Page 27 of Thief Taker

Mulishly, Kit said, “Don’t you understand? Cole already sees Marlborough’s hand in this. If I can convince him that Marlborough’s criminality extends to this—” He gestured between them. “—then we could be rid of the man forever.”

“But he saw you at The Red Lion…”

“I don’t know what he saw, or what he thinks he saw. He hasn’t arrested me, has he? And his behaviour towards me is…curious. Not hostile, not suspicious. I can’t make him out.”

A long pause followed before Hartwell said, “Caught your eye, has he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen that look before.”

He didn’t need to say when.

“This is nothing like that.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve let the enemy into your household, Kit. It’s as reckless as anything we’ve done on the highway. More so, in fact.”

“Cole already suspects me. There’s nothing I can do about that, unless I really do push him into the Thames.” He held up a hand to forestall Hartwell’s reply. “And neither of us is a murderer. So what else can I do but use him? Turn his attention to someone else. Someone you and I both know is fit to hang.”

“And when you come home tonight, mud-spattered?” Hartwell said. “When Cole sees Wessex’s silver pistol…”

“The damned silver pistols were your idea,” Kit reminded him. “Besides, Cole believes I’m at Lady Marlborough’s evening party at this very moment. Tonight will prove to him that I can’t be Wessex.” He pulled the tip of his hat low over his eyes. “You think I can’t outwit a thief taker?”

“I know you trust people too easily.”

“I—”

Hartwell held up a hand to silence him, tilting his head. “Listen,” he said, though Kit couldn’t hear anything but the soft nickering of their horses.

“You can’t imagine I’d make the same mistake twice—”

“A carriage. He’s coming.”

After a moment Kit heard it too, the distant rumble of horses’ hooves and a coach moving at speed. There was no more time for talking and with a frustrated growl, Kit swung up onto Nero’s back. “Get to your place.”

Hartwell mounted quickly, turning towards the road. “Good fortune, Kit.”

With a nod, Kit wheeled Nero around and trotted towards the road. He pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose and tugged his hat low over his eyes.

Hartwell’s concerns about Cole needled him—was it foolish to try to use him like this? But now was not the time for reflection and he set the thoughts aside. He had work to do.

Ahead, a coach rounded a sharp bend in the road, its lights swaying as it raced along. Kit walked Nero out into the middle of the road, touching his neck in reassurance and warning before lifting his pistol and firing into the sky.

At the flash of gunpowder, the carriage horses startled and the coach lurched, careening to the right as the driver cursed and hauled on the reins to regain control. Time enough for Kit to reload. By the time the lamplight reached him, he sat perfectly at ease with his pistol levelled at the driver. The coach slowed to a halt a few yards ahead of him, the coachman thin-lipped and frightened. He had a blunderbuss on his lap but didn’t lift it. Clever fellow. It wasn’t worth risking his life for the man who rode inside.

In the darkness behind the carriage, he caught the shadow of Hartwell walking his horse out from the trees to cut off any escape. His weapon glinted silver in the moonless night.

“Sir Gideon,” Kit called, using the colonial accent he adopted for these occasions. Smiling beneath his scarf, he pictured the expression on the face of the pot-bellied little man inside the carriage—the man who had collected ten thousand pounds from his brother at White’s, the man who would take ten thousand more tonight if he could. Kit felt no compunction at all in retrieving his family’s property from Sir Gideon Osborne.

“Tonight you have the misfortune of being stopped by the highwayman, Wessex. If you value your life, sir, I’ll have your money and your watch…”

Elias sometimes wondered whether his lack of romantic interest in women made it so easy to flirt with them. A wink here, a smile there, and he could get anything he needed out of a housemaid—even lady’s maids weren’t immune.

But after a couple of hours, he’d picked the bones of the kitchen gossip—none of it good. He’d learned with many significant looks from the scullery maids that the mistress of the house always wore long sleeves, that more than one servant had been obliged to leave after being disciplined by Marlborough, and that Miss Marlborough had been paraded about the marriage mart in search of a title for two seasons already. Her waspish personality, it was suggested, outweighed her huge fortune. All of which confirmed Elias’s low opinion of Lord Marlborough and his household.

Now, though, Elias was growing bored. So he decided to venture upstairs. Nobody looked twice at a servant and the chance of catching another glimpse of Marlborough was tempting.

The chance of catching a glimpse of Duvall was tempting too, but in a wholly different and less professional way. Not that things weren’t in hand in that regard; they were. Firmly.