Page 11 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“What’s your name?” Kit asked in a desperate bid to regain control of this conversation. “The truth this time.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Percy said, looking genuinely remorseful, which Kit could not begin to make sense of. “Sorrier than you can know.” He was whispering now, his words little more than a breath on Kit’s cheek. Kit could have turned his head an inch to the left and—and kissed him, he would have thought if he were having an even somewhat normal reaction, if wanting to kiss strange men in broad daylight in a crowded coffeehouse could be considered in any way normal. But no, Kit’s impulses were entirely run to mayhem, so what he actually imagined was running his teeth over the black velvet of that stupid heart-shaped patch. He was manifestly losing his mind.
Kit was usually very good at controlling this sort of urge. Hopping into bed with attractive strangers had never appealed to him very much anyway. It always seemed like a lot of hassle and risk for pleasure that never quite lived up to one’s expectations. And that was with women; with men, things were even more complicated because a heaping great dose of danger was thrown into the bargain. And while Kit was far from averse to danger, he didn’t want it in his bed. The fact was that he was spoiled by knowing what it was like to love someone and be loved in return; he knew what it felt like to want to be with someone in bed but also build a future with them. Anything other than that seemed too dismal to consider.
Although, strictly speaking, he still wasn’t considering it. What he had in mind didn’t involve any bed at all, just this counter and a bit of ingenuity. It would be easy—all he had to do was clear the shop, bolt the door, and draw the curtains. Percy seemed like he’d be game—had spent the last fortnight making as much clear to anyone with eyes and ears. Now his lips were parted, and at this close distance Kit could see his pulse coming hot and fast beneath the lace of his collar.
“Pardon me, Mr.Webb,” said a small voice. Kit looked up to see Flora holding a coffee cup in one hand and her Bible in the other. “May I trouble you for a cloth? I’m afraid I spilled my coffee all over the table and now the book is quite soaked. It was my mother’s,” she said, opening the sodden flyleaf to expose a page of smeared ink. There were tears in her eyes, and her voice had a dangerous wobble.
It was as if the girl’s words freed Kit from whatever godforsaken spell he was under. He handed her a clean cloth and showed her how to press it between the damp pages to absorb the worst ofthe spill. The book wasn’t badly damaged after all, and Kit more than suspected that Flora’s tears—and possibly the spill itself—had been engineered for Percy’s benefit. When he looked up, he expected to see Percy and wondered whether the man would have caught on to what was happening. But when he raised his head, Percy was gone.
Chapter10
With a great deal of effort and the unfortunate necessity of breaking into an unbecoming sweat, Percy managed to get back to Clare House, wash his face, change into drab clothes, and return to Webb’s coffeehouse before it closed for the evening. The serving girl hadn’t been there that afternoon, and Percy wanted to see if her absence changed Webb’s routine at all. Without Betty to walk home, might Mr.Webb actually do something interesting?
Percy knew he was close to getting Webb to agree. He had to be. Percy had seen it in his eyes that afternoon. All he needed was a push, and maybe tonight Percy could get an idea about exactly what might make that happen.
Percy watched from the shadows across the street as Webb stepped outside and locked the door, accompanied by the pretty red-haired woman who had been in the shop earlier that day. Percy hadn’t been paying her any attention at the time, and his memory supplied only a lacy white cap, a demurely cut gown, and a coffee-soaked Bible. A prostitute, no doubt, but the way Webb led her through the streets was how Percy imagined a man might walk with a niece—faintly gallant but no hint of anything sexual.
Gladhand Jack had a reputation for gallantry, in fact. At least two stanzas of that idiotic ballad were devoted to his chivalry, not that Percy had seen any evidence of it in person, unless grumbles were considered particularly charming. But the ladies he robbed returned home safe and sound with tales of how Gladhand Jack allowed them to keep some favorite bauble. The husbands, needless to say, had no such tales to tell, only empty purses and a disrupted journey. Even a highwayman who fancied men—as Webb plainly did—would likely not flirt with the men he robbed, although Percy was quite certain he could while away a pleasant afternoon daydreaming about getting held up by Kit Webb, with those dark eyes and big hands.
