Brook Street: Thief (9 page)

“You’ll need blunt, sir. A lot of it. The night constable at Fleet Street, he ain’t honest. He’ll forget about Cavin, if ye give him money.”

Dear Lord, bribe a constable, a member of the City Police Force? But if that was what it would take to save Cavin’s arse, so be it.

At Benjamin’s nod, Sam darted from the room.

In no time at all, Benjamin’s carriage was barreling down the near-empty streets of London, the team of two at a gallop, or as much of a gallop as could be managed in Town on a wet night. Sam sat across from him, arms crossed over his chest, holding himself tight, the darkness of the carriage unable to hide his pale face or the fear in his eyes.

“It will be all right, Sam,” Benjamin said, with far more calm than he felt.

The boy gave a short, tight nod, his attention fixed out the rain-marred window, on the merchant and tradesmen’s shops lining Bond Street.

“Do you know why Cavin was taken in?”

Sam hunched down even farther in his coat. “A man cried beef, claimed Cavin had dived ’em.”

“Pardon?”

“Raised the alarm. Picked his pocket.”

It took a second for Benjamin’s brain to piece together what Sam had said and make sense of it.

Could be much worse, he reassured himself. Cavin could have robbed a house or a store, cheated someone, hurt someone. A whole range of criminal activities were much worse than picking a pocket.

“Do you believe he did it?” Benjamin asked.

Sam’s only answer was a distinctly uncomfortable and noncommittal shrug, but it was answer enough for Benjamin. If Sam believed Cavin incapable of such a crime, Benjamin was certain the boy would have rushed to his brother’s defense.

“Cavin has not been well, has he?”

For a long moment, Sam didn’t respond. Then he shook his head, his attention still fixed out the window.

Though Benjamin had tried his damnedest to keep the worries at bay, he had suspected as much. And it hurt to know that Cavin had not sought him out for assistance. Had chosen to steal from another rather than come to him.

“Who is Hale?”

“We used to live at his house. Not no more.”

Given the area, Benjamin would not be surprised to learn the place was a flash house. “Why did you leave?”

“Cavin thought it best I not stay there no more.”

Benjamin couldn’t resist asking, “Did Hale hurt you?” Sam had arrived at his doorstep without a mark on him, but something had caused the desperate urgency in Cavin that night.

“No, sir. Hale… He asked me to…” Sam shook his head. “Cavin thought it best I leave, find an honest position. He left, too.”

“And where does Cavin now live?”

“He mentioned a room at an inn. Don’t know where.”

The golden glow from a passing streetlamp briefly fell through the window, illuminating Sam’s mouth drawn in a rigid, thin line, his brow furrowed under the weight of his worry.

Benjamin knew he could question Sam further. Desperate to stay in Benjamin’s favor long enough to see Cavin’s release, the boy would likely tell him everything he wanted to know, every detail about his and Cavin’s life, but Sam had provided enough answers for one night. He would get the rest from Cavin.

“It will be all right,” Benjamin reassured him again. “We’ll have Cavin home before midnight.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sam’s whisper was almost lost in the rhythmic pound of the horses’ hooves, the light tap of the rain on the roof, and the clatter of carriage wheels against the street.

It took much too long in Benjamin’s opinion for the carriage to arrive at the Fleet Street station house, every minute passing by like an hour, but eventually the driver pulled the team to a stop.

Unwilling to wait for the groom to see to the door, Benjamin reached for the small brass lever.

“Wait, sir.”

Arm outstretched, Benjamin looked to Sam.

“Ye need to ask after Michael Smith. Cavin don’t give no one his real name.”

But he’d given it to me.

Benjamin stopped the words before they left his mouth. He gave Sam a nod and opened the door. He stepped out onto the walkway and gave his greatcoat a tug to straighten it. He glanced to the sky. The rain had stopped. He’d take that as a good sign. Then he pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and went up the steps leading to the station house.

During the exceedingly long drive, he had mulled over his options and decided on the best manner in which to proceed. He was from Quality. Was the son and now brother of a marquis. He would simply act the part. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He would emulate Roger. His eldest brother had perfected the art of haughty boredom.

