Page 35 of Thief Taker

A nod, then Cole looked up. His eyes were as bright as ever, although more guarded than usual. “Nothing broken, I think.” He released Kit’s hand. “We should put a cold compress on it.”

“I don’t want the servants to know.”

Cole went still.

Flustered, Kit moved to cover his slip. “You know what I mean,” he said. “I don’t want Tobin and—It will look like I’ve been fighting.”

“You have been fighting,” Cole said, but, thank God, there was humour in his voice, and a slight smile. It loosened something in Kit’s chest, and he allowed a smile of his own. Cole’s expression broadened into his bright, familiar grin. “Let’s get your coat off,” he said, and gestured for Kit to turn around.

He did, steeling himself to the sensation of Cole’s hands on his shoulders, slipping under the lapels of his coat as he took it off. He was careful, gently manoeuvring the coat over Kit’s injured hand, and then, in a rough voice, said, “Let me at your waistcoat, then. Probably can’t manage the buttons with your fingers like sausages.”

It was true enough. Kit turned and Cole was right there in front of him, as he had been in the alleyway. But his eyes were lowered, fixed on the buttons as he started to work them free. Kit fixed his attention on the bed post and measured his breathing.

Control. I am in control.

Into the tense silence, Cole said, “You shouldn’t—When you punch a man, don’t go for his jaw or teeth. They’re too hard. Go for something softer. The nose or the neck is good.”

Surprised, Kit glanced at him, but Cole was still focused on the buttons. He was halfway down now, his fingers pressing against Kit’s stomach. His hands, Kit noticed, were not quite steady. Good, he wanted Cole thrown off too. “And, uh…” Cole went on. “You need to make a proper fist.”

“A proper fist?”

“Yes.” Cole met his gaze for a fraction of a second. “Like this,” he said, and demonstrated, curling his fingers into his palm. “Your thumb, you see, has to be tight across your second and third finger. Don’t let it stick out and never wrap your fingers around it.”

“I see,” Kit said, and mimicked him with his right hand. “Like that?”

Cole nodded. “And keep your wrist and forearm straight—stops them buckling on impact.” Another flickering glance at him. “That’s how people break bones in their hands, punching wrong.”

“I—Thank you. I don’t do a great deal of punching.”

“I don’t suppose you do.” Cole’s slight smile was back and he stepped away, finished with the waistcoat buttons with evident relief.

Kit allowed Cole to slip it from his shoulders and then began working one-handed on his neckcloth. It wasn’t easy.

“Here,” Cole said, nudging away his hand and untying the neckcloth quickly, slipping it from around his neck. “Now sit down and I’ll get something for your hand.”

Kit perched on the edge of his bed, gazing at the swelling on his knuckles and around the base of his thumb. He thought maybe he’d left his thumb sticking out when he’d struck, but the position of his fingers had been the last thing on his mind when he’d seen Cole in the grip of that bully.

“Here,” Cole said, coming back in from the dressing room. He held a flannel and a bowl of water and came to kneel in front of Kit. “Ice would be better,” he said as he took Kit’s hand and laid the cold flannel over his knuckles, “but that would mean asking Tobin.”

For a moment they sat in silence, Kit struck by the sight of his hand lying in Cole’s palm, the flannel held in place by his other hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so tended.

It occurred to him then that Cole might be attempting a seduction. After all, what better place to uncover secrets than in the bed chamber?

And what better place to plant false trails?

Dipping the flannel back into the water, refreshing it, Cole held it again on his knuckles and said, “I didn’t tell you what I found out from Marlborough’s servants tonight.”

“Oh?”

He looked up, his expression business-like despite the tenderness of his hands. “Well, aside from Marlborough beating his wife and servants… Aye, hardly a surprise,” he said when Kit grimaced. “Aside from that, it turns out he’s looking to find a titled husband for his—by the maid’s account—ill-favoured daughter.”

“That’s hardly news. What father in le bon ton isn’t seeking a titled husband for his daughter?”

Cole raised his eyebrows. “True, I suppose. But rumour has it he’s got his eye on your brother.”

Kit sighed. “In that, I doubt he’ll have much success. James has no desire to marry. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Cole pressed the flannel gently against Kit’s bruised hand, the pad of his thumb catching Kit’s wrist. “Not even for money?”