Page 22 of Thief Taker

Elias caught his breath. Duvall smelled like tobacco smoke and whiskey; he’d been at an inn, then. Neither of them moved, save for the way Duvall slowly leaned in as if he were losing the battle with gravity.

Aware that he was probably doing something unsuited to a valet, but urgently needing to put some distance between them, Elias flattened his hands on Duvall’s chest—warm and muscled beneath the linen of his shirt—and gently pushed him upright. “Mr. Duvall…”

He swayed awake, blinking. “My apologies.”

Elias gave him a cautious, servant’s smile and slipped the waistcoat from his shoulders, turning him around with a firm hand to pull it down his arms. Then, keeping a hand on his shoulder, he walked him towards the bed and said, “Sit.”

He sat.

Duvall was remarkably pliant for the second son of an earl—a man who should be used to getting his own way. The thought brought an unprofessional rush of blood to all the wrong places. Curse it.

“My boots?” Duvall said.

And that was a swift cure for his sudden, unwelcome attraction. Steeling himself to the task, Elias knelt to pull off the man’s boots. While his face was averted, his hands busy, he said, “Is your brother in some trouble, sir?”

There was a pause, then, “Pardon?”

“Is that why you don’t know what to do?” He set the boots aside to be blacked—by himself, he supposed. “Has he done something he shouldn’t to repay his debts?”

“He…” Duvall’s expression flickered, a frown creasing his brow. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“Your brother owes money to Hal Foxe.” Elias reached for Duvall’s arm and began undoing his cufflinks, fingertips brushing his wrist. “It doesn’t get much worse than Hal Foxe, Mr. Duvall, not even in St. Giles. You ain’t told me more than I’d already guessed.”

Duvall swallowed, his throat bobbing distractingly in the open neck of his shirt. “I don’t—I can’t understand what he’s doing, Cole. I need…” Those blue eyes of his were dusky in the candlelight. “I have to stop him.”

Elias’s heart skipped. “Stop him doing what?”

“I—I can’t tell you. It’s too shameful.”

Elias hid his excitement by undoing the second cufflink. Duvall’s shirt fell away, exposing the tender skin on the inside of his wrist. Glancing up, Elias said, “Hal Foxe is a moneylender of last resort, sir. If your brother went to Hal, it was because he was desperate enough to do anything—afraid for his life, perhaps.” He let that sink in, holding Duvall’s bruised gaze, and tried to make him understand. “I’m sorry, but I think your brother may be in too deep to be helped. If I were you, I’d walk away. Go as far as possible.”

“James told me the same thing,” he said bleakly.

With a nod, Elias let go of his wrist, and Duvall’s hand fell into his lap. It stayed there as he dipped his head, staring down at his own tanned fingers. His unruly hair fell forward, and Elias fought a ridiculous urge to reach out and touch.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Can you manage the rest yourself?” If Duvall expected help with his breeches, then Elias would be fleeing the house and finding another way to investigate.

But Duvall simply nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Cole. I don’t—” He waved a hand at the room. “I don’t usually do this.”

Whether he meant drinking or confessing his brother’s sins, Elias didn’t know. “Get yourself into bed,” he said. “I’ll fetch you some small beer.”

“Small beer?”

“Trust me, you’ll be glad of it come morning.”

He went to the kitchen and poured beer from the barrel, giving Duvall time to get himself undressed and into bed. And giving himself time to think.

The man was desperate to save his brother, little knowing that his own words were drawing the noose tighter about Rowsley’s neck. Because there’d be no saving the viscount if he’d gone on the scamp. He’d be subject to the law, just like any man. And though the truth would no doubt hurt Duvall and his family, it wouldn’t stop Elias from bringing Rowsley to justice. There was no room for sentiment in his line of work.

When Elias returned to the bedroom, Duvall was sitting up in bed and took the proffered glass without comment. He sipped it as Elias turned down the wick and blew out the lamps, extinguished the candles on the mantel and left the room in a fire-lit gloaming.

Picking up the boots and linens to be cleaned, he said, “If that will be all, Mr. Duvall?”

“Yes, thank you.” Duvall’s face was shadowed in the dancing firelight. “I…” His mouth moved, as though there were words on his lips, but all he said was, “Thank you.”

With a nod, Elias turned to leave, but he’d not reached the door before Duvall called, “Cole?”

“Sir?”