Among the chaos of the entrance hall, among the wails of a young woman huddled in a corner, the argument breaking out between two men at the foot of the staircase, and the screams of an infant in a tattered pram, its mother oblivious to the sounds as she tried to pull one of the arguing men away, Benjamin located a watchman who pointed him to the night constable’s office located down a corridor.

He didn’t bother to knock. He opened the door and found the man seated behind his desk, pencil in hand and scrawling in a ledger, a half-full glass at his elbow. The neatly combed strands of hair that were doing a poor job concealing a rather large bald patch on the top of his head were the only neat things about the night constable. His cravat was limp and dingy, the buttons of his waistcoat strained against the width of his barrel chest, and the sleeves of his coat were wrinkled.

Benjamin shut the door.

The man looked up. Small, dark eyes swept over Benjamin then the man set down his pencil and pulled his shoulders back. “Yes?”

Benjamin came to a stop before the desk littered with papers. “It has come to my attention that one of your men brought in a servant of mine. A Mr. Michael Smith.”

Fleshy lips pursed. The man glanced to the ledger. “Yes. He was accused of pick-pocketing.”

“There has been a misunderstanding. My servants do not steal.” He reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled out the fold of pound notes he’d taken from the safe in his study. “For your trouble.” He set the money on the desk. “I will take Mr. Smith home now.”

With more than a trace of boredom, he held the night constable’s gaze, not giving the man one hint to the nervousness that rattled through his veins. If this didn’t work… If his bribe landed him in a holding cell right next to Cavin, he’d be of absolutely no use to Cavin.

The night constable’s gaze went to the pound notes then to Benjamin and back to the notes again. The man let out a short grunt. He picked up his pencil, scrawled a note in the margin of the ledger and drew a line through one of the rows. Pushing to his feet, he snatched the money from the desk and shoved it in his pocket, proving Sam had known exactly what he had been about. “Wait in the entrance hall.”

Benjamin turned on his heel and left the office, kept his spine straight, refusing to allow it to slump in relief. Of course the bribe had worked. Greed had done its duty. He’d given the constable a hundred pounds, likely more money than the man ever had at one point in time.

Now he could only hope the constable actually produced Cavin and allowed Benjamin to take him home.

The hall was considerably quieter than a few moments ago. The arguing men and the crying baby were gone. The young woman was still huddled in the corner, but her wails had died down to low shudders that shook her slim shoulders. Benjamin pulled a few coins from his pocket, pressed them into her small hand, then he took up a spot near the door and waited.

A few men passed through the hall, moving about their business. As each came up from a corridor or down the main stairs, Benjamin’s heart would briefly leap into his throat, expectation rising then falling.

He pulled his attention out one of the windows. His carriage still waited, driver in the bench and lines held at the ready. One of the horses stomped an impatient hoof, splashing in a muddy puddle. He couldn’t make out Sam through the carriage window, but he was certain the boy remained exactly where he’d left him.

A frisson of awareness washed over him.

He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but he looked over his shoulder anyway.

It was all he could do to keep his face wiped clean of all emotion.

Joy, anger and horror clashed within. Joy at seeing Cavin once again, at having him near. Pure anger, nay rage, at whoever had dared to leave that nasty bruise on his cheek. And horror over how one fortnight had taken such a toll on the man.

Cavin came to a stop at Benjamin’s shoulder, the heavy question and shame clear in his deep blue eyes. He had appeared alone, without the guard of a watchman. Benjamin took it for what it was. He tipped his head to the door, wanting Cavin to precede him. No way in hell was he going to let the man out of his sight.

A nod from Cavin, and Benjamin followed him out of the station house.

Chapter Nine

The groom hopped off the back of the carriage and opened the door as they approached. Benjamin didn’t miss the way Cavin hesitated before stepping inside. If the man had actually balked, Benjamin would have thrown him bodily into the damn carriage.

“Sam, please ride up with the driver,” Benjamin said.

The boy scrambled out and did as bid. Benjamin took up a place across from Cavin. The groom shut the door. A snap of the lines, and the carriage moved forward.

“Is the night constable’s claim true? Did you pick a man’s pocket?”

