Page 18 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
When Kit returned to gather the empty plate and replace the coffee with a fresh cup, he found Holland engaged in a conversation with half the table. He likely thought he was giving the other customers a thrill by allowing them to consort with their betters.
Betty sidled over to him with a dark look and murmured something about Kit’s weakness for a pretty face.
“I just thought it would be a nice change to get out from behind the counter,” Kit said.
“Don’t lie,” Betty said. “You’re so bad at it, I feel embarrassed for you.”
The next two hours crept by with agonizing slowness, but finally the last customer left and Kit bolted the door. When heturned around, he found Holland already on his feet, his parcel in his hands.
“Where are we to do this?” Holland asked.
Kit gestured with his chin toward the back room.
“Ah, your assignation room,” Holland said knowingly.
Kit was stunned into silence. Betty stopped gathering plates and cups and stared at Holland.
“In the circles I travel in, one does know about these things,” Holland said, looking back and forth between Kit and Betty. “Heaven knows I’ve used plenty of rooms like that, and I know what to look for.”
“Is that supposed to be blackmail?” Betty asked, regarding Holland with narrowed eyes and a hand on her hip.
“My dear girl, if I meant to blackmail Mr.Webb, I’d start with his life of crime, not his amorous predilections, which I happen to share, for that matter.”
“I don’t do that,” Kit protested, then wanted to bang his head into the wall. Both Betty and Holland knew that Kit had been looking, and protesting about it just made him look deluded. And now they were both staring at him. “Get changed,” Kit grumbled. “And be quick about it.” He tried not to watch as Holland walked out of the room.
“Amorous predilections?” Betty asked. “Is he just talking about fucking men or some fancy shite I don’t want to know about?”
“Shut up, you,” he told Betty.
“Is that what you’re doing back there? Predilecting?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Betty!”
“You should try. Do you a world of good.”
He didn’t go into the back room until fifteen minutes had passed, both because he didn’t want to risk seeing Holland half-dressed and because he wanted to make Holland wait. When he pushed open the back door, he found Holland leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed. The room was only lit by a pair of old oil lamps, but they were bright enough to see that Holland was dressed in plain breeches and a matching coat, his hair pulled into a queue.
“Take off your coat,” Kit said. “Can’t do this properly in a coat. Waistcoat, too.”
Holland hesitated a moment, then stripped down to his shirt.
“How are we going to do this?” Holland asked. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”
“And you’re not going to start now. This isn’t pugilism. It’s not even a brawl. What you need is to be able to disarm an adversary.”
“At least four adversaries,” Holland said. “My father travels with four armed outriders, and I’m certain the coachman has a pistol as well.”
“You only need to trouble yourself with the coachman, because he’s nearest to your mark. You’ll hire people to deal with the rest.”
“Oh, so now I’m hiring people, am I?”
“Were you under the impression that I worked alone?”
“I believe the ballad mentions a Fat Tom and a woman named Nell.”
Kit snorted. “Her name is Janet, but that doesn’t rhyme with nearly as many things as Nell. Janet’s married with a baby on the way, but Tom is still working.” Tom’s principal talent lay in knocking people off horses with minimal fuss.
“Oh, Tom’s still working, is he?” Holland asked dryly, his arms folded before him. “And is there some reason I can’t give him fifty pounds to take my father’s blasted book?”
