Page 109 of Thief Taker

And hadn’t Elias said as much to him? He’d promised that he would track him down. That’s what I do, he’d said. That’s what I am. “You’re right,” Kit said, although the words felt distant. “It’s stupid to think Elias would—”

What? Murder Marlborough to keep Kit from the gallows? Nonsense. Elias was no murderer. And he cared about justice. No, Hartwell was right, it was best to put the whole thing out of his mind. His decision was made and he was leaving. In three days, he was leaving England forever.

“I almost didn’t tell you,” Hartwell said after a while. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

Kit shook his head. “I’m glad you did. And I’m glad Marlborough is dead. Perhaps, without him whispering poison in his ear, James will stand a chance of reforming.” He doubted it but let himself at least hope it might be true; it eased the guilt of leaving his brother behind. Again. “And I wonder… What will happen to Ashbourne now?”

Hartwell gave a shrug. “I suppose it’s willed away with the rest of his property. Either way, it’s gone, Kit. Don’t make it a reason to stay; it ain’t worth the risk. Not with Cole after you.” He gave a bleak laugh. “Think about it. Ashbourne’s probably the first place the bastard would look.”

That was true, Kit supposed. Ashbourne was lost, his future lay in America and there was no turning back.

No matter how he might wish it was otherwise.

Chapter 41

Shortly after Marlborough’s untimely death in Hounslow, of which, naturally, Elias knew nothing, he was in a stagecoach bumping along the road from London to Stony Stratford. From there he hired a post-chaise to take him the rest of the way. Nevertheless, it was two days of travel before he found himself turning through heavy stone gates into the enormous park that surrounded Ashbourne Abbey.

He’d expected something grand, but the scale and ailing grandeur of the place astounded him. It was almost impossible to imagine Kit here. Elias could understand why he’d left, could imagine the weight of it on his shoulders like a yoke. He could even understand why Rowsley had stayed away. Ashbourne Abbey spoke of nothing but debt, duty and decline.

As the carriage rolled through the parkland, the house grew closer. It was an imposing structure of grey stone with a dank air of abandonment, of something past its prime. This was Kit’s home; the place he’d risked everything—almost his life—to protect.

Elias might have wondered why he’d bothered if he hadn’t already known that Kit had done it for his father and sister. For family pride. Not for himself, certainly not for his brother.

The carriage stopped and Elias asked the driver to wait. He didn’t think he’d be long. As he stepped out, the door to the house opened and a sturdy man of middle years in the black coat of a servant appeared. The man—butler?—walked down the steps to meet him, a quick eye running over Elias and no doubt finding him wanting.

“The tradesman’s entrance—”

“I’m no tradesman,” Elias said, squaring his shoulders. “And I’m here to see the lady of the house, if she’s home.”

“She is not.”

Elias cocked his head. “Well, that’s a shame. Perhaps you could take another look? Tell her I’m here on urgent business regarding her brother.”

The butler’s eyes narrowed. “Which brother would that be?”

Elias found he had to take a breath before answering. “Mr. Christopher Duvall.”

“And you are?”

“Cole,” he said. “I’m—”

But the butler was already walking back up the stairs. “This way,” he said, his tone, if possible, even less welcoming than before. Elias followed him into the house, and with a warning look from the butler was bidden to wait in the grand hallway.

Formerly grand was a more accurate description. As with the park, the house bore the distinct aura of neglect. More than that, it was clear that the place was in quiet uproar—paintings had been taken down and leaned in piles against the wall, a hotchpotch of silver candlesticks, china vases and suchlike stood on the low table that ran against the hall’s far wall, and there was a distinct sound of bustle drifting down the sweeping staircase, the click-click of rapid footsteps overhead. He could see what was happening. The family was closing the house; they’d been told Ashbourne was lost and were preparing to leave.

A jolt of hope shot through him. If they knew, it was because Kit had told them. And if Kit had fled home to warn his sister, to break the news of what James had done, might he still be here? Might Elias see him, talk to him?

His fingers tingled in nervous anticipation, and he began to pace the hallway, unable to stand still. What would he say? What could he say? His feelings were so confused he didn’t know whether to offer an apology or to demand one. Both, maybe. But to see him again…

“Mr. Cole?”

He jumped at the butler’s stern voice and spun around as if he’d been caught pinching the silverware.

“Lady Charlotte will see you in the morning room,” the butler said. “This way.”

Elias followed, heart thumping high in his throat. If Kit was here, the chances were he’d stay out of sight. He’d assume Elias had come to bring him to justice; he’d promised to do it, after all. He lifted a hand and pressed it to his coat pocket, felt the papery bulk there and was reassured. At least he could prove his good intentions.

The morning room was in the same state of disarray as the hallway, the same faint dampness hung in the air, but Elias scarcely noticed. A woman stood by the unlit fireplace. She was tall and dark, like her brothers, with a strong face that spoke of intelligence and barely contained fury.