Cavin looked out the carriage window. The fortnight had indeed taken a heavy toll on him. And it wasn’t just the sparse, dark blond beard that indicated he hadn’t shaved in well over a week, the bruise on his cheek, or the now dirty and worn coat, waistcoat and trousers that looked to be the same clothes Benjamin had last seen on him. It was Cavin himself. The air of dejection, the complete lack of hope in the slump of his shoulders and slowness of every movement.

After a long moment, Cavin nodded. “I was careless. Maybe I wanted to get caught.”

“But why did you pick his pocket?”

Silence stretched between them. Cavin didn’t move a muscle, but Benjamin swore he could feel the man folding in on himself.

“I was hungry.”

The sound of Cavin’s voice, low and weighed down with humiliation, tore at Benjamin’s heart. “Ah hell, Cavin. You could have come to me.”

Cavin shook his head. “You’ve done enough by giving Sam a position, I couldn’t ask for more.”

Benjamin reached out, gave Cavin’s knee a squeeze. “Yes, you could have. I told you once before, if you ever have need of anything, I am here for you. I meant it, Cavin. I wouldn’t have thought less of you if you knocked on my door with a request for assistance. On the contrary. I would have been thankful you trusted me enough to ask.”

He rapped on the ceiling and gave his driver direction to stop at the nearest tavern. Given the lateness of the hour, their options were limited, but damned if he would allow Cavin to go hungry until dawn when his housekeeper arrived to cook breakfast.

“Thank you for tonight,” Cavin said, in that same low voice. “It must have cost you a good sum to persuade the night constable to release me. I will find some way to repay you.”

“How? By stealing again?” Benjamin asked, with far more accusation than he intended, but he could not have kept an even tone if he had tried.

Cavin bristled, his attention snapping from the window. “No. Of course not. I don’t do that no more.” He must have sensed Benjamin’s arched brow, for he added, “Tonight was…an exception. It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again? Getting caught or stealing?”

A passing streetlamp illuminated the ugly, defensive sneer pulling Cavin’s full lips.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Benjamin got out, but before he shut the door, he called up to Sam. “Watch your brother. If I return and he’s not here, you are out of a position.” He wouldn’t actually dismiss Sam if Cavin fled, but the boy didn’t know that. More importantly, Cavin didn’t know that. The threat alone would keep Cavin firmly in the carriage, unwilling to risk anything that could lose Sam his position.

The tavern wasn’t on par with White’s, but it appeared well kept and clean. Benjamin procured a basket of cold meat and cheese, bread, a bottle of wine and whatever else the kitchen had at the ready.

When he got back inside the carriage, he handed the basket to Cavin who took it with a murmured, “Thank you.”

As the carriage wound its way back to Mayfair, the team moving at a nice clip, Cavin dug into the basket. He offered Benjamin a roasted chicken leg, which Benjamin took. He wasn’t hungry by any means, but he didn’t want to make Cavin uncomfortable by having the man eat alone.

They ate in silence. Benjamin finished the chicken leg, wrapped the bone in a napkin and tucked it in the basket Cavin had put on the floor by his feet. After opening the bottle of wine, he brought it to his lips, taking a long swallow, and then offered the bottle to Cavin.

“Michael Smith,” Benjamin said. “Interesting name.”

Cavin paused, the bottle suspended a few inches from his mouth. He shrugged and took a swallow.

“Makes me think you are rather acquainted with station houses, if you had a false name at the ready.” He should drop the topic, or at least wait until he had Cavin safely inside his town house before questioning him again. And if Cavin was sincere, if he truly intended to never steal again, then the man’s past didn’t hold much bearing with Benjamin. The past was the past and a man could change for the better. Still, he needed to know. How many times had Cavin been brought in to a station house and for what reasons? Had he been merely a pick pocket, or had his thefts been more serious than that? What had driven him to steal, and why now did he intend to turn his back on it?

Yet the only response he received from Cavin was another mute shrug.

Benjamin couldn’t stop his sigh from filling the interior.

The carriage soon slowed to a stop outside his town house.

