Page 41 of Thief Taker

“I will, sir. While your father lives and retains his faculties, the estate cannot be alienated; it is his to hold and his alone to encumber. The disentailment deed, if validly executed, would allow Viscount Rowsley to treat the estate as his own and dispose of it as he sees fit. The question is whether your father had sufficient capacity when he signed it…”

“He did not.” Kit rose. “I’m asking you not to release the deeds to Ashbourne Abbey, Mr. Hawker. The disentailment deed was drawn up by Marlborough’s own solicitor, a man whose interest in this matter is not disinterested. My father, as you know, has not been himself for some considerable time. I intend to bring the matter before Chancery on the grounds that my father lacked capacity when he set his hand to the document, and I am putting you on notice of that intention.” He looked the man in the eye. “I trust you understand what your position would be, should you choose to proceed regardless.”

Hawker nodded, also standing. “Very well, sir. If you intend to petition Chancery, I will note your objection and take no further action until the matter is resolved, or until I receive instructions from the court.”

“Thank you,” Kit said, relief loosening the tense knot in his chest. He had no intention of parading his father’s frailty before the Court of Chancery—the very thought appalled him—but he had bought himself some time. Time in which to deal with the matter privately and in his own way.

“My brother’s letter…” It lay on Hawker’s desk, his brother’s flamboyant hand clearly recognisable. Kit could scarcely look at it. “Where does he ask you to send the deeds? Curzon Street, I suppose.”

“No.” Glancing down, Hawker scanned the letter. “To his club. A place by the name of Salter’s.”

Of course. Of course it was Salter’s; he would be the man arranging Le Grand Jeu and so he would secure everyone’s stake.

And behind him stood Marlborough.

He was the architect of their family’s ruin; Kit was sure of it. James had always been rash and contrary, too clever and easily bored. But not vicious. Not until Maria’s death had overbalanced his mind. Not until Marlborough had perverted his naturally spirited nature into ruinous dissipation.

Marlborough was to blame.

What the devil did he want with James and with Ashbourne? Did his plantations not provide enough wealth to satisfy his greed? Perhaps there were no limits to the greed of a greedy man.

The idea of the Duvall estate falling to Marlborough sickened Kit. A planter. A man made rich by the vilest and most barbarous of trades! Better that Ashbourne Abbey burn to the ground than see its halls polluted by that man and his tainted money.

He took a breath, suppressing his fury. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hawker. I’d be grateful if you could send me a note should you hear anything more on this matter. I am staying in Curzon Street.”

“You may depend upon it, Mr. Duvall.”

With that, Kit took his leave. But he didn’t return home. His mind was too restless, his blood too hot. He needed to do something.

So he went east. He had business to settle from last night: Osborne’s gold watch, fob, and dress ring. They’d fetch a decent sum for Charlotte.

Radcliffe, of course, was out of the question. But Hutchinson—Foxe’s man at The St. Giles Bowl—always paid a fair price. Entering Foxe’s territory after the altercation with one of his bullies was a risk, but Kit had always kept his face hidden during his dealings with Hutchinson. Nobody at the Bowl would know him as James’s brother.

And if he was lucky, he might get into a fight. He could use a good fight—or a willing body to lose himself in.

A hot, furious desire surged beneath his skin. God only knew what might happen if he encountered Cole in this state, but he dared not let it happen.

So, determinedly, he bent his furious steps towards St. Giles.

Chapter 14

It was a relief when Elias finally stepped out into the chilly air. A relief to be leaving the house and all thoughts of Kit Duvall.

The King’s Arms wasn’t far away. A favourite haunt of the men and women who serviced Mayfair’s great houses, it was tucked away in Shepherd Market—a pocket of servants, tradesmen, and working people largely hidden from the nobs they served. Slipping into its bustling, slightly chaotic cluster of narrow streets, courts and alleys felt both disorienting and liberating. A sudden shift to a world more familiar to Elias.

Although not his own ground, he knew Shepherd Market well and was known there in return. When he pushed open the heavy door to The King’s Arms, he was greeted with the usual gruff London welcome: a nod of acknowledgement here, an imprecation on his parentage there. Comfortable and familiar.

Settling himself near the bar, Elias spoke to several patrons who’d heard Pike’s story of highway robbery. The tale had grown in the telling, no doubt, but it passed an hour of his time and for perhaps a minute of that hour he wasn’t thinking about Duvall.

“I heard,” said a stout woman, cutting into a hot pie, “that he demands money from the men but only a kiss from the women!”

“Nay, it’s a dance,” said her friend. “Right there on the heath.”

Elias raised his eyebrows. “To what music? Does he travel with a fiddler in tow?”

“I’d pay the price, either way,” laughed the first woman. “He’s fearfully handsome, and Pike said he was a regular gentleman.”

“Who gives his takings to widows and orphans, no doubt,” said Elias.