several card tables inside and beyond them rose a staircase. “If I was Salter,” he said, “I’d keep my office close to the money.”

“I was thinking the same.”

With a shared look, they headed into the silent gaming room and wove their way through the tables. How many fortunes had been won and lost here, how many innocent lives ruined? And how much money frittered away when it could have been put to so much better use?

Elias didn’t have much time for Hal Foxe these days, but he had to give the man credit for his philosophy on that front. If the rich couldn’t be trusted to use their privilege wisely, then they forfeited the right to it completely. Perhaps Salter agreed.

Sliding a sly look at Kit, child of the utmost privilege, Elias wondered what he’d have to say about such an argument. But he didn’t have to wonder what Hal would think of Elias tupping the son of an earl without picking his pocket.

He decided he didn’t care about any of it.

Shoving the thoughts aside, he crept up the stairs with a housebreaker’s stealth and at the top found a short hallway and three closed doors. He listened at the first door, heard nothing, and motioned for Kit to do the same at the second door. He did so, then shook his head. Nothing. Elias moved to the third, also silent. He tried the handle and it opened onto an office with a large desk and two walls full of bookshelves. He stepped further inside, glanced around, but there was no sign of any strongboxes. The desk drawers were locked. He could pick them but didn’t want to waste time.

“Elias…” Kit’s low whisper came from outside and made him wince.

He put his fingers to his lips and frowned.

Kit just pointed at the open door to one of the other rooms and disappeared inside. Rash. The man was too rash. Elias hurried after him, about to remonstrate, when he realised what Kit had discovered: a large room with a table in the middle and shelves from floor to ceiling on each wall. All of them were full of little iron doors. Strongboxes. Hundreds of them.

“They’re numbered,” Kit whispered, looking at them in frustration. “Damn it, which one?”

Salter would have the record. Probably in the locked drawer of that bloody desk. It would be a five-minute job to unlock it—Elias had his lockpick in his pocket—but it would take longer to pick a strongbox. Ten minutes, possibly more. That was at least fifteen minutes before they could leave. It was longer than he’d like and—

“Elias!”

Kit dived at him. Elias hit the table an instant before a heavy blow struck his shoulder, driving him to his knees. Pain snatched his breath as he scrambled to stay upright, his right arm gone numb and useless.

Behind him, there was a scuffle. “Damn you!” Kit cursed and then grunted in pain.