Page 35 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
Percy had gone directly to Collins. Really, he would not have guessed that a life of crime and dishonor would afford his valet such a wide scope for demonstrating his talent.
In the end, he let Collins choose a new suit of clothes to establish Percy’s sham identity, and which Percy hoped went some distance toward soothing the valet’s feelings over seeing one of Percy’s shirts torn to shreds after the fencing incident.
Percy himself was not thinking of that. It had been humiliating,during a time when all the fates seemed to be conspiring in his humiliation. He was also not thinking of what had followed at Kit’s, except for when he brought himself off. He figured that nobody could blame him, what with the way Kit had looked—all rugged and dangerous in the firelight, his enormous hands featherlight on Percy’s skin, his gaze almost soft.
Percy couldn’t remember the last time anybody had looked at him like he was something special, something precious. He wasn’t certain anybody ever had. He didn’t even know if he liked it—he felt rather like a bad penny about to be discovered as counterfeit. But he kept turning the moment over and over in his mind, imagining what would have happened if Kit hadn’t stepped away when he had.
When he met Kit at the appointed place—an inn near Spitalfields—he was surprised to find Kit sitting at a table with a young woman. When he approached, Percy recognized the woman as the redhead who frequented Kit’s coffeehouse. He had known that there was to be some girl they were purportedly escorting to the country but hadn’t expected it to be this bird of paradise. She was done up like a parson’s daughter, covered stem to stern in gray serge and topped off with a bonnet that hid her face in modest shadows unless she chose to look up. She had another, even more demure, woman with her, evidently playing the part of maid.
When they got into the coach that Kit had hired, Percy found himself steered into the forward-facing seat alongside the girl, who went by the name of MissFlora Jennings. Kit and the maid sat facing them.
It was a good thing the village to which they were bringing Miss Jennings was only a short distance, only slightly furthernorth than Hampstead Heath, because the conveyance that comfortably sat two men of their height had not yet been devised. Percy’s and Kit’s knees bumped together repeatedly, and Percy saw Kit suppressing wince after wince. He imagined that all this jostling was murder on Kit’s leg.
“Mr.Percy,” said MissJennings, “what part of the country do your people come from?”
It was an innocuous enough question, but one that Percy did not know how to answer. Cheveril Castle was in Oxfordshire. Farleigh Chase was Derbyshire. Those were the two principal properties of the Duke of Clare, with several others scattered around the country. These facts were of such common knowledge that Percy was almost certain nobody had ever bothered to ask him where he came from. It ought to be straightforward—he had been raised at Cheveril—had been born there, in fact, and had thought his sons would be born there as well. He had thought he’d die at Cheveril, and that one day his portrait would hang in the gallery with all the other dead Dukes of Clare.
But none of that was true anymore. He had known as much for months, but he felt that he had to learn it again and again. Marian seemed to have assimilated the truth into her life in one fell swoop, but Percy was repeatedly shocked to rediscover who he was, and who he wasn’t.
“Oxfordshire,” he said faintly, and felt Kit’s eyes on him. Then he felt the gentle pressure of Kit’s foot against his own. He hadn’t told Kit about the precise nature of his predicament, of course, but perhaps Kit had inferred that a man who wished to rob his father at gunpoint might have a welter of confused sentiments about a good number of things, including his home. Or perhaps Kit simply knew Percy well enough to know when he was distressed.
Percy pressed back against Kit’s foot, to let him know the sympathy was appreciated.
MissJennings turned her attention to the Bible she held open on her lap. When she caught him looking, she smiled shyly at him. “This was my mother’s,” she said.
Percy did not know if this passed as normal conversation for commoners, or for prostitutes, or if the girl was attempting to engage him in what she assumed was decent conversation. “How lovely for you,” he said. “One does like to have a memento of one’s mother.”
MissJennings looked altogether too pleased with Percy’s answer, though. Percy wondered if this was an attempt at social climbing.
When they arrived at the village, all four disembarked. Percy escorted MissJennings and her maid to her aunt’s cottage while Kit arranged for the horses and coachman to be fed at the nearest inn. MissJennings safely deposited at the house of her aunt, Percy walked to the inn, where he found Kit waiting for him.
“They’re saddling a pair of hacks for us,” Kit said, shoving a pint of ale across the table for Percy.
Percy wiped the seat off with his handkerchief and sat. “What exactly is your relationship with MissJennings? I thought she was an, ah, aspiring courtesan.”
“And so she is. Do you know Mistress Scarlett’s establishment?”
Percy raised his eyebrows. “I followed you there, if you recall.”
“It’s run by an old friend. Flora works for her.”
“Do you typically escort ladies of the night around the countryside?” Percy asked, knowing already that Kit was not in the habit of doing anything so interesting.
“I needed an excuse to go to Hampstead Heath in a carriage because I can’t ride that distance anymore. And Scarlett was quite insistent.”
“I’m certain that she’s very talented at getting men to accede to her wishes,” Percy remarked.
Kit snorted and took a sip of his ale. “She’s just an old friend,” he said, and Percy wasn’t sure if it was his imagination that Kit’s words were meant to allay Percy’s suspicions. Not that Percy had any suspicions—Kit was free to consort with however many brothel keepers he pleased.
“I’ve never taken a courtesan to visit her aunt, nor have I ever surveyed potential scenes to stage robberies,” Percy murmured, leaning across the table so only Kit would hear. “This is a day of many new and fascinating experiences for me.”
He stayed that way, his forearms resting on the table, his forehead inches from Kit’s own, and watched Kit’s lips curl in a smile.
Good God, but the man was easy to look at. He clearly made no effort whatsoever with his appearance and probably never had, which made Percy both faintly jealous and peculiarly aroused. He looked like he had slept in those clothes, then rolled out of bed and into his boots, andstillPercy wanted to crawl into his lap. There was the ever-present stubble darkening his jaw, and the hair that refused to stay in the queue where it belonged. Even Kit’s shabby old tricorn, which looked like it had been run over by a stagecoach and then taken part in a shipwreck, somehow looked alluring in a disreputable way.
Percy knew he was leering. In fact, he knew he spent a shocking portion of his time around Kit ogling the man. He might have stopped if Kit didn’t do it right back. Kit was doing it thatvery minute, in fact, shooting furtive little glances at Percy’s mouth, then his hands, then his neck.
He expected Kit to throw back his drink and stand up, but instead he stayed where he was.
