Page 8 of Thief Taker

And now Elias understood why. A crush of people was currently crowded into the house for the evening’s party. Or ‘rout’ as the nobs apparently called it.

Sodom and bloody Gomorrah, Elias called it.

Noise, heat and sweaty bodies packed the rooms, tall wax candles dripped on every surface, adding their heat and smoke to the ripening atmosphere. But that wasn’t what offended Elias. Neither was it the raucous red-faced drunks, yelling to be heard over the clamour and music. It wasn’t even the couples in dark corners lost to passion; he saw much worse than that any day on Saffron Hill.

No, it was the waste that disgusted him. He’d helped carry pyramids of exotic fruit up from the kitchens, only to see them carelessly toppled onto tables, spilling unheeded onto the floor to be trampled beneath red-heeled shoes. Bread sank into the punch; cakes were crammed into the over-fed mouths of gouty men.

These people were wasting enough food in one evening to feed a dozen hungry families for weeks in the rookeries not five miles away. Elias had never seen anything like it—never seen so much wealth, never seen so much blindness to the want in the streets beyond. It disgusted him.

But at least, with so many people coming and going, and so much wine flowing, it was easy for Elias to do what he did best: sneak. He soon discovered that Groves was right about one thing—a man in a footman’s livery was invisible. So, once everyone had reached a peak of insensibility, he grabbed an empty punchbowl and made his way through the crush until he reached a quieter corridor. There were still plenty of guests about, spilling from the overheated ballroom and smoky card rooms, some talking and laughing, others moaning as they took advantage of shadowy corners.

For a moment Elias stopped cold. Who knew these nobs could be so dissolute when you peeled back their genteel skins? Then again, the rules never did apply to the rich. They had always got away with murder.

He smiled. Despite his doubts about Groves’s theory, it would be something to catch one of these nobs red-handed and show them the power of the law. Then not all their wealth and privilege would save them from the gallows.

Keeping his eyes down, Elias walked quickly along the corridor, glancing at the closed doors on either side. At the end of the corridor, it branched, and he took the left turn, away from the ballroom. What he was looking for wouldn’t be found in the public rooms. He sought a study, ideally filled with incriminating evidence.

It was quiet here, lit only by an occasional lamp. He tried a couple of doors, found the library—maybe later—and moved on. At the end he turned left again, circling back towards the ballroom. He was too close to the servants’ stairs here and hurried past. But not fast enough.

“Cole, what are you doing?”

He stopped with a jolt. The head footman stood at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray of glasses. He studied Elias without expression from beneath his powdered wig.

Elias flashed a smile; it usually got him out of trouble. “House is like a maze,” he said and gestured to the empty punchbowl in his hands. “Looking for the kitchen.”

“Well, you won’t find it here.”

“No,” he said, taking a step back. “To the right, here, is it? Down the stairs at the end?”

The man gave him a harassed frown. “Yes, and be quick about it.”

With a nod, Elias started to walk. He could feel the man’s eyes on his back the whole time and, to his immense frustration, on the left-hand side of the corridor he passed a slightly open door, a slice of desk visible through the crack. A study. Bugger it.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, he found the footman still watching him with the tray in his hands. Elias smiled, winked, and turned the corner. Ahead of him the noise from the ballroom swelled, wafting down the corridor on a wave of sickly pomade and candle smoke. He slowed and stopped. How did these people endure this, night after night? He’d rather be chasing Wessex across the Fleet Ditch. At least that stench was honest.

He waited for a slow count of ten and then crept back to the turn in the corridor and peered around the corner. The footman was gone. Pinching a candle from a side table, Elias sneaked back to the study and slipped inside.

Judging by the number of letters strewn across the desk, most of which were unopened, Viscount Rowsley was not an assiduous correspondent. Keeping one eye on the door, Elias set down the punchbowl and began to riffle through the letters. It didn’t take long to see why the viscount wasn’t opening them—most were demands from creditors. The man was up to his nutmegs in debt. And that was interesting.

Greed or need.

And there was one name that caught his eye: Marlborough. His signature appeared on the bottom of several letters. Picking one up to read more closely, Elias held the paper up to the candle. The letter was full of obsequious expressions of friendship yet still set out a list of eye-watering debts owed by the viscount and the dates by which Marlborough required repayment.

With friends like that… He set the letter back on the desk and had just reached for another when a voice said, “What the devil are you doing?”

Elias spun around so fast he almost knocked over the candle, sending wax splattering across the letters. Steadying the candlestick, he found a gentleman in the doorway leaning lightly on a thick cane. The room was too poorly lit to make out details, but he was powerfully built, wore an old-fashioned wig, and held himself in a manner Elias recognised. If this man had been born into a different life, he would have been a man of violence. Perhaps he still was.

Elias was glad of the small blade he had hidden in his sleeve. Picking up the punchbowl, he said, “I was looking for the kitchen.”

The man stalked forward, swinging the cane, flat disbelief on his face. “No, you weren’t.”

Elias backed away, trying to keep the desk between them. The nob was drunk, but not in a way that would make him clumsy—he was drunk in a way that made him vicious. Elias wasn’t afraid, though. He’d learned how to take care of himself long ago. “You’re right, sir—”

“My lord.”

“My lord. I apologise, I’m new and got lost—”

“Liar.” The nob swung his cane, its silver head catching the candlelight. “D’you know what I do to liars?”