Before he could get too carried away, Webb and the girl stopped before a building Percy recognized but had never entered. The place was a famous brothel, easily one of London’s most expensive and exclusive. Webb saw the girl inside, and no sooner had Percy congratulated himself on correctly identifying her as a prostitute than Webb descended the steps, returning in the direction from whence he came and heading straight for Percy.
It was too late to avoid Webb, so Percy ducked his head, relying on the down-turned brim of his hat, his plain attire, and the nearly moonless night to conceal his identity. He thought he had succeeded when Webb seemed prepared to walk right past him. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Webb looped his arm through Percy’s, spinning him so they were walking in the same direction, and led him into a side street with so little fuss that no passersby would have noticed anything amiss. Percy was almost impressed.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve followed me. Who the hell areyou?” Webb demanded. The street they stood in was little more than a lane, one of those narrow passageways that seemed to exist only to confuse strangers and to provide natives a series of expedient shortcuts. It was hardly wide enough for a single cart, with the result that it was mostly shadows. It had the air—and odor—of a place seldom frequented by anyone other than feral cats.
“Haven’t we already had this conversation once today?” Percy answered. “Let’s not be tedious, Mr.Webb.”
Webb’s eyes widened, and Percy realized his error. Webb hadn’t recognized Percy as the man from the coffeehouse; he had recognized Percy as the person who had already followed him several times. But now Percy watched as realization dawned in Webb’s eyes. He stared searchingly into Percy’s face, as if looking for traces of the man from the coffeehouse, then dropped his gaze, taking in Percy’s plain and utilitarian attire.
“Which is the disguise?” he asked flatly, and of all the questions in the world, Percy couldn’t have expected that one.
“This is,” Percy answered.
Webb shook his head. “Unless my source is wrong, and she never is, there isn’t any Edward Percy among the quality.” He pronounced the last word with an acid irony that was not lost on Percy. He was, of course, correct: there was no Edward Percy among the quality. There was an Edward Talbot, but when Talbot was stripped away, he’d be left with his mother’s maiden name. Percy shrugged.
“Who is your father?” Webb continued.
This, fortunately, was a much more straightforward matter. “The Duke of Clare.”
Percy had expected Webb to scoff, to express skepticism or todemand proof. He hadn’t expected Webb to go so pale that his colorlessness was obvious even in the scant moonlight. “The Duke of Clare,” he repeated, raking his gaze over Percy’s face again. But now he looked not curious so much as horrified. “What’s your given name?” he asked. “And don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I told you already. It’s Edward, but nobody calls me that because my family is lousy with Edwards. And honestly, everyone calls me Holland anyway—”
Percy might have kept babbling indefinitely if he weren’t silenced by the blow of a fist colliding with his jaw.
Chapter11
Percy—no, Lord Holland, damn him—spit out a mouthful of blood with astounding delicacy. “I take it you’re not one of my father’s more ardent supporters, then,” he said, voice too steady and too wry for a man who had just been assaulted in a dark alley by a known criminal. “Well, neither am I, come to that. See, we’re going to get along splendidly.”
“Shut up, you,” Kit said, because he couldn’t decide what to do next, and the sound of Holland’s voice and the sight of blood on his split lip was making it impossible for him to hear himself think.
“Or is it that you respect and admire my father so greatly, and were so grievously offended by my plan to rob him, that you simply had to hit me? That must be it,” Holland said, idly tapping one long index finger against his lower lip.
“Shutup,” Kit growled, clenching his bruised knuckles into a fist.
“Why, are you going to hit me again?” Holland asked, not seeming particularly worried about that prospect. “Because if you are, please get on with it. I’m expected at supper in an hour and it’ll take an age to cover what will surely be an impressivebruise. And if you aren’t going to hit me, will you kindly bugger off, as I believe is the custom in these situations? Not, I hasten to add, that I’ve ever been accosted in an alley or anywhere else before this evening, so my intelligence may be lacking. It’s mainly from the theater,” he added confidentially.
