Page 116 of Thief Taker

“I’m sorry,” he told his brother, sitting down next to his grave. “I’ve neglected you.”

Will made no reply.

A sharp wind cut through his coat, but Elias ignored it as he gazed out over the heath. “I reckon I’ve done you wrong,” he said at last. “All these years since—Well, I swore myself to the law that day, Will, and I never doubted the right of it, until now.” He blew out a breath. “I killed a man. Didn’t mean to, but I did. And then I set another man’s crimes at his door.” He gave a bleak laugh. “His own crimes were worse, mind.”

Overhead, in the black, leafless trees, a magpie chattered angrily. Expressing his verdict on Elias’s confession, perhaps. Unforgiving.

“I did none of it for the law, though. I did it for someone I…” He found he couldn’t speak the word. “Someone I wish you could’ve met. A good man. A good man, and a highwayman.” Wind riffled through the hill’s winter grass, Hampstead laid out beneath him. “I let him escape, Will. I helped him escape because I couldn’t bear to do otherwise. And in helping him, I killed another. A bad man, true, but still a man. A husband, a father. A brother, perhaps.” In his mind’s eye he saw Marlborough again, staring with his dead, accusing eyes. “What’s more,” Elias said softly, “I’d do it again to keep Kit from the gallows.”

He turned back to the headstone. His brother’s name, carved into the cold white stone, still had the power to shock. “I swore an oath to you here,” he said, “that I’d devote my life to the service of the law. But I was wrong. I should have been serving justice, and that ain’t always the same thing.” He kissed his fingers and pressed them to Will’s name. “From now on, I intend to do better. For you.”

No answer came back save the whip of the wind across the heath.

It had been some time—weeks, he supposed—since Elias had returned to Courtney Street. Mrs. Butler, who owned the milliner’s shop above which he rented a room, had kept the place swept and tidy in his absence. Aired it too and set a fire in the grate.

He was thankful for that as he sat slumped in the single chair next to the fireplace, the kindling alight beneath the coals. The fire was taking its time to catch, and Elias had kept his coat on since his return, although perhaps that was more against the cold within than without.

Kit was gone. With the Marlborough business concluded, he had nothing else to distract him from that stark truth.

Kit was gone.

He’d not accepted it before, not even when Kit had been unmasked as Wessex. But now he’d watched the ship sail he knew down to his bones that he’d never see Kit again—and never recover from him, either. That sounded like romantic nonsense, but it was the truth.

What he’d felt—still felt, would always feel—for Kit was singular, sudden as a lightning bolt and just as fierce. It had skewered him and left him pinioned. Love, he realised now: a connection whose loss left him hollowed out and incomplete.

It had been hopeless from the start, and he’d been a bloody fool to pretend otherwise. Mr. Duvall and his valet? That would have been impossible enough, but then to add ‘highwayman’ and ‘thief taker’ to the case? What a farce. The devil must be doubled over with laughter.

“You’re a damned fool, Elias Cole.”

Glowering at the coals as their bellies began to smoulder, he wondered how Kit fared. Was his berth on the ship warm? Did he share it with his American accomplice? The man who’d held him and Groves at gunpoint that night, and shouted at Kit to ride? Were they lovers? He shifted in his seat, jealousy making his stomach clench.

Had Elias reacted differently when he’d discovered the truth, he might be sharing that berth with Kit. He’d have Kit safe in his arms. Or as safe as a man could be while crossing the bloody ocean.

His stomach gave another queasy twist. You heard grim tales from the sea, and he prayed that Kit’s passage would be safe. Not that he’d ever know if it wasn’t, unless he stumbled upon news of a wreck in the papers.

“Damn it,” he muttered, committed now to scanning the newspapers for any report of a ship foundering on the way to New York.

A lick of flame darted up among the coals, and they shifted atop the kindling with an ashy sigh. There was some heat now and he stood to peel off his greatcoat and hang it on the hook by the door.

Mrs. Butler had brought him a meat pie which sat on the little table by the foot of the bed. He wasn’t hungry, but she’d been pleased to welcome him back after so long away and he hadn’t had the heart to turn down her generosity. Grateful for next month’s rent, he supposed. Now that the reward for capturing Radcliffe had been paid, he found himself flush in the pockets. Funny that it didn’t make him feel—

Someone rapped on the door. It didn’t sound like Mrs. Butler.

His pulse quickened. In his profession, unexpected callers usually meant trouble. Slipping his knife from his sleeve, he settled it in his palm before opening the door. Cracking it an inch, he peered out.

And froze.

Everything froze: the breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart, the turn of the world. All he could do was stare like a dolt at the man in the heavy coat, face shadowed beneath a cocked hat, his eyes intent.

“Hello, Elias,” said Kit.

Shock left him numb, blood pounding through his ears. Kit. It was Kit. It was impossible. It was a dream. “I saw—” Words tangled on his tongue. “I thought you’d sailed.”

I thought I’d lost you.

“I know.” Kit sounded uncertain. “Maybe I should have.” His gaze flicked down and Elias remembered he was still holding his knife.

Stepping back, he fumbled the blade back into its sheath. Kit was here. Kit was here. “No. You—I…” A breath escaped, shakily, and he ran out of words.