Page 70 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“I meant,” Percy said, coming up behind him, “that this isn’t something I could have if I were who I thought I was. The Duke of Clare can’t have his—lover, I suppose—in his chambers.” He put a tentative hand on Kit’s shoulder. “As an equal. I wanted to do something he couldn’t. And I meant what I said about you being lovely. You always are.”
Kit turned. Percy’s hair was loose around his shoulders, tangled from Kit’s hands. His lips were kiss swollen, his shirt was wrinkled, his neck was red and rough from Kit’s stubble.
“Percy, I know.” He tucked a strand of hair behind Percy’s ear. “I know that. Let’s get going.”
Percy left with many thanks to the servants and a liberal distribution of silver coins, then mounted his horse with a good deal of muttering about how he never learned to plan his days around a good buggering.
“Can we make it to London by nightfall on these horses?” Percy asked.
“You can,” Kit said, glancing at the sky, and then looking at the horses. “I’ll take the stagecoach from Tetsworth and arrange for this mare to be brought back to her owner.”
“I can wait for you,” Percy offered, and he was a good enough liar that Kit thought he might actually mean it.
“You really can’t. You need to get back to town as soon as you may, and your horse, however much of a fuss he might make about it, will get you there faster than the stagecoach.”
Percy stroked his horse’s mane. “Balius’s pedigree is too refined and his sensibilities too delicate to live in this common sort of way,” Percy remarked, seemingly for the benefit of the horse. “Hewas raised in the lap of equine luxury and has been quite at sixes and sevens without a steady supply of apples and other treats. I know, my darling,” he told the horse. “I feel quite the same way.”
As they proceeded down the drive, Kit gestured across the broad expanse of parkland. “Remember that village I told you about? Cheveril? Do you know what happened to it?” When Percy shook his head, Kit went on. “Your father razed it to the ground to provide a better view from the castle.”
“I remember it,” Percy said, his eyes fixed on the empty stretch of grass where Cheveril had once stood. “I’m ashamed to say I never thought about what became of the people who lived there.”
“My father’s inn was pulled down. He tried to make a go of it two villages over, but that village already had a tavern. He and my mother caught sick and were dead by spring of ’41.”
“1741,” Percy said slowly. Kit could almost see him doing the sums. “It was the same year your daughter died. You lost them all at once, didn’t you?”
“It was a bad winter,” Kit said. He hadn’t known until years later that the winter of 1740–41 had been bad for the entire country and even beyond rather than a private torment visited on him alone. “Needless to say, your father didn’t lift a finger to help.”
“And instead, he had a girl transported for poaching,” Percy said. “A mother.”
“Rob and I couldn’t spend another minute in this part of the country, and, well, neither of us had much interest in making an honest living at that point.”
“No, I imagine not.” Percy swallowed. “I knew my father was a bad landlord, but I didn’t realize how bad.”
Kit shook his head and turned his gaze to the empty expanse where Cheveril used to stand. “Maybe you didn’t realize aboutCheveril, and maybe you didn’t realize about my family. But you know that your family’s fortune was built on the losses of others. You know that your father has property in the West Indies. You can’t possibly think that anything built with that money is good. Surely, you know the cost of all this.” He gestured around them, encompassing the castle, the garden, the grounds. “You shouldn’t need to hear about the destruction of a village a stone’s throw from your home, the story of a man you’ve gone to bed with, a baby whose grave you saw. I don’t care about your staircase and your gardens. They’re beautiful, but they aren’t worth the price, and I don’t want to know anyone who thinks they are.”
He hadn’t looked at Percy while he was speaking. Partly because he didn’t want to see any sign of skepticism, partly because he needed to deliver that speech with as few concessions to Percy’s feelings as possible and was afraid that the sight of his face would make him soften the blow.
“Now let’s go,” Kit said, and led the way through the gate.
Chapter47
By the time Percy approached Clare House, it was nearly midnight. Leaving a furious Balius with the grooms, he saw no sign that they regarded him as a wanted man. So that, at least, was a good sign. They did, however, whisper among themselves, too softly for Percy to overhear. News of his arrival must have spread quickly, because Collins met him at the door.
“My lord,” Collins said, looking as frazzled and unkempt as Percy had ever seen him. “I expected you yesterday morning.”
“Too much brandy,” Percy said, and regretted it immediately. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry to have given you cause to worry.”
“Your father, my lord. I’m afraid he was injured on the road to Cheveril. Her Grace said that he was shot while defending her from a footpad. But, I’m afraid...” Collins faltered.
Percy’s heart was beating so hard, he worried Collins could see it through his waistcoat. “Out with it, Collins.”
“He’s alive but unlikely to remain that way for long.”
“I see. Where is Marian?”
“Her Grace disappeared soon after bringing the duke home.”
“Disappeared?” Percy repeated.
