Page 17 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“Honest theft is one thing. Making a bargain with the likes of you is something else. That’s filthy.”
“How offensive,” Percy said lightly. “If we were in civilized company, I’d have to call you out. Thankfully, we aren’t at all civilized this morning.” He realized he was blathering and tried to regain his composure. Obviously, it would be ludicrous for Percy to undertake a highway robbery. Among other things, he knew himself to be too much of a coward to carry out the “stand and deliver” routine without fainting from terror. He couldn’t muster up the bravado to hold up perfect strangers, let alone his father, who had cowed him for the full twenty-three years of his life.
They had been standing in the shadows for several minutes, and now the sun had risen just that much further so that a beam of light landed on Percy’s face. He saw Webb frown at him, then before Percy could move out of reach, Webb’s hand was on Percy’s chin, tilting it up to catch the light. Percy could feel blunt fingertips, calluses on the pads of Webb’s fingers, but the touch was astonishingly gentle.
“It didn’t bruise badly,” Percy said when he gathered what Webb was looking at. He didn’t relish the fact that Webb was looking at his face this closely without any powder, utterly bare.
“I don’t usually throw the first punch,” Webb said, not dropping his hand from Percy’s jaw.
It seemed a strange thing for Webb to protest his lack of capacity for violence, given who and what he was. It was even stranger that Webb’s thumb moved along Percy’s jaw in a way that could, in a different circumstance, be called a caress. Percy steppedback. He was perfectly content to use sex to distract or persuade Webb, but not the other way around.
“What’s to stop me from hiring someone else to do this job?” Percy asked.
“Nothing, except for how you don’t know anyone else.”
“How can you know that?”
Webb gave Percy a flat look, up and down his body. “You don’t strike me as someone who has much to do with ordinary people.”
Percy opened his mouth to protest that there was nothing ordinary about highwaymen, but snapped it shut again. That was hardly the point, and besides, Webb was correct. “Is this because of your leg?” Percy asked, pointedly looking at Webb’s walking stick. “You’d like to see my father suffer, but your leg won’t let you?”
Something cold and hard flashed in Webb’s eyes. “I could have no legs at all, and I’d see to it that your father suffered, if that was what I wanted.”
“How industrious of you,” Percy said lightly. “And if you won’t take my money, am I to believe that you’ll do this out of the goodness of your heart? Or is it that knowing my father will suffer is reward enough?” At Webb’s silence, Percy arched an eyebrow. “The latter, then. A man after my own heart. Alas, I can’t agree to your terms.”
Something like surprise and—could that be disappointment?—flickered across Webb’s face. Percy decided he was not going to linger long enough to think about why. Without any attempt at farewell, Percy crossed the courtyard, feeling Webb’s gaze on him.
As Percy entered the house, the sounds of a baby crying filtered through an open window. He knew that in one of the upper stories of the house, his sister’s nurse walked the infant backand forth in front of the window. Baby Eliza invariably woke in a foul mood and could only be appeased by fresh air. At three months, the child was every bit as demanding and imperious as her forebears.
Usually, if Percy hurried upstairs after his ride, he could arrive in time to take his sister from the nurse’s arms. One advantage to his unlovely riding clothes was that he didn’t much care if they were further spoiled by baby spittle or worse. He stood at the base of the stairs, listening to his sister’s intermittent cries and remembering that he had to consider more than his own comfort, more even than Marian’s well-being. There was Eliza—her future, her fortune, her name.
He was going to have to accept Webb’s offer. November was nearly over; even if he could find another man to do the job, he didn’t have time.
Chapter16
When Kit saw Holland in the coffeehouse, his heart gave a stupid extra beat. He sat at the long table, a book spread open before him.
It had been only a day since Kit had cornered Holland at his home, and he had almost given up on ever seeing the man again. He was trying very hard to persuade himself that he was relieved by this prospect, not disappointed.
“You here on business or pleasure?” Kit asked, putting a cup before the man.
“I didn’t know you were capable of serving coffee without slamming it onto the table,” Holland said, not looking up from his book. He licked his finger and used it to turn the page, and Kit forced himself to look away. “Business. I came to accept your offer, as I hope you already deduced.”
“I might have, if you were wearing anything halfway suitable for, er, what we talked about.” He gazed pointedly at Holland’s coat, a fabric the color of fresh cream and which caught the light in a way that suggested there was silk in the weave. It made Holland look like a marble statue, and would be no better than a dusting cloth after five minutes of sparring.
Holland made a soft scoffing sound and gestured at his feet, where a neatly tied parcel sat. “I have a change of clothing.”
“You’ll have to wait,” Kit said, because he had to do something other than imagine Holland stripping out of those clothes right here in the shop.
“Obviously,” Holland said peevishly.
“The shop doesn’t close for another two hours,” Kit said.
“Then bring me something to eat,” Holland said slowly and with exaggerated patience. “That is a thing you do in this establishment, is it not? You provide food in exchange for money? Or is one of us under a grave misapprehension about the nature of commerce?”
When Kit returned several minutes later with a plate of warm buns studded with currants, he found Holland pointing to a page and talking to the man beside him.
“It’s very droll,” Holland said. “Here, listen.” And then he proceeded to read aloud a passage from what sounded likeTom Jones.
