Page 76 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“She’s my horse, mind. I’m not making a present of her.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Percy laughed.
“You hear me, Bridget,” Kit said, holding out his hand for her to nuzzle, “you’re still mine. You can be as rude as you please to Percy, and he’ll only think it’s a sign of good breeding.” Percy leaned against him a little, shoulder to shoulder, just enough so Kit could feel his warmth and a comforting bit of pressure.
At the tavern, they tucked themselves into a dark, snug corner. Kit waited until Percy was finishing his second pint, his limbs just starting to get a bit loose and the careworn lines easing from his face.
“So, what happens on January first?” Kit asked. His own pint was only a quarter empty, and he held the tankard between his palms, the pewter warming to his touch.
“I lay out the evidence of my illegitimacy before my solicitor and hope he can figure out how to make it so that I’m not the Duke of Clare. I haven’t any idea what that entails, but theimportant thing is that I’ve made a number of decisions that I don’t think can be easily undone.”
“I don’t think Rob would want to.”
“Fair. But let’s say the courts decide he isn’t my father’s legitimate son, and instead the title and estate go to some horrible Tory cousin. I’ve tried to set it up so that nothing I did could be easily reversed. You would not believe how cross my solicitors and agents are right now. So much hand-wringing. So many lamentations.”
“Fuck ’em,” Kit said.
“Fuck them indeed,” Percy agreed, and lifted his pint in a toast.
“But that isn’t what I wanted to know. What happens to you on January first? You don’t plan to stay at Clare House, do you?”
“God no. I, well.” Percy traced a finger around the rim of his cup. “I did have something to ask you, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. And mind you, there are other options, naturally.”
“Out with it, Percy.” Kit was braced to hear that Percy had decided to go abroad or to live as a recluse in the country, both of which were probably very reasonable choices.
“Would you mind if I hired the house next door?” Percy asked. “You probably think that given my circumstances, I ought to content myself with a set of rooms, but Collins insists that any sister of mine must be raised as a lady, which evidently means in a proper house, and I’m afraid I’ve put myself in a position where I owe Collins so many favors that I simply must do as he says.”
Kit blinked. “You want to move in next door?”
“As I said, there are other suitable houses, if you think it would be, ah, too much of a good thing to have me next door. It’s adecent house with large rooms and plenty of light.” Percy added quickly, “And I can get it on a long lease. This neighborhood has many advantages, as I’m certain you know; for example, proximity to the prizefights as well as, not to put too fine a point on it, you. But as I said, I can hire a different house with all the above qualities, except that last one, which of course wouldn’t be an advantage at all if you’d prefer me elsewhere—”
“I wouldn’t prefer that,” Kit said. “Not even a little.” He hadn’t quite realized it, but he had been waiting for something like this—a sign that Percy was choosing him, choosing them. Love, while a fine thing, might be little more than an accident. It was what came next that mattered.
“Really?” Percy looked as if he felt as unsure of what to do with this abundance of hope as Kit was himself. “Well, of course you wouldn’t. Who wouldn’t want me as a neighbor? Apart from, you know, quite a number of people, as it turns out, if you’ve been reading the papers.”
Kit slid his hand across the table so his thumb brushed once against the inside of Percy’s wrist.
“Yes, well, it had to be done,” Percy said, even though Kit hadn’t spoken.
Percy looked just as much like the old Duke of Clare as he had the day they’d met, and Kit didn’t think he’d ever fail to note the resemblance or forget the family connection. But now the likeness was proof that Kit himself had changed; it was proof that Kit had relearned how to hope.
Chapter51
When they got back to the coffeehouse, it was dark and empty. Percy had already slept two nights in a row in Kit’s bed, and he was debating whether it would be indiscreet to attempt a third, when he was distracted by the sight of a parcel leaning against the wall. It was large and flat and wrapped in brown paper.
“That wasn’t here when we left,” Percy said, eyeing it warily.
“It certainly was not,” Kit confirmed, walking over to examine it. “There’s nothing written on it. No direction or name.”
“Might as well open it,” Percy suggested.
Percy couldn’t have said exactly when he realized what he was looking at. Was it after Kit tore off the first strip of paper and he caught a glimpse of blue paint? Or was it after the second strip was removed and Percy could make out the roofline of Cheveril? In either case, he tore off the remaining paper with his own hands and stared at the life-size portrait of Marian and himself posed before the eastern facade of Cheveril Castle.
The portraitist had caught Percy in half profile, either turning his head toward Marian or away from her, and looking like he was about to laugh. Marian held the baby—who thankfully lookedlike a human infant rather than a small goblin—close to her chest, and wore an expression that hovered between serene and calculating. As for Cheveril, Percy could only speculate as to who had directed the portraitist to paint in the house in place of the duke.
“There’s a scrap of paper gummed to the back,” Kit said.
Percy moved to the back of the canvas and knelt to read the note. “‘Kiss Eliza for me,’” he read aloud. “What does that mean?” he asked in rising panic. “What can that possibly mean? Does it mean she isn’t coming back?”
