Page 6 of Thief Taker

“Didn’t grow up hungry, more to the point.”

Groves pushed aside his plate, reaching for the leather satchel he always carried. Hauling it onto his lap, he retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Elias. “Take a look at that.”

He squinted in the weak lamplight. “What is it?”

“A list of all Wessex’s victims—including Lord Burlington, last week.”

Still eating, Elias gave the list a cursory glance. “Aye, well I know they’re all nobs.”

Groves gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “You say ‘nobs’ like they’re all one and the same thing, Elias.”

“All look the same from where I’m sitting.”

“Then you’d best look harder.” Groves tapped a buttery finger against the paper. “See him, there? Lord Viscount Rowsley. He’s at the centre of it. And that one, Baron Marlborough, he’s tight with him.” Groves smiled at his imminent joke. “Thick as thieves, you might say.”

Elias scooped up the last of his eggs. “You might say.”

But he knew the name Marlborough—John MacLeod, Baron Marlborough. An American friend of his had run afoul of the man last year. A vicious fellow, by all accounts.

“The nobs call them the Curzon Street set,” Groves explained. “Rowsley, Marlborough, Cavendish, Osborne—there are others. The Earl of Ashbourne’s house on Curzon Street is the heart of their…company, shall we call it. Rowsley is the earl’s heir.”

Elias couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Groves, if you’re saying this is some gang of nobbish thieves…”

“No.” He snatched back his list in irritation. “I suspected a servant was giving information to Wessex. But if you’re right and he really is a gent…”

He left the thought hanging; reluctantly, Elias picked it up. “You think he could be one of them?”

It sounded preposterous. A gentleman highwayman? That was just for the chapman’s tuppeny books. Lurid tales of romantic rogues on the heath turned Elias’s stomach; he’d suffered the brutal reality first hand. “Fact is, I ain’t never met a man who thieved or robbed for any reason other than need or greed.”

“And? You don’t think a nob knows need or greed?”

“Not enough to risk his neck, no.”

“Evidence, Elias.” It was one of Groves’s favourite lectures. “It’s all about following the evidence. If the man speaks like a gent, robs other gents—”

“He’s robbing the rich, Groves. That don’t prove nothing other than he’s particular. And clever,” he conceded. “With good information.” Also quick, strong. Audacious. Damn him.

“And,” Groves went on, “every single one of Wessex’s victims is linked to the Curzon Street set. He’s robbed the post boy for packages sent to them, robbed the men themselves, their families, coachmen…”

Elias rubbed his neck; a headache was building in the back of his skull. “All of them? Are you sure?”

“Every last one of them. Evidence, lad.” Groves rapped his knuckles on the table to emphasise the point.

“Could be a servant who’s learned to mimic his master’s voice.”

“Or one of those gents has fallen on hard times,” Groves said. “Either way, it’s worth a little digging, don’t you think?”

Elias leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. Now fed, his body was starting to demand rest and sleep. Soon, he’d have to give in and go home. “And where do you propose I start digging?” he said. “I don’t exactly rub shoulders with the gentry.”

Groves’s face turned alarmingly cunning. “As it happens,” he said, “I’ve an idea.”

“Am I going to like it?”

“You’d like a share of the three-hundred-quid reward on Wessex’s head, I’ll wager.”

Elias allowed a smile. “So I would. But I ain’t singing for my supper, Groves. What’s your idea?”

“A simple deception. The earl’s house on Curzon Street has become notorious. So notorious, in fact, that the butler struggles to retain respectable staff. As a result, he’s always eager to recruit handsome footmen to stand around looking decorative in the halls.”