Page 92 of Thief Taker

“I’ll send a boy as soon as Marlborough leaves,” he told Groves, turning to leave without waiting for a reply.

He walked quickly back to Curzon Street.

Kit would still be sleeping, and Elias would have to speak to him before he left, make his excuses for the rest of the day. Lie to him, again. After everything they’d shared last night, the prospect of lying made his stomach turn with shame. Kit had looked at him with such affection, had kissed him with such heart, like it meant something. And it had meant something, he was certain it had—it did. Elias couldn’t pretend that their trysts were nothing but the slaking of lust, but that didn’t make it right. In fact, it made it worse. It made it appalling.

Christ, but he’d made a mistake. He’d made a mistake the first time he set eyes on Duvall and let his pulse quicken. And now he had to pay the price.

A bitter voice reminded him that Kit would pay it too, that Elias’s betrayal would cut him to the quick. It filled him with remorse, but it was done and that was that. If there was a way, later, to make recompense he would find it. He’d do anything for Kit—anything but turn his back on his duty and let a guilty man walk free.

That he couldn’t do, not for anyone.

When he slipped in through the servants’ entrance at Curzon Street, the household was already about its business. Making his way to the kitchen, Elias began to prepare the chocolate Kit preferred in the morning. No sugar, of course. He tried not to think about the fact that this might be the last time he’d do it, that by tomorrow he’d have no place in Kit’s house or life. Would it be easier on them both if Elias simply disappeared and stopped the pretence? If the night unfolded successfully, Kit wouldn’t have long to wonder where Elias had gone or—

His hand shook as he poured the chocolate and he clamped his jaw until his teeth ground together. There’d be enough worry to come, surely he could spare Kit one day of it? Besides, disappearing was a coward’s way out. And, whatever else he was, he was no coward.

“Cole?” Tobin approached, speaking in a low voice. “Any word on what’s to happen?”

Elias hesitated before offering a quick smile. “All may not be lost,” he said, equally quiet. “We’ll see how things stand tomorrow.”

Tobin’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“I can’t say, but have a little faith, Mr. Tobin. It may yet end well.”

He could tell Tobin didn’t believe him, but all the butler said was, “Be careful, lad.”

Too late for that, Elias thought with a wild laugh in his chest. Out loud, all he said was, “Yes, Mr. Tobin,” as he picked up the tray.

By the time he reached Kit’s door his stomach was churning. Kit would know something was wrong, he was certain. He’d finally realise that Elias had been lying to him all along, just like Francis Gale. The truth would be revealed before the trap was sprung on Wessex tonight…

And if Kit is Wessex? that dark whisper asked. What then?

Elias pushed that worry aside; it was nonsense, a stupid fear based on nothing but his worst imaginings. He knew Kit.

Balancing the tray one-handed, he opened the bedroom door.

It was dark inside. The fire had gone out—they’d not taken time to bank it last night—and there were no candles lit. Kit was still sleeping.

Setting down the tray, Elias picked his way towards the window and pulled open the curtains. Dawn had broken fully now, cloudy and grey, a stiff breeze rattling the winter trees in the park outside. He paused for a moment, watching their bare, black branches stark against the sky, gathering himself for the farewell to come. The farewell Kit wouldn’t even realise was goodbye until the events of the night to come were over and he understood the truth about Elias.

Fingers curling, he took a moment to steel himself against the sight of Kit sleeping. God, it had been almost impossible to drag himself away this morning. He’d felt so tender towards Kit as he’d lain there with one arm around his waist, holding him close. The sight of his tousled hair against the white of the pillow, the fan of his dark lashes, the way his face had relaxed as if he hadn’t a care in the world: all of it had tugged at Elias’s heart, made him feel deeply protective of this man who, in reality, was rich and powerful and in no need of his protection. And yet he’d felt it then and felt it now, knowing what was to come—and his own part in it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the cold morning, his words misting against the glass. He sighed as he turned around. And stilled.

The bed was empty.

“Kit?”

No answer came back. He peered into the dressing room, but it was empty save the cold basin still to be drained. The coat and breeches Kit had worn during their break-in at Salter’s were gone. His working clothes.

A pulse of unease spiked under Elias’s breastbone. He shoved it away.

There were any number of explanations for Kit’s absence this morning. God knew he had enough troubles. Perhaps he’d gone to consult a solicitor? Except, why wouldn’t he tell Elias his plans? After last night, he’d assumed…

He chewed on his lip.

Were his feelings hurt? Was that why his hackles were rising, the skin prickling along the back of his neck? Was he hurt that Kit hadn’t confided his plans?

“Bloody hypocrite,” he told himself, and stepped uneasily back into the bedroom. “All the lies you’ve told.”