Page 84 of Thief Taker

“Pemberton,” Elias said, quietly. Kit hadn’t heard him move closer. “Left hand, index finger. He turns his ring each time he holds an honour. He’s been doing it since the first rubber.”

Kit nodded, once, fractionally.

“And Salter,” Elias continued, at the same barely-there murmur. “The handkerchief. Second trick of each hand, if he has strength in trumps.”

Another slight nod.

“You already knew,” Elias said. Not a question.

“I saw Pemberton. Not the handkerchief.” Kit watched Marlborough accept a trick, smiling with mild satisfaction. Simply a man enjoying a pleasant game of whist among friends. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” Elias agreed. “It doesn’t.”

The fire shifted in the grate with a rustle of rising sparks. At the table, Marlborough spoke quietly—“Your luck is sure to change, my lord”—and James laughed a little too readily, a little too widely.

Marlborough reached for the decanter and poured. James lifted his replenished glass, scarcely conscious of what he was doing. Years of this. Years of evenings like this, with Marlborough ready the moment James needed another drink. Another game. Another loan.

The room moved slightly.

Kit wasn’t aware of his breath hitching or his fingers tightening on his glass until Elias’s hand came to rest on his arm. His fingers closed around Kit’s forearm with a quiet, firm pressure.

Kit stilled, drew a breath.

And the room settled. Elias’s hand remained where it was for a moment longer than was strictly necessary and then withdrew.

“All right?” he said softly.

“Not really.” Because how could he just stand there and watch this disaster unfold before his eyes? It was madness.

Crossing the room quickly, he set his glass on the side table and bent to his brother’s ear. “A word.”

James’s jaw tightened. “Kit—”

“Now, James.”

Around the table, two of the men pretended to notice nothing. But something shifted in Salter’s bland expression as he watched James rise. In another man, it might have been taken for pity.

They walked to the window, Salter’s gaze on their backs.

Keeping his voice very low, Kit said, “Pemberton is Marlborough’s man. He’s been signalling your hand since the start—he turns his ring when he holds an honour. And Salter and Marlborough have their own system. The handkerchief.” There was no surprise in his brother’s face, no expression at all. Kit’s heart sank. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” James said. “But what does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” Kit fought to keep his voice level. “Jacob Hawker is dead, and by Marlborough’s hand.”

James started back. “What?”

“He’s dead because he refused to send Salter the deeds to Ashbourne Abbey. And now you’re sitting at that table with a murderer, playing a game you can’t win. It’s been arranged from every direction so that you cannot win. There’s no hand you can play. There’s no rubber. Ashbourne is already gone and has been since before Marlborough walked through the door tonight.”

James regarded him for a long time. “That much, I know. Marlborough gets what he wants, and he wants Ashbourne.”

His resignation was terrible to witness. He was like a man caged.

“Walk away,” Kit said. “Tonight. Now. We’ll go to the magistrate. We’ll tell him what we know about Hawker and we—”

“What proof do you have?”

“Nothing yet, but I suspect—”