Page 99 of Thief Taker

“You’re exactly like them!” Elias snarled. “The why of it don’t matter. Bloody hell, Kit, you think I ain’t heard every excuse under the sun? ‘My children were starving.’ ‘My wife was sick.’ ‘I ain’t worked in a six-month.’ The law’s the bloody law, and you ain’t above it.” He took a step back, breathless with fury. “Just because you’re rich, because you’re a bleedin’ nob, don’t give you any more right to thieve than the poorest cull in St. Giles.”

Kit turned away, Elias could only see his profile. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” he said, his voice cool and restrained. “Despise me if you like, but I had no choice. My sister, my father, hundreds of people depend on our family—I had to find the money somewhere.”

“You should’ve found it somewhere else.”

Kit fell silent. The only noise in the room was the crackle of the fire and Elias’s harsh breathing. At length, Kit moved enough that Elias could see his eyes, bruised now. Hurting. Elias screwed his fingers into fists to keep from reaching out. “You took a position here, in my house, in pursuit of me,” Kit said. “In pursuit of the reward on my head.”

It was an accusation, but Elias refused to feel guilty; he hadn’t done anything wrong. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “In pursuit of Wessex. Hunting scum is what I do.”

Flinching, Kit looked away. “I see.”

“But it wasn’t you I was after,” he said with a mockery of a laugh. “I thought it was your brother. I never really believed… What a blind bloody fool.”

Kit’s shoulders rose and fell with a quick breath, then another. “And this?” He waved his hand between them, his voice uneven. “I assumed from the start that this was an attempt to uncover Wessex. That your offer to help me investigate James’s friendship with Marlborough, our liaisons—” He cut himself off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. After a pause, he cleared his throat. “Was it all part of the fiction?”

Elias couldn’t speak around the clenching of his heart. The truth was on his lips, the denial burning in his throat. God help him, but he wanted to shake the man, scream the truth into his face.

I love you; you made me love you, you lying bastard.

But what good would it do now? It was over. Whatever had been between them was ended. The honourable man he’d fallen in love with was no more real than the valet Elias had pretended to be. Everything between them had been built on lies, on foundations of sand. What good was there in acknowledging the furious ache in his soul when the whole edifice was collapsing around their ears? Better to strike it all down now.

“We were both playing our parts,” he said stiffly. “You the honest gentleman and me his humble valet. Seems like neither of us was honest.”

A short jerk of his head was Kit’s only answer. Then he turned around so that all Elias could see was the span of his back, the tense set of his shoulders, and the bloodied neckcloth wrapped around his arm.

You did that, a dismayed voice whispered in his ear. You could have killed him.

“Then do your job and arrest me, Mr. Cole.” Kit’s voice scratched in his throat, hoarse and uneven. “Send for your man at Bow Street, or perhaps take me there yourself. I imagine the reward is—”

“Hang the reward!” As if he cared for that, as if he’d claim a damn penny. His eyes prickled and he couldn’t swallow the knot in his throat. God help him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t turn Kit over to Groves. “Damn you,” he hissed. “Damn you to hell, you thieving bastard.”

“Oh, I’m already there.” A bitter laugh shook Kit’s shoulders. “Can’t you tell?”

Elias sucked in a breath. It burned his throat, turning his voice to ash as he said, “Run.”

“What?”

“Run. Get the hell out of London. Go somewhere I won’t find you.”

“Elias—”

“Because I’ll look,” he said. “That’s what I do, Kit. That’s what I am. And you can’t—You won’t make me less than what I am. Do you understand?”

Kit turned to face him, confused. “Elias…”

“I said run!” He crossed to the door in three angry strides. “You’ve got until dawn, sir. Make sure you ain’t here when the bloody sun rises.”

And then he flung open the door and strode out of the room and out of the dark house, blood pounding in his ears, eyes stinging with tears he would not permit to fall.

Chapter 36

Hartwell’s room in Marylebone was cold. Kit hadn’t the energy to feed the fire properly and it had subsided to a sullen glow that gave more shadow than warmth. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his arm freshly bound—Hartwell had done it, cursing steadily under his breath the whole time—while his friend paced the three steps from door to window and back again.

“America,” Hartwell said, for the third time. He was testing the word or perhaps testing the idea. His tone was more speculative than negative.

“You have contacts still. Men who could arrange passage.”

“Men who could arrange passage.” Hartwell stopped pacing, and in the candlelight his face was difficult to read. “Kit, it’s February. The crossings are foul. And you’ve a hole in your arm.”