During these years of civil war, Percy was well aware that his parents were equally matched adversaries, and that the only people who imagined the duchess to be an innocent victim were the same people who could not imagine a woman as conniving as his mother even existing. But none of that mattered: Percy was a partisan of the duchess, a fact as immutable as his yellow hair or his gray eyes.
The duchess had other partisans, of course, and Percy needed to visit one of them to confirm his suspicions about the book.
Lionel Redmond was a distant maternal cousin. He had been sent to seminary in France and was now a Roman Catholic priest in London. His mother’s family, the Percys, were an old family of Catholics. His father’s family, the Talbots, were emphatically Church of England. After decades upon decades of persecution, English Catholics could now, at least, be relatively certain that they could huddle in an alehouse or a cockpit for a makeshift mass without finding themselves burned at the stake, but that didn’t prevent Percy from looking repeatedly over his shoulder as he made his way from the carriage to the narrow little house where his cousin lived.
“Cousin Edward,” Lionel said when he saw Percy waiting in the parlor.
“Father,” Percy responded, getting to his feet and bowing his head.
“Have you come to tell me of your travels?” Lionel asked, and Percy realized his cousin probably imagined that Percy had dined with the pope or some such.
“You’re a kind man to invite me to bore you with my stories,” Percy said. “But in fact, I have a more sorrowful reason for my visit.”
“Oh dear,” Lionel said, and gestured for Percy to sit.
“As you know, I was in Florence when news of my mother’s death reached me during the summer of last year. The solicitor wrote to me about the portions of her marriage settlement that pertained to property left to me upon her death.” There had been startlingly little. The property that was his mother’s dowry passed into his father’s hands at the time of their marriage, with a nominal amount held back for the dowries of their future daughters.
“I hoped you could tell me what became of her personal property. When I returned last month, I discovered that her rooms were now occupied by the new duchess, and my mother’s little things—books and combs and so forth—were gone. My father claims to have distributed them among the servants, but I hope he sent you something as well.”
Lionel frowned. “Indeed, he did not. But, as you know, your father is hardly sympathetic to the true faith.”
Percy hummed in understanding. “I wish I had something of hers to remember her by,” he said. Which was the kind of truth he didn’t like to think about, so he uttered the words without letting them seep into his thoughts. “Do you remember that little green book she carried about? I’d pay a king’s ransom for the chance to even see it one more time.”
Percy didn’t know if it was his imagination or if something shifted in his cousin’s posture—a tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes, but suddenly the old man looked as shrewd as Percy’s mother.
“The only book I ever saw your mother with was her Bible,” Lionel said.
As far as lies went, that was a bad one, because there was no possibility Lionel had somehow escaped noticing that little book. An easily disproven falsehood is no better than a confession was one of the duchess’s lessons.
“That’s a pity,” Percy said lightly. “If you remember anything about it, please do tell me. Meanwhile, I’ve brought a bank draft for you to use as you see fit in the tending of your flock.” He took the paper from his pocket and left it casually on the chimneypiece, and hoped that his cousin would correctly interpret that as a promise to pay for future information.
When he returned to Clare House, Percy found his valet waiting in his apartments.
“If you’ll forgive my forwardness, my lord,” Collins said as he helped Percy out of his coat, “but my lord is satisfied with my service, I hope.”
Startled, Percy regarded his manservant in the looking glass. “Of course I am. We’ve been to Italy and back. You got me through that beastly sickness in the Alps. When you do something daft, like try to get me to wear crimson, I tell you so.”
“That is a relief, my lord.”
“What prompted this crisis of confidence?”
“The duke has dismissed Mr. Denny.”
“He’s done what?” Percy asked, astonished. Denny had been the duke’s manservant since before Percy was born.
“Indeed, my lord. Mr. Denny’s replacements are two large and scruffy ruffians, neither of whom seems capable of brushing a coat or dressing a periwig. They take turns sleeping in the duke’s antechamber.”
