Page 34 of Thief Taker

On the corner of Curzon Street, he paused. In the shadows of the looming houses, he forced himself to breathe deep, to concentrate on not raising Tobin’s suspicions. It was imperative that he didn’t do anything to draw attention to himself tonight. Not when the morning gossip would be full of Wessex. Tobin must see him return as usual from an evening engagement, a little tired but no more. The night was dirty enough to explain the deplorable state of his boots.

He lifted his injured hand to examine it and winced. He certainly didn’t want to be seen returning home wounded; that was exactly the sort of thing that might be remarked upon by the servants.

Given what had nearly happened with Cole, he’d been intending to dispense with his services this evening. He couldn’t risk being drawn into anything rash. However, he was afraid the injury might need some attention. And the only person he could trust with that was Cole.

He took a couple more deep breaths. It would be less remarkable to be attended by his valet than not, and he would just have to make sure he was master of himself when they were alone.

Tobin was waiting when Kit climbed the steps to the house, opening the front door with a silent bow. “Mr. Duvall,” he said. “I trust you had an enjoyable evening.”

“As enjoyable as possible, I suppose.” He tried not to wince as the butler helped him off with his greatcoat, his injured hand snagging on the sleeve. He tucked his arm behind his back as Tobin took his hat and coat away. “You know I’m not fond of society.”

Tobin inclined his head. “Would you like supper before you retire, sir?”

“No, thank you. But help me with my boots, would you? The pavements were filthy tonight.”

Tobin obliged, then fetched Kit’s house shoes. “I understand that Viscount Rowsley will be returning to the house later tonight,” he said, as he set down Kit’s shoes. “Mr. Sharpe, his valet, arrived this evening to ensure his rooms are in order.”

There was no hiding Tobin’s affront at such an aspersion cast upon his management of the house.

“I’m quite sure that was unnecessary,” Kit said, hiding a smile. “But since Mr. Sharpe is here, you’ll be able to retire this evening and allow him to wait for my brother. No doubt he will be late.”

Tobin made no comment, only bowed his head in slight acknowledgement.

All of which, Kit hoped, had given Cole time to sneak in and change his muddy breeches. He glanced up the stairs towards the bedrooms. “Ask Cole to come up, would you? I’m tired. I’ll go straight to bed.”

Tobin nodded. “I believe he is already preparing your rooms, sir. I just saw him carrying a basin of water that way. He seemed to intuit your return.”

“Ah,” Kit said, with a smile. “Excellent. Thank you, Tobin.”

With that, he headed upstairs and tried to keep his swollen fingers out of sight. When he reached his bedchamber, the door was ajar and Cole stood with his back to it, drawing the curtains.

For a moment, Kit just watched him: his broad shoulders, his strong jaw and capable hands. A working man, competent and intelligent. In America, there had been less distinction between ranks—there a man was judged by what he did and how he lived, not by the accident of his birth.

He could imagine Cole there, under those free and open skies. It would be something to meet there as equals, not as servant and master.

Nor as hunter and hunted.

Impossible, of course. An idle fantasy.

He sighed and Cole turned around. For several heartbeats they stood and stared at one another. The fire had been lit, casting its flickering light into the room. It gleamed gold on Cole’s hair. Kit swallowed. Thief taker, he reminded himself. The enemy.

“You’re hurt?” Cole said at last, indicating Kit’s hand.

“It’s nothing.”

Cole crossed the room in a couple of swift strides, spared a glance for Kit’s injured hand and then moved past him to close the bedroom door.

“Let me see.” Without waiting for permission, he took hold of Kit’s hand. Startled, Kit tried to pull away, but Cole was having none of it. “Does this hurt?” he said, pressing gently on the swollen knuckles.

“A little.” Kit’s voice sounded rougher than he’d have liked, but he allowed it. No harm in Cole knowing he was affected. He’d be blind not to notice, anyway.

“Make a fist,” Cole said, holding Kit’s hand cupped between his own. “Can you make a fist?”

He did, loosely. “Hurts like hell,” he confessed.

“Hmm…” Cole pressed lightly along each of Kit’s fingers. “This hurt?”

He had to swallow before he said, “Not terribly.”