Page 39 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Some people in the village still remember thebeauAnglaisand the pretty strumpet he brought with him.”
“Marcus’s research is very thorough,” Percy observed the next time they passed close. “Since I doubt he would have put all that in a letter, am I to take it that he’s in London now?”
“I believe he’s playing cards somewhere around here,” she said.
He was about to complain that he could have avoided this ball if Marcus had simply called at Clare House, but he supposed aconversation at a large gathering would be less remarkable and less likely to be overheard by the duke’s servants than a meeting at Clare House.
The dance finally ended. Percy bowed, Marian curtsied, and Percy strode off in the direction of the card rooms. All he had to do was follow the steady stream of men escaping the dance floor.
He found Marcus in a book-lined study, at a table with three other men, engaged in what looked like whist. Percy leaned against a nearby table, waiting until Marcus noticed him. Marian had gotten all the guile in that family, so when Marcus noticed Percy, he almost spat out his brandy.
“Christ almighty, how long have you been there, Perce?” He got up from the table, still holding his cards, and embraced Percy. Then he stood back and looked Percy up and down. “Look at you, you shocking fop. What have you done to yourself?”
“More than you have,” Percy said, wrinkling his nose as he took in Marcus’s coat, which had to be at least two years old. He gripped Marcus’s hand. “Now, darling, you’re forfeiting this game. We have to make up for lost time.” With that, he pulled Marcus out to the terrace.
“I don’t understand,” Percy said several minutes later. “If she gave a false name, then the marriage isn’t binding.” They were deep in the garden, where the noises from the party were remote and they could be assured of their privacy. Percy pulled his coat around his chest.
“Was it a false name, or was it a French priest’s best effort at transcribing a foreign name?” Marcus asked. “And even if it were an alias, that doesn’t necessarily mean the marriage is invalid. At the very least it would take some infernally long time in the courts to get settled and cast a long shadow over the future of thetitle. I say, what would happen if you went to your father and told him what you know? Surely he wouldn’t leave you and Marian and the baby to starve.”
Percy looked at his old friend in wonder. “He’d cut me off, cast me out, and spread it about town that I was mad. I’d be lucky not to end my days in a lunatic asylum.”
Marcus sighed. “In that case, I think you and Marian need to save as much money as possible. Sell your jewels and replace them with paste, invest the proceeds, and live off the income. Save your allowance for a few years and buy a modest house. That way, when the truth comes out, you’ll have something of your own to live on.”
This would be prudent, Percy had to concede. This was probably the counsel he would offer a friend, so he wasn’t going to hold it against Marcus. “And while I’m saving my pennies, I live with the sword of Damocles over my head. I let my father and the blackmailer control my destiny.”
“That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think?” Marcus gave a little laugh that made Percy want to scream. “It’s a title and some money—granted, a significant title and an enormous fortune. But you’d live quite well on the money you could put aside over the course of a few years. In fact, you’d live better than nearly everyone in this country. You wouldn’t be here”—he gestured at the distant ballroom—“but you’d be well-off, and safe.”
Percy grit his teeth, knowing that Marcus was right but also not able to communicate that this was inadequate, not because Percy was greedy, but because it was letting his father win. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me gracefully subside. He dishonored Marian and my mother, and he’s raised me to be—to be alie, Marcus. Marian feels the same way.”
“I know,” Marcus said, with the weariness of a man who had heard at length his sister’s feelings on this topic. “I don’t mean to make excuses for your father,” he said, sounding like he was about to do precisely that. “We both know he’s despicable. But when he married this Elsie Terry, he was twenty. It’s possible he never thought it was a binding marriage—it took place in a foreign country and in a Catholic church, and neither of them would have been of age in England. It may have been a poor choice, but it’s not an inherently evil one.”
“Not inherently—” Percy broke off, sputtering.
“My only point is that revenge has never done anyone a bit of good.”
Well, of course it wasn’t going to do him any good. Percy wasn’t fool enough to believe that punishing his father would make him happy. The problem was that letting his father go unpunished would make it impossible for Percy to have any peace. But there was no use explaining that to Marcus. “If it makes you feel better, I fully intend to sell off everything I can in the next month or two.”
“Marian is engaged in a similar project,” Marcus said.
“I have one more lead,” Percy said. “My father’s former valet has an inn near Tavistock. His name was Denny.”
“Percy,” Marcus said gently. “There’s no doubt but that your father married this woman. There are people in Boulogne who remember her, and who remember where she came from. And when I visited the village where she was born, there were half a dozen Terrys still living there, including an old woman who says Elsie was her granddaughter. Elsie pays her a visit once a quarter.”
“I know that,” Percy snapped. “I know, Marcus. The woman’s alive, the marriage was valid, and Marian and I are well and trulyfucked. What I care about now is Cheveril. Would you please visit Mr. Denny and see if he recalls whether there was a child. I need to know what will happen to Cheveril.”
“All right,” Marcus said. “I know this all feels impossibly dreadful right now, but there are certain advantages to being a commoner. You won’t have to worry about marriage or heirs, and with any luck you could perhaps form a lasting attachment with a person of your own choosing. I know that seems like a small compensation, but—”
Percy laughed bitterly. “Marcus, lasting attachments are the furthest thing from my mind.”
Chapter29
Long after closing, Kit sat in the empty shop, using the broad expanse of the table to spread out maps of the road from London to Oxfordshire and the country surrounding Cheveril Castle. In the margins, he marked information that he still needed. He would have to hire someone to scout out that length of road in advance. In the past, he would have gone himself and committed every farmhouse and hedgerow to memory, but it turned out he could do most of the planning right from his shop.
His work was interrupted by a rap at the door. “Come in,” he called, wondering when it happened that people had started to drop in on him at odd hours. His hand went to his knife, more out of habit than out of any actual belief that he was in danger. People who meant harm seldom knocked.
He hoped that it might be Percy at the door. Percy had, after all, left without a word despite the fact that earlier they had more or less made plans to spend the night together. Or at least that was how Kit had interpreted it at the time, but the more he thought about it the more doubtful he became.
But the person who walked in wasn’t Percy. It was a woman, wrapped head to toe in a dark, hooded cloak. Only after thedoor was shut and bolted behind her did she slide the hood off her head.
