Page 106 of Thief Taker

Elias came up on pure reflex, shoulder dropping, and caught Marlborough in the chest. And then neither of them was in control, just two men struggling in the dark, and Marlborough’s heel catching the raised lip of the hearthstone, his balance going, and—

A crack.

Then nothing.

Elias was on his hands and knees on the hearthrug. His face hurt. His shoulder hurt. His hands were shaking. He stayed there a moment, sucking in air, and then he made himself look.

Marlborough lay in front of the fireplace with one arm crooked under him and the other loose at his side. His eyes were staring, the corner of the hearthstone just above his head.

Elias looked at his eyes and looked away again.

He sat back on his heels and breathed, trying to think straight. He’d been in fights before; he’d taken men down and taken them down hard. It was part of the job.

But this wasn’t the job.

He took a shuddering breath. Marlborough was dead, and by his hand. It hadn’t been his intention, but it had been the consequence of his decision to come here tonight. He felt hot, suddenly, sweat prickling across his skin.

Marlborough was dead.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a gleam of silver—the head of Marlborough’s cane. And he remembered Hawker, beaten and dead on the floor of his office. He remembered Kit’s story about Pompey, and who knew how many other enslaved men and women on the other side of the world. He remembered Hutchinson facing the gallows for Marlborough’s crime.

And then he remembered that Marlborough knew—he knew Kit was Wessex, he knew Kit’s preference for men. Without a doubt, Marlborough would have used either or both to destroy him.

Now he couldn’t.

Steadying his breathing, Elias rose to his feet. After a moment, he put his hand into his coat.

He’d been debating this with himself the whole ride down. Hal had seen the opportunity immediately: a Jamaican planter, morally degraded as were all his sort, violent and given to excesses of drink and gaming, found with Wessex’s weapon in his possession. Elias hadn’t imagined Marlborough dead, but a magistrate might buy the story the pistol told if Elias could convince Groves to back him. And then Kit would be free.

He contemplated the pistol in his hand.

This was the line; it lay right before him. The line between the right and the wrong side of the law. He’d sworn on Will’s grave to walk on the right side, to fight for the justice those like his brother deserved. To see crime punished.

And he’d done that; he’d accepted the price of walking away from St. Giles and Hal Foxe. He’d never had any thought of going back.

Yet here he stood with his toe against the line, remembering what he’d told Hal in the dark of the Brewery: the one bastard in this sorry fiasco who deserves to feel the hand of the law is Marlborough.

He’d face the Lord’s justice now, but that didn’t mean an earthlier justice couldn’t be served. A different kind of justice, perhaps. Not the black cap and the noose, but natural justice—the rightful consequence of Marlborough’s avarice, cruelty, and violence. Justice for Hawker, justice for Pompey, justice for Hutchinson.

All Elias had to do was step back over the line and join Kit in the shadows.

He took a breath and made his choice.

Carefully, Elias set the pistol on the floor beside Marlborough’s open hand.

Then he collected the deeds from where they’d fallen and slipped them into his coat. He righted the chair, picked up the cane, and held it for a moment, feeling the deadly weight of the silver head. Bending down, he set it next to Marlborough. Let him be found with his real murder weapon, too. Groves would fit it to Hawker if Elias steered him in the right direction.

He surveyed the room, taking in the signs of a struggle, and knew the pistol would tell its story.

Eventually, his gaze came to rest on Marlborough, on his open eyes and frozen features. Whatever Marlborough had been, he was no longer, and the world was better for it.

Crossing to the door, Elias put his hand on the handle and listened.

From across the hall came a sound—a lock rattling.

Elias went still. The noise came from the room opposite, someone half-asleep struggling with an unfamiliar lock. Marlborough’s footman.

Cursing silently, Elias cracked open the door.