Page 36 of Thief Taker

A familiar pang of sadness touched his heart. “He had a wife, Maria—they’d been friends since childhood. But she died of childbed fever several years ago, and the infant only survived two nights. I’m not sure James has ever forgiven himself.” Kit paused, taking a breath. “Besides, he believes he will soon see an end to his financial troubles, doesn’t he?”

Cole’s fingers stopped moving, instead cupping Kit’s hand between his own. “In this big game of his?”

“A game he will lose, and with it my father’s estate.”

Frowning, Cole said, “I still don’t understand how he can offer your father’s estate as a stake.”

Kit pressed his lips together against the truth he was too ashamed to speak.

“You can trust me,” Cole said quickly. “Whatever it is, sir.”

It wasn’t true, but suddenly, shockingly, he wished it were. Cole appeared so honest, so kind. And why not tell him? Shameful as the truth was, might Cole not be able to help him to find a way to make things right? To somehow undo what James had done.

Hartwell would call him a fool, but Hartwell didn’t know Cole. Besides, there was no risk Kit wasn’t willing to run to keep James from ruining his family.

Clearing his throat, he said, “James deceived our father into signing a document that breaks the entail on the property and gives him, as heir, the right to dispose of the estate as he chooses. I told you of my father’s infirmity. He couldn’t have known what he was signing, and James imposed upon him. He stole the estate that’s been in our family for five generations from my father’s hands.”

Cole stared at him, expression serious. “That can’t be within the law. He’s foolish to think—”

“Foolish? Try blind. Or blinded. For years, Marlborough and his friends have led him about like an infant. They ply him with drink and whisper poison in his ear. And if Ashbourne is lost… It was granted to us by the second King Charles, for our family’s loyalty throughout the Interregnum. The shame will be too much to bear.” He stopped, letting his head hang forward, and muzzled his runaway tongue. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

It’s just the ruin of everything.

In silence, Cole dropped the flannel back into the bowl and closed a warm hand over Kit’s. Watching the movement, Kit reminded himself of the game each of them was playing.

“The question remains,” Cole said after a pause, “why Marlborough wants your family estate. He’s a rich man, you said. A planter. Couldn’t he buy a big house, if that’s what he wants? Or build one.”

That was true. “Perhaps he wants more than a house? An earl’s estate would impart more respectability. God knows, he gets none from his trade.”

Releasing Kit’s hand, Cole pushed to his feet. He didn’t move away, though, instead coming to stand close enough that his leg bumped Kit’s thigh. “You don’t approve of trade?” he asked, sounding mildly amused.

“Not his trade. Not the sugar trade.” He looked up. “I have nothing but respect for a man who does an honest day’s work, but Marlborough’s trade is a brutal business. He has blood on his hands. Perhaps that’s what he seeks to wash clean at Ashbourne.”

Cole pushed a hand through his hair. “Perhaps. But in my experience, rich men care more about gain than other people’s good opinion. That’s how they come to be rich in the first place.”

There was truth in that; Kit’s own family had gained its wealth and power during the violence and upheaval of the Civil War, something their father had never let them forget.

“Then what is it you think he wants?”

“That I don’t know. Yet. But I’d wager it’s a dirty business.”

“Do you—?” He swallowed, afraid of the answer. “Do you think James is involved?”

Cole’s expression darkened. “Look, if your brother’s entangled in something then it’s his own doing. You should stay out of it. Don’t involve yourself.”

“If only it was so simple.” He sighed and sank forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. His shoulder was so close to Cole’s hip that he could feel the heat of him through the linen of his shirt. He had to resist leaning closer, into that heat. “Do you have brothers, Cole?”

There was a long silence before Cole answered. “No.” Then, after another pause, “I did. Will died eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aye, so was I.” Cole paused again, before saying, “He was working as an ostler out at Hounslow and was set upon on the road home one night. A highwayman. I found him collapsed outside our lodgings two days later—he’d been knifed. Crawled most of the way back before he fell.”

Kit’s heart gave a queasy lurch. He glanced up, but Cole was gazing off into the distance and didn’t notice. “Christ,” Kit said softly.

Cole shook himself and offered a reassuring smile. “Long time ago, now. But yes, I had a brother.”

With a nod, Kit looked away. If it were true, Cole could not have told a story better designed to prick his conscience. If it were true. “Then you understand?” he ventured. “James is my brother and I…” He shook his head, stared down at the rug beneath his feet. “I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to save Ashbourne, how to provide for my sister and father. I don’t know…” His eyes blurred suddenly and he scrubbed at them with his right hand, horrified at himself. Christ, what next? A confession?