“Ah.” Percy wondered if Collins knew he was describing guards. “And where is Denny?” If the duke’s former manservant had been sacked and cast out without a farthing, Percy could possibly employ him to help access his father’s inner chamber.
“He mentioned to the underhousemaid that he planned to open a public house in Tavistock, where his people are from.”
Percy raised an eyebrow. That didn’t sound like the man was dismissed so much as paid off. He wondered if Marian’s brother could be persuaded to make a trip into Devon to have a chat with the fellow.
“Thank you,” Percy said to his valet. “You are, as ever, invaluable.” He wanted to say more, wanted to assure Collins that whatever was happening in the rest of the household, Percy would see that Collins was treated fairly. But he did not, first because he knew he was in no position to make promises, and second because he knew better than to be effusive in his praise or excessive in his reassurances—both were sure signs of a desperate man, according to the duchess, and the duchess had seldom been wrong about these things.
Chapter 5
Percy was surprised to find that he was an adequate spy. After twenty-odd years of assuming that attention and notice were his due, it was rather humbling to see how quickly he became invisible. Without all the usual accoutrements of fashion—wig, powder, patch, rouge, and so forth—and wearing a forgettable brown coat and a similarly forlorn pair of breeches Collins grudgingly acquired at the secondhand stalls, he was able to spy on Webb unnoticed. For a week, he sat at the central table of the coffeehouse, sometimes armed with a newspaper but always keeping a keen eye on the proprietor. Nobody cast him a second glance, not even Webb, who had hardly been able to take his eyes off Percy when he had been dressed to attract attention.
After a week, Percy realized that he had badly missed his mark by offering Webb money. While Percy was certain that everybody had his price, Webb’s price would not be strictly monetary. He was plainly living within his means. He kept the premises in good repair, let the girl—Betty—keep any tips the patrons left, and often swept and polished the tables and fittings himself. When a drunken street brawl became a regular melee and a broom handle got put through one of Webb’s windows, Webb had the glazier repair the broken pane that very day and paid him on the spot without even attempting to haggle over the cost.
While Webb’s upstairs office was furnished in a spare, almost spartan, manner, Percy had noticed a wax candle burning in the simple pewter candlestick, not cheap and smelly tallow or a humble rushlight. Percy didn’t know much about poverty, but he knew what it looked like when a man wasn’t in the least bit worried about where his next meal was coming from—mainly because he could compare what he and Marian had looked like before their present crisis with what they looked like now. Perhaps Webb had just been that good at his former trade and now had ample savings.
If Webb couldn’t be enticed with money, then Percy would have to find another way to persuade him to join in his scheme. He watched Webb, looking for a weakness he could exploit. A weakness, according to his mother, was anything at all that Percy could use to his advantage. He’d find Webb’s weakness; it was only a matter of time. Meanwhile, it was no hardship watching the man.
Webb was tall, possibly even taller than Percy. He filled out his ill-tailored breeches admirably and, even while using his cane,
carried his weight with the ease of a man who had always been strong. His hair was the same dark brown as the coffee he brewed, falling past his shoulders in heavy waves. He made some minimal attempt to keep it confined to a respectable queue, but whenever Percy saw him, some strands around his face had broken free. He seldom smiled at anyone other than the serving girl, but when he did, he exposed a chipped incisor, and Percy’s heart flipped around in his chest for no good reason at all.
But Webb had lines around his eyes that hinted at some old, forgotten readiness to smile. He also had other lines, the kind that never came from laughing.
Percy watched to see who Webb paid attention to. He didn’t look twice at any of the handful of women who ventured into his coffeehouse, but he didn’t look at men, either. The only person he seemed to care about was Betty, and he treated her like a daughter. In fact, Percy had thought she might actually be his daughter, but Webb couldn’t yet be thirty and the girl had to be nearly twenty.
