Page 50 of Thief Taker

Amused, he asked, “Does he need your leave?”

“Maybe not,” she sniffed, “but that’s the last pheasant of the season spoiled, and an afternoon’s work wasted.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Phillips, that’s quite enough.” Tobin’s sonorous voice drifted ahead of him down the corridor. “Mr. Cole, a word?”

With a nod to Cook, he followed Tobin into his pantry with a sudden surge of alarm. “What’s happened?” he said, as soon as Tobin closed the door behind him.

“Nothing, as far as I know. But I think we’re both aware that Mr. Duvall left on a matter of urgent business this morning.” Tobin lowered his voice. “He isn’t thoughtless, Cole. If he’d not intended to dine at home, he would have said so. And there was that unfortunate business with the ruffian outside the house… I find myself concerned.”

“I understand.” Because he felt the same. If Duvall had taken it into his head to act alone… “And he’s sent no note?”

“Nothing. It’s not like him, Cole.” Tobin rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Would you—? That is, I’m aware that you have certain resources at your disposal…”

Elias patted his arm. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Tobin. I’ll find him.”

“Thank you, Cole. That’s much appreciated.”

With no more said, Elias slipped out of the pantry and out of the house. The temperature was dropping and he could taste mist in the air, the river-tang of it sharp on his tongue. It would be a foggy night, no weather for the likes of Duvall to be out unescorted in the dark of London Town.

Elias didn’t intend to let him be so foolhardy.

It was nothing like as extensive as Hal Foxe’s network, but Elias had his own eyes and ears in the city. By the time the fog had crept up from the Thames and the clock had struck ten, he’d heard from the milliner’s lad, Jack York, and two of his soot-nosed friends. Duvall was making a nuisance of himself at Salter’s and in the process of being thrown out on his arse.

At least he hadn’t gone poking about in St. Giles, but the news made Elias queasy, nonetheless. Rowsley and his set might be gentlemen, but instinct told him they were dangerous men. Marlborough especially. No doubt, Duvall was beyond his depth.

Elias paid the lads for their information with a couple of coins and three bread rolls left over from the dinner Duvall hadn’t eaten. Then he slipped on his coat and went in search of his…what? His master? His client? That was nowhere near the right word, but then again neither was friend.

He had no word for what Duvall was to him, except, perhaps, ‘inconvenient’.

Elias allowed a thin smile as he made his way along St. James’s Street towards Salter’s, keeping to the fog-bound shadows. Nights like these were his favourite, comfortable and concealing. Unfortunately, every footpad and cutpurse in London liked foggy nights too. It paid to be watchful.

Ten minutes found him opposite Salter’s, the imposing building half-swallowed by the night. Lanterns blazed next to the doorway, hazy in the mist, and the lad hadn’t been wrong; there was a commotion all right, and at the heart of it was Duvall.

“Then send him out here!” His slurred, angry voice carried through the dampening fog. “Marlborough! Marlborough, you bloody coward, come and face me!”

Two footmen blocked the doors and Duvall stood at the bottom of the steps yelling up at the club’s lamp-lit windows. He was making a fool of himself, sure enough. These things mattered to gents, but Elias wasn’t sure whether it might go worse for Duvall if his bloody valet intervened. So he hesitated, stayed back in the shadows, and waited.

But then the club’s door was flung open behind the footmen and a tall, broad figure appeared.

“Marlborough!” Duvall surged forward, up the steps. “You thieving bastard, come down here.”

The footmen moved to block him, and Elias began to run, darting through the carriages and across the busy street. Raging at the footmen was one thing, but threatening Marlborough in person—a man of proven violence—was bloody stupid.

“What the devil are you playing at?” Marlborough roared from the top of the steps, swinging that cane of his. “Go home, sir. You’re demeaning your rank.”

“I am?” Duvall choked on his words. “After what you’ve done? You…you—”

“Watch your tongue,” Marlborough snapped, shoving past the footmen and sending one stumbling on the stairs. He had his cane raised and Elias didn’t doubt he’d use it. “I’ll be damned before I’m insulted!”

“Be damned then!”

Elias reached him just as Marlborough swung his cane. “Watch out!” He dragged Duvall back, out of range.

Startled, Duvall missed his footing on the step and staggered backwards. “What the—? Cole?”

Elias didn’t let go, hauling Duvall further down the steps. “We’re leaving. Come on.”

“Let go,” he hissed, pushing him away. “Marlborough, by God, I’ll make you pay!”