“Bring the basket,” Benjamin said as he exited the carriage. Using the key he’d pulled from the pocket of his greatcoat, he unlocked the front door. He motioned to Sam and Cavin. “Inside.” Neither questioned nor hesitated. Both went dutifully into the dark house. “Thank you, Sam. Now up to bed with you. It’s been a long night.”

A nod from Sam, and then the boy’s shadowed outline disappeared down the corridor, in the direction of the servants’ stairs.

After locking the front door, Benjamin lit the candle on the console table. He turned to Cavin. “Why won’t you trust me?”

The question filled the entrance hall, seeming to hang in the air.

A part of Benjamin was aware he was asking a lot of Cavin. It wasn’t as if they had known each other for years or even months. Yet Benjamin had extended an open offer of assistance a fortnight ago, had taken in the man’s brother, and he’d damn well bribed a constable for Cavin tonight. “I believe I’ve earned some level of trust by now, don’t you?”

Cavin’s gaze dropped to the floor. Even with the beard, he looked so young, so vulnerable, so…lost.

“How old are you?” Benjamin asked.

A pause. “One and twenty.”

At that age, Benjamin had still been at university, where his most pressing concern had been the day’s lectures. He hadn’t worried about the roof over his head or where his next meal would come from. Hadn’t had the sole responsibility of a younger brother and without the means to provide for him. His concerns had been frivolous in comparison to Cavin’s.

Benjamin’s arms ached to embrace Cavin, to reassure him that everything would be all right. But he had the distinct impression Cavin would not welcome such tenderness at the moment. He had that same wary air about him that Sam usually had. One touch could send the man fleeing out the door, never to be seen again.

“You’re a mess, you know that?” he asked, as casual as could be, striving for absolutely no accusation in his tone.

His gaze still on the floor, Cavin nodded once.

“Come along. Let’s get you cleaned up. You can use my razor, unless you want to keep the beard.” Benjamin grabbed the candle and without a backward glance, led the way up to his bedchamber. He had to strain his ears to make out the sound of Cavin’s footsteps behind him. The man moved so quietly, and it didn’t seem deliberate. It seemed second nature to him. A skill ingrained in him long ago, indicating Cavin had been more than a mere pick pocket.

Frustration began to well up again, but Benjamin pushed it aside. Now was not the time to demand answers. Demanding would only gain him silence or worse, a surly sneer. Or worse yet, the faint sound of retreating footsteps.

He lit a couple of candles in his bedchamber then set the candlestick on the side table next to the armchair in the corner. “Have a seat. You can finish eating while I ready the washroom.”

The previous owners of the house had been of a modern inclination and had a bath shower installed in the washroom. A warm bath would be more relaxing, but Benjamin wasn’t of a mind to heat water and lug a half-dozen buckets up two flights of stairs. Nor was he about to summon Sam from his bed to see to the task for him. Two buckets of water…. That Benjamin could easily manage on his own.

“I need to go down to the kitchen. Will you stay here?”

A nod from Cavin.

Benjamin was starting to get damn tired of mute nods and shrugs.

Once the water was seen to, he readied everything else Cavin would need. When he emerged from the washroom, he found Cavin sprawled in the chair, chin tipped down to his chest, legs stretched out, a hand resting on his belly, and the empty basket by his feet. It had definitely been a long evening, but the man stank, for Christ’s sake. He needed to wash up.

“Cavin.”

His head snapped up, his spine going ramrod straight as he came to full alertness in the blink of an eye. His gaze quickly swept the room before settling on Benjamin. The tension left his shoulders. “Yes, Ben?”

“The washroom’s ready.”

With a nod, Cavin pushed to his feet.

Benjamin showed him how to work the bath shower, pointing out the pump on the side. “Rinse, scrub, pump the water back to the top, then rinse again. Fairly simple, but brace yourself for cold water. The soap’s over there.” He motioned to the cake of soap on the wire rack. “Towels are on the hooks. Razor’s on the washstand. There’s fresh water in the pitcher. If you need anything else, simply give a shout.”

He left Cavin alone and occupied himself with turning back the coverlet in the guest bedchamber and on his own bed, starting the fire in his bedchamber, and tugging off his coat, cravat and waistcoat.

It was a good quarter of an hour later when Benjamin knocked on the door. “Cavin?”

“Come in,” Cavin called.

He pushed open the door.

Cavin stood before the washstand, a towel wrapped around his lean hips. A drop of water fell from the ends of his wet hair, landing on his bare shoulder. He set down the razor then leaned down to splash water on his freshly shaven jaw.

Benjamin pulled his attention from Cavin’s towel-covered arse. “I forgot to leave you a change of clothes.” He set the trousers and shirt on a nearby stool. He hadn’t bothered with drawers since he knew Cavin did not wear them. “We’re about the same size, so they should fit. Just throw yours in the bin.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.” Using a short length of towel, Cavin dried his face. “Only clothes I have. Left everything else behind.”

Benjamin waved a hand to the clothes on the stool. “They’re yours now. And please, don’t argue.”

A pause, then Cavin nodded once.

He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb. “Does your cheek hurt? I could check the kitchen. Mrs. Gilroy might have something in there that could be used as a poultice.” If anything, the bruise looked worse after the shower, an ugly deep purple that covered his left cheekbone, ending but an inch from his eye.

“No, doesn’t hurt.”

A lie if ever Benjamin heard one.

As Cavin dragged the comb Benjamin had left on the washstand through his wet hair, combing the dark blond strands back from his forehead, Benjamin passed a careful eye over the man’s body. Fortunately, the bruise on his cheek appeared to be the only one marring Cavin’s smooth pale skin, unless the towel was hiding more than a firm arse and a beautiful prick. Though Cavin was definitely a bit leaner than when last he’d seen him. The man wasn’t gaunt by any means, but Benjamin doubted there was an extra ounce of flesh on his frame. He could make out the juncture where his ribs ended and the ridges of his abdomen muscles began. Today hadn’t been the only day Cavin had gone hungry in the past fortnight.

All Cavin had needed to do was ask to see him, and Benjamin would have invited him to join him at his table. Cavin could have kept his pride intact, not made any mention of the empty state of his stomach. Instead, Cavin had chosen to keep his visits with Sam confined to the back garden, going out of his way not to bring his presence at the house to Benjamin’s attention.

“Sam told me you have been stopping by to check on him. I can’t help but feel that you have been avoiding me. Did you not wish to see me anymore? Did I do something wrong?”

A wince crossed Cavin’s brow. He made a little project of folding the towel he’d used to dry his face. “No, Ben. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not you. I wanted to see you but… It’s complicated.” Heaving a sigh, one that sounded so tired and so defeated, Cavin turned to face him. “I wish it wasn’t.”

“Then it doesn’t need to be complicated.”

“Ben, it’s not that simple. You can’t just—”

“We can discuss it tomorrow.” No matter how much Benjamin wanted to have this discussion with Cavin now, he knew he should wait. Cavin looked downright exhausted. He had been through enough tonight. And Benjamin had learned the most critical point—Cavin hadn’t avoided him because he was angry or upset with him or just plain did not want to see him again. That particular worry eased, he tipped his head toward the open door behind him. “Come along. To bed with you.”

“But, Benjamin—”

“Not now, Cavin. Tomorrow. Now, you need some rest. You damn well fell asleep in the chair not a half hour ago.”

Cavin’s lips thinned, then he gave up the fight and let out a heavy breath, his whole body slumping. “All right.” He hung the folded towel over the bar on the side of the washstand. He slanted a glance to Benjamin. “Only to bed?”

“Yes, only to bed.” As much as he wanted to press his body full up against Cavin’s, the man needed a decent night’s rest. “Though the choice of bed is yours. Either mine or the guest bedchamber’s.” Sharing a bed with Cavin would make it damn difficult to keep his hands to himself, but he much preferred to keep the man within arm’s reach. He couldn’t ignore the worry that the minute Cavin was out of sight, he would slip away from him again.

“Yours will do. It’s closer,” Cavin added with a shrug, though the playful twist of his lips belied the practical explanation. He tugged the towel from his waist, hung it on a hook and strode past Benjamin and into the bedchamber, bare as the day he was born.