After a week of close observation, Percy concluded that Kit Webb was grouchy, sullen, and palpably bored, and no wonder. Percy was bored just watching him, and nobody would accuse Percy of having a taste for adventure. Webb had to be chafing at the bit for some excitement. Percy had seen the man’s expression when he gripped his dagger the other evening. He had seemed almost relieved, as if he had been waiting for an excuse to wield the thing, as if a spot of violence would be a welcome reprieve.
His entire life was a picture of almost soporific boredom, and if Marian’s informant hadn’t been certain, Percy wouldn’t have believed that this man had ever done anything as thrilling as go for a walk without an umbrella, let alone engage in any criminal activity. It seemed unfathomable that he was a highwayman of such famous charm and bravado that a ballad, multiple handbills, and no small number of engravings paid tribute to his feats of daring and his cunning escapes from the law.
Percy could use that; he knew he could. Webb would want to join in their scheme if only Percy could come up with a pretext that would allow him to gracefully agree. Percy had to give him a reason why saying yes would be easier than saying no.
In preparation for their second meeting, Percy dressed in much the same way he had for their first: coat and breeches of duck-egg blue, waistcoat just a few shades darker, stockings a few shades lighter with clocks the same hue as his waistcoat. He wore a freshly curled wig that was powdered to the requisite shade of alabaster, generously powdered his face, applied a velvet birthmark over the corner of his mouth, and then added just enough rouge to make it clear that he was wearing it. If his valet noticed that Percy’s toilette was as elaborate as it would be for a dinner party whose guests included members of the royal family, he did not mention it.
Percy descended carefully from his carriage, stepping gingerly over one of the more egregious puddles that stood between himself and the door to Webb’s coffeehouse. He could not do what he was about to do with muddy stockings.
He took his time opening the door and stepping through it, giving Webb the opportunity to notice him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Webb turn his head, stiffen momentarily, then bring a hand to his hip. That, Percy assumed, was where Webb kept his dagger, or perhaps a pistol. Whatever it was, Webb didn’t remove it, didn’t even put his hand inside his coat to grip it. Percy supposed that was partly because he wasn’t afraid, and partly because he didn’t want to frighten his patrons. Either way, Percy was counting on that weapon remaining inside Webb’s coat.
Percy went directly to the table where Webb brewed his coffee. “Mr. Webb,” he said, smiling in the way he would before asking someone to dance. “My apologies. I realized after leaving last week that I left vital information out of my proposition.” Before Webb could object, Percy went on, leaning in. “I’m going to tell you a story. There’s a man who is, shall we say . . .”—he drummed his fingers on the table—“a stunning piece of shit. I could enumerate his misdeeds, but you have a business to run and my shoes aren’t meant for standing around in. Suffice it to say, he’s a negligent landowner and in general a brute.”
This was so far from a comprehensive list of his father’s worst misdeeds that it was almost incorrect, the understatement so severe as to verge on dishonesty. But he could hardly explain the whole truth. Webb looked at him, flat and unimpressed. Remembering how Webb saw the serving girl home on dark nights, Percy added as if in afterthought, “He’s also one of the worst husbands a woman could ask for.”
Something shifted in Webb’s expression, a hardening of his jaw and a flintiness that crept into his dark eyes, and Percy suppressed a victorious smile. One corner of Webb’s mouth hitched up in the beginnings of a smile—but not, Percy noticed, the kind smile he shared with the serving girl. “But what kind of father is he, Mr. Percy?” Webb asked, his voice low and scratchy. His voice was, Percy reflected inanely, the verbal equivalent of the stubble on his jaw—rough, careless, inconveniently attractive. Percy was trying to determine which trait he found more distressing, when the full import of Webb’s question struck him. Percy had carefully avoided disclosing his relation to the man he wished to rob and wasn’t sure what he had said that gave it away. Stupidly, he allowed himself to become flustered for a moment, and he knew that one moment of letting his thoughts show on his face was enough to confirm Webb’s suspicions.
“What is it you wish to steal from your father, Mr. Percy?” Webb asked in that same sandpaper voice. “Is your allowance insufficient? Do you have gaming debts? Did you get a girl in trouble?” He spoke as if each of these predicaments was boring, as if anything that might afflict Percy was beneath Webb’s notice. Percy might have been offended if he didn’t entirely agree that those problems were laughable compared to the truth.
Then he remembered that Webb had repeatedly addressed him as Mr. Percy rather than Lord Holland, which meant he didn’t know who Percy was or who his father was. That was a relief. It meant that Webb was nothing more than a good guesser. He allowed a flicker of amusement to pass over his face. “If you think I’m interested in personal gain, Mr. Webb, you’re badly mistaken. In fact, you’re welcome to help yourself to anything of value you find during the robbery,” he said, his voice nothing more than a murmur. Webb would have to strain his ears to hear. “All I want is a book.”
“A highway robbery is the most dangerous, least reliable method you could possibly have come up with if all you want is a book,” Webb said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Hire a housebreaker, Mr. Percy. Hire a burglar and a lockpick. There are many who would jump at the chance. You don’t need a man of my skills.”
“He sleeps in a room guarded by two armed men. The book is always on his person.”
And that, of all the things, was what made something like interest flicker in Webb’s eyes. Percy wanted to crow in victory. Webb opened his mouth and snapped it shut, as if he was dying to know what exactly this book was but didn’t want to ask. Well, Percy wasn’t going to help him out.
“Pity you can’t help,” Percy said. He turned on his heel and walked through the coffeehouse and out the door, feeling Webb’s gaze on him all the while.
Chapter 6
Try as he might, Kit couldn’t stop thinking about Percy. No, not about Percy, he told himself, but about Percy’s proposition. Percy’s target, moreover. A man who needed two guards was interesting in and of himself; a man who had a book he never let go of was even more interesting, especially if Percy valued the book over whatever jewels or gold this man had on him. And Kit would wager that a man who could afford two guards and a son who dressed like the worst kind of popinjay carried around plenty of valuables.
Kit was certain the mark was indeed Percy’s father. The man had seemed caught out, and he had the sort of face that didn’t look like it was in the habit of giving away any secrets. Kit was inclined to trust that fleeting hint of surprise.
“You look lively,” Betty said as they were closing up the shop. “Nice change not to see you sulking about. I don’t think you snapped at
a single customer all afternoon.”
“I don’t sulk,” Kit said, depressed by the realization that contemplating a return to crime had put him in a sunny mood. “Christ, I’m an unprincipled bastard.”
“Of course, you are, pet,” said Betty, handing him a clean rag to polish his half of the table. “Famous for it, you are.”
“It wasn’t meant to be a boast and you know it,” he protested, dutifully attempting to scrub off a stain left by a dripping cup of coffee. “It was meant to be a confession.”
“If you want to confess to something, confess to being sad as shit and a thorn in my side. Never in my life have I seen a man carry on the way you are. You’re like a lady in a play, pining.” She clutched the polishing cloth to her chest in a way he gathered was meant to be theatrical.
“I am not pining,” Kit said, torn between outrage and amusement. “My face doesn’t do that.”
“You keep telling yourself that. Lord, do I wish you’d just go and nick somebody’s handkerchief and be done with it. Get it out of your system. Nick a handkerchief, receive stolen goods, clip some coins. I have a lot of ideas, just ask,” she said helpfully.
“You’re a real mate, Betty.”
She gave him a shrewd sideways glance, the one that always made Kit suspect her of mind reading. “Plenty of mischief you can get up to even with a bad leg.”
That fucking leg. Every time he almost got used to it, it found a way to get worse. Every time he thought he figured out how far it would carry him, it decided to give out completely, and Kit would need to hire a bloody chair to get home. It was better to just stay put.
And now his leg was ruining his chