Page 85 of Thief Taker

“And what’s your suspicion against Marlborough’s connections and money? Against his talent for ensuring that anyone who crosses him ends badly?” He paused. “I won’t put you in that position.”

“I’m already in that position. We all are.”

James touched his arm briefly. “I am sorry, Kit. About all of it. About Hawker and Ashbourne and—” He stopped. “I’m sorry.”

Kit looked at his brother, at the man he had become, overwhelmed by a wash of grief and guilt. Years of Marlborough’s company had done this. Years of Marlborough exploiting James’s grief and desperation to escape a life he did not want. Years when Kit had been absent.

“Go,” James said. “You don’t have to watch.”

But Kit set his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving.”

After a moment, he nodded and turned back to the table. “As you like.”

Kit remained at the window, the curtain inches from his face. Behind him he heard the game resume: the soft fall of cards, the quiet declaration of a trick, Marlborough making a joke, Salter’s tense laughter. The pouring of more brandy.

Kit stood very still and tried not to think about Ashbourne Abbey. He did not think about the east windows or the way the early morning light fell through them in the summer, or his mother’s garden, or Charlotte laughing as she raced him and James to the lake. He did not think about any of it because if he did, he might do something reckless. And that he must save for later, for the road.

Then Elias appeared at his shoulder, not touching, simply close. Steady. A firm presence Kit could lean on. He was absurdly grateful.

The final rubber began. James played well. Better than well, with a focused, sober-seeming precision that must have cost him something given how much he’d drunk. He managed his trumps. He read Pemberton’s false play and tried to compensate, tried to outrun the game that had been built around him. It was like watching a fox running before the dogs. Almost unbearable.

Pemberton played false at the critical moment, wearing his rueful smile.

Salter’s handkerchief appeared on the table.

Marlborough took the tricks he needed.

At a little past two in the morning, the last card was played. James set his hand face-down on the baize, face flushed but still defiant. Prickly.

“The rubber,” Marlborough said, not even trying to hide his satisfaction. More than satisfaction—glee. “And the match, I think, my lord.”

“Yes,” said James. “I think so.”

Salter rose from the table immediately. He crossed to where his coat hung and paused there for a moment. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a breath, his eyes closed and reopened. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a folded document that Kit recognised from across the room. The settlement deeds to Ashbourne Abbey.

His expression impassive, Salter placed them on the table before Marlborough. James moved slightly, one hand jerking up as if to snatch back the deeds and then dropping. With a small smile, and no haste, Marlborough picked them up and slipped them inside his coat.

The room emptied quickly after that, everyone eager to leave. Pemberton disappeared with a bow and a muttered apology for his inferior play. Salter followed, tight-lipped, but with a grave parting glance for the room. Only Marlborough lingered, receiving James’s hand with his usual coarseness.

“Tomorrow, I travel to my new estate. There are matters that need my attention.” A dark satisfaction crossed his face. “Come, don’t look so grim, Rowsley. There’s always a deal to be struck, eh? Call upon my daughter tomorrow. She’s eager for a beau—and a title.”

With that he moved towards the door, but as he passed Kit he paused. Their gaze met. He had gimlet eyes, Marlborough, brutish and unfeeling. “Your brother played a fine game, sir.”

Kit said nothing.

“But mine was the stronger hand.”

With a satisfied nod, he turned and left.

In his absence, the room fell quiet. Kit stood at one end of it, James at the other, the card table with its empty glasses between them. The fire had burned low and the decanter on the sideboard was nearly empty. Kit couldn’t look at it.

He looked at his brother instead. For once there was no arrogance in James’s expression, no defiance or carelessness. He looked like what he was: a man who had known for years that he was being ruined and had not cared enough about his future to stop it.

Elias hadn’t moved from his place, but Kit was aware of him nonetheless—a fixed point in the unfolding catastrophe.

To his brother, he said, “We should talk.”

“Should we? I doubt there’s much left to say.”