Brook Street: Thief (3 page)

“Enough, enough.” The words rushed out of his mouth.

Falling back against the bed, he struggled to catch his breath, lungs laboring under the effort. Hands gripped his thighs, pushed his legs up and back.

“Cavin, I can’t—”

“I know, I know. Just… Let me…” Hair-dusted thighs pressed against the backs of his legs. Cavin’s pants quickened, turned harsh, cutting through the air in rhythm to the distinct sound of a hand working a cock.

Benjamin reached out, dragged his hand up Cavin’s smooth chest, fingertips finding the tip of a nipple, and pinched.

“Ah…Ben!”

Liquid heat splattered Benjamin’s inner thigh, his ballocks, his cock. Then a heavy body slumped over him.

It was some time before either of them could move, but eventually Cavin shifted so he was sprawled half on top of Benjamin.

Lips drifted across Benjamin’s collarbone. “Thank you.” The words were whispered against his skin.

A sated chuckle shook Benjamin’s chest. He nudged Cavin. “I didn’t mean for you to actually thank me.”

“Trust me. That didn’t come from any sense of obligation.” Cavin’s mouth trailed up his throat, over his jaw, brushed across his lips.

He was sticky and sweaty and should see if the room had a washstand, but all he wanted was to remain right where he was, lingering over Cavin’s kisses. Soft and sloppy, hazy and slow, lulling his senses.

Surrounded by darkness and silence and the comforting heat of Cavin’s body, he had absolutely no hope of fighting the sleep tugging heavily on his mind.

* * *

The sound of a door closing down the corridor reached Cavin’s ears. He let out a sigh. Soon the first rays of dawn would start to creep into the room. He shouldn’t dally any longer. Nothing good could come from it, no matter how nice it felt to have Benjamin’s arm draped across his back, holding him close even in sleep.

The chest beneath his cheek rose and fell in a pattern Cavin knew well. He could jump on the mattress and the man wouldn’t stir. Still, Cavin kept his movements careful and slow as he reached back to nudge Benjamin’s arm. The weight slid off his back, fingertips seeming to linger on his skin in a gentle caress before falling to the coverlet. After waiting the space of five heartbeats, he shifted off Benjamin’s warm chest and swung his feet over the side of the bed.

His head fell into his hands as a debate raged inside of him. No, he could not do it. Damn the consequences all to hell. He would think of something to placate Hale, give the man money from his own pocket if need be, for there was no way he could leave Benjamin’s pockets empty. Not after what Benjamin had given him that night.

A heavy sigh expanded his chest. The urge to crawl back into Benjamin’s arms, to curl up close to his side, rose within. A needy tug he felt all the way to his bones. With a forcible mental shove, he pushed the urge aside.

Nothing good could come from giving in. Nothing at all.

He dragged his hands through his hair then got to his feet. He did not bother pulling the drapes open on the other window or attempting to light a fire in the hearth. His eyes long accustomed to shadows, the moon provided enough light for him to see by. Keeping his footsteps light and quiet, he padded the short distance to the clothes scattered on the floorboards. He dropped to his haunches, ran a practiced hand over the garments, fingers skimming over soft, fine wool that screamed wealth and closing over fabric which held a familiar coarseness. As he pulled on his trousers, he passed his gaze over the floor, stopping on a gleam of white by the door. If he remembered correctly, he’d tossed his shirt in that direction. Must be his.

He was buttoning the placket over his shirttail when the thud of footsteps passed outside the door. There was a slap of a hand, the answering coy titter of a woman. Then a man guffawed, loud and heavy, the sound slicing through the room.

Bloody drunkards.

The distinct creak of ropes beneath a mattress sounded behind him. He whipped his head around to look over his shoulder. Moonlight fell across Benjamin’s bare body, highlighting the play of muscles beneath pale skin as the man turned onto his stomach. One arm stretched out, hand sweeping across the coverlet.

Cavin swore he could detect the confusion in Benjamin’s sleepy little grunt at finding the place beside him empty.

For a long moment, Cavin’s feet remained rooted to the floor.

Then he snapped to his senses and leaned down. Dark coat, dark waistcoat, the pale wad of a wrinkled cravat, and two shoes, the leather worn from years of use.

Clothes clutched in one arm, he grabbed the key from the small table to the right of the door, pushed it into the lock and slipped out of the room. After locking Benjamin safely inside, he pushed the key under the door and quickly made his way down the corridor, looking for a narrow door that would signal the servants’ stairs.

Chapter Three

Cavin rounded the corner and stepped off the walkway to cross King Street. As he navigated around horse-drawn carts, stray dogs, peddlers and muddy puddles, he hitched the sack of food he held in one arm up higher, settling it more securely against his chest. Two young boys darted around a mule, slowing as they passed Cavin. With a swipe of his free hand, he brushed off greedy little fingers reaching for his pocket.

The boys did not bother to glance behind them. They continued on, weaving across the street, passing others closely, hands whisking across pockets and bags in a blur of pale skin.

He reached the other side of the street and went north. Dawn had arrived a good two hours ago, bringing gray clouds and the promise of rain showers. Yet still, even the threat of cold rain had not pushed him home faster. Though the deliberately long route he’d taken from Cheapside had not been a complete exercise in procrastination. He had stopped at a market to pick up some food for breakfast.

Perhaps he should have taken a much shorter route and instead picked up a couple of meat pies at a tavern so he could reach home before dawn. St. Giles was better viewed at night. Under the moon’s light, one didn’t notice the desperate gleam in the gin whores’ eyes as they lingered in open doorways, bare feet caked with dust and tattered clothes smudged with dirt. Or the rats prowling the rubbish bins already pinched clean by the unfortunate young souls who called the crates in the narrow alleyways home. One could even mistake the rags covering windows which hadn’t held glass in years for drapes.

As it was, the weak sunlight seeping through the clouds illuminated his neighborhood in all its splendor, reminding him in very blunt terms just how different his life was from Benjamin Parker’s. Not that he knew the details of Benjamin’s life with certainty, but the freshly starched shirt cuffs peeking out from the sleeves of his fine wool coat announced quite clearly that the man lived far from the stews. Likely in a huge house in Mayfair staffed with servants who saw to his every need, his days spent managing his business interests and sharing a drink with his vaunted acquaintances at White’s or Brooke’s.

It did not matter that he had truly enjoyed spending time with Benjamin, and not just the time on a bed. Hell, he had even given Benjamin his actual name back in the hackney. It did not matter that their time in that hotel room had been far beyond amazing. Benjamin’s voracious kisses and eager hands captivating him, his confession alone tugging at Cavin’s heart. Nor did it matter that Benjamin was a very nice man and handsome, in a genial sort of way, with his light brown hair and friendly hazel eyes. Just the sort of fellow who would make a man a wonderful companion. Someone who would believe in love and fidelity, and who would never push his partner to lie with other men.

All that mattered was that someone like Benjamin Parker would never choose to be with someone like him beyond one scorching hot, thoroughly unforgettable night. Cavin had given Benjamin exactly what the man had gone to Clements for, and now Cavin would never see him again. Just as it should be. And it would do Cavin no good at all to lament that fact.

Still, he couldn’t help but wish…

He gave his head a firm shake. Twenty-one years’ worth of wishes had not come true. Only a bloody fool fit for Bedlam would hope now would prove any different.

He went up the few stone stairs of the large house at the end of the street. The place had been a boarding house before Hale had claimed it as his own. The clapboard exterior was in very sore need of repair, the windows on the ground floor had long been covered by splintered boards, and the gutter hung precariously from the roof line, but it was home…and an impromptu molly house on occasion.

It took but a nudge to open the door that had not been left completely shut. About half a dozen boys of varying ages were sprawled on the floor of the entrance hall engaged in a dice game.

A familiar unruly mop of dark hair popped up from the pack. “Cavin, yer home!” Sam pushed to his feet. His gaze went immediately to the paper sack in Cavin’s arm. “That for me?”

“For us,” he corrected, shutting the front door.

“Oh good. Bleedin’ hell, I’m hungry.” Sam wiped his dirty hands across the front of his too-short trousers, bare ankles peeking from the frayed hems.

Damnation, Sam kept growing. He would need to take Sam to a tailor soon to be fitted for new trousers. Turning, Sam leaned down to slap one of his friends on the back, congratulating him on a win and exposing the poorly mended tear along a sleeve. The boy was damn hard on his clothes, too. Cavin added a new coat and shirts to the list for the tailor.

Sam might not be his brother by blood, but Cavin looked after the boy as if he were. Seven years ago, Hale had pulled a six-year-old Sam off the street and folded him into his band of thieves. Hale wasn’t much on providing instruction—boys either knew how to thieve when they joined the group or were taught by one of the other boys. With a shove in Cavin’s direction, Hale had appointed Cavin as Sam’s instructor in the fine arts of pinching, sneaking and diving. Along the way, Sam had become the younger brother Cavin never had…or at least wasn’t aware he had. For all he knew, he could have a hoard of younger siblings roaming the streets. His mother had not been one to keep her legs closed.

“Fox!” a voice called from above.

Cavin looked up.

White-shirted arms crossed over his chest, Hale stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. “Get your arse up here.” His gaze drifted to the boys on the floor, lingering overlong on Sam smiling and laughing with his friends.

Worry threaded into Cavin’s gut.

“Now, Fox,” Hale called, impatient and demanding, before turning on his heel.

Cavin stepped over a leg and nudged Sam’s shoulder. “Take this to the kitchen, and don’t let anyone get into it.” After giving the sack of food to Sam, he stepped over a few more legs and went up the stairs.

Ruled by greed, Hale was the type of man who had no compunction whoring out those under his protection if it would fatten his pockets. Cavin had hated it. Hated having all choice ripped from his grasp. To have to drop to his knees or bend over for whatever bastard Hale had made the arrangement with. A couple of years ago, Cavin had put a stop to it. Well, he had asked—one didn’t demand anything from Hale—and had offered to poach the hells and taverns for nabobs in exchange. Hale’s pockets would still be filled, and Cavin could at least choose the man who, in a roundabout way, paid him for his services.

He had to be careful, of course. Couldn’t frequent the same haunts night after night. Hale had not whored him out on a daily basis. It had been more occasional, once a month or so, when the opportunity landed in Hale’s lap. The man led a band of thieves, not prostitutes. So Cavin thought it fair to keep his poaching on a similar frequency, relying more on diving and pinching for the income Hale demanded of every inhabitant of the house.

Cavin had thought Sam was safe from Hale’s
arrangements
for a good few more years. But Sam was tall for his age, and the boy was beautiful under all the dirt and grime.

Maybe that lingering glance had simply been Hale taking stock of a future commodity. Hale left the boys alone until they were older. Cavin had come to live with Hale when he was nine, and Hale hadn’t made him drop to his knees for a bastard until he was sixteen.

Yes, that must have been it, Cavin reassured himself. Hale knew Sam was only thirteen. Much too young. And it wasn’t as if the house lacked older adolescents whom Hale could push into service in the front parlor.

Cavin entered the last room at the end of the corridor. Every other room in the house resembled its exterior, except Hale’s room. A massive oak bed, a bow-front cabinet before a window with actual drapes, a tall dresser and walls littered with gilt-framed oil paintings. Grandeur on a grand scale. Still, the room gave the impression of trying too hard to be something it wasn’t.

Hale shoved at the bare shoulder of the man sprawled in his bed. “Out.”

The man—who revealed himself to be Miles, one of the older adolescents who lived at the house—pushed up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Miles grabbed his clothes from the floor. Without bothering to pull on his trousers, he left the room, throwing a smug smirk to Cavin as he passed him, as he if had won some sort of prize.

Cavin rolled his eyes. Yes, his own position was higher in the house when he shared Hale’s bed, but he’d much rather do without Hale’s attention.

“How was your night?” Hale asked, as he reached into his closet.

Amazing. Spectacular. Unbelievably wonderful.
“Good.”

“Get a decent amount off him?”

Cavin shrugged. “More than a pittance, but I’ve had better.” Actually, no, he’d never had better. That was the problem.

“I’ve got a house I want you to take a few of the boys to tonight.” Hale shoved his arms into the sleeves of a navy coat. “Near Vauxhall. Owners went to the country. They’re the ones who bought that painting. Wait until two or three to make sure the street’s abed. Then bring back the painting and whatever else you find.”

“The one of the black horse?” A few weeks back, Hale had gone on about a horse painting he’d seen in some shop or other. It looked as though Hale had tracked down whoever had purchased it before he’d been able to nick it.

Hale nodded. “Carry it back yourself. Don’t want one of them fools dropping it. And next time you borrow one of my waistcoats, tell me. Looked all over the house for it last night. Thought one of them had the ballocks to steal it.”

“None of them would ever steal from you.”

“I should damn well hope not.”

Hale might not have the intimidation of pure bulk on his side, but he was not known for his ability to hold back his fists or his knife. At approximately thirty-five years of age, he still had the quick, ruthless reflexes that had earned him his current position as head of a rather good-sized band of thieves.

“I apologize for not telling you about the waistcoat. Didn’t think you’d miss it. You were out, and I needed something to wear to the hell. Got liquor spilled on my only decent one the other day.”

“I did miss it,” Hale said, as he finished buttoning his coat. “I’d left the key to the safe in the pocket.”

Cavin’s gut tightened. He could well imagine the threats that had been thrown about last night over the missing garment. Hopefully Hale hadn’t physically hurt any of the boys.

A loud shout echoed down the corridor followed by the splinter of wood.

A heavy scowl pulled Hale’s rugged features.

“Someone probably cheated,” Cavin said with a shrug. “They’re playing dice.”

“They should be out working, not winning my money off each other.”

My money.
Of course, it all went to Hale. Well, all but the farthing here or there that he allowed the boys to keep. It was the price they paid to live in his house, under his protection. To not have to worry about being dragged to one of the prison hulks in the Thames.

With an irritated shake of his head, Hale headed to the door. “Lock up your haul in the safe. Got an appointment to see to after I straighten out those boys.”

Confident it would take only the appearance of Hale to quell whatever argument had broken out downstairs, Cavin pulled off his best black coat. He took his gambling winnings from his pocket and set them on the bedside table beside the gilded candlestick.

He reached into the breast pocket on Hale’s waistcoat, but instead of finding a key, he pulled out a few calling cards. Hale did his best to pretend he was a nabob, but Cavin hadn’t realized the man had gone so far as to have calling cards printed. Rather ridiculous thing to have done. What did the man plan to do? Tuck them in with the money he slipped to the watchmen?

Cavin rolled his eyes. Then curious as to Hale’s given name—the man had always been known only by his family name—Cavin glanced to the small, crisp white cards in his hand.

“Lord Benjamin Parker” was written in simple, elegant black type.

His stomach dropped.

He closed his eyes. An image of Benjamin sitting beside him at the gambling table materialized before his mind’s eye. Benjamin, in a tan coat, elegantly tied white cravat and a black silk waistcoat.

Hale’s waistcoat was black silk. It was why Cavin had borrowed it. In order to gain a mark’s trust, he needed to appear as though he wasn’t exactly what he was. Years ago, Hale had stripped most of St. Giles from Cavin’s voice—who wanted a lover who sounded like a street urchin, even if he had been one?—and visiting Hyde Park, lingering on benches during the prime hours to be seen out and about, had done the rest. Given him a firm idea of how a true gentleman spoke and comported himself. The right clothes, though, were critical to pulling off the ruse. Smelling like a gin whore could have aroused suspicion. Made a gentleman look at him a bit too closely, when what Cavin needed was the man’s mind firmly on buggering or, in last night’s case, on getting buggered.

Opening his eyes, he looked to the black waistcoat in his hand. Benjamin’s waistcoat. The one that would have looked and felt just like Hale’s in a dark room.

Benjamin had Hale’s, and Cavin needed it back.

His mind worked quickly. Hale was usually gone for most of the day. The man was confident Cavin had the key, and confident Cavin would keep it safe. His mind would be on tonight’s sneak, not on counting his money. Cavin figured he had until he left for Vauxhall before Hale thought to ask for the key. In the meantime, he would simply locate Benjamin. There couldn’t be that many Benjamin Parkers in London.

Lord
Benjamin Parkers.

Christ, the man was the son of a peer? Cavin let out a groan. Definitely would need to start his search in Mayfair. Once he found Benjamin’s address, he would do the exchange. Surely Benjamin would understand the mistake.

Ignoring the thrill of anticipation over the prospect of seeing Benjamin again, Cavin put the cards back in the pocket, took off Benjamin’s waistcoat and carefully draped it over his arm. After tucking his gambling winnings in the back of a dresser drawer, he grabbed his coat and went down the corridor to his own much smaller room to stow Benjamin’s waistcoat. Once he’d seen to breakfast for Sam, he’d set out for an inquiring jaunt about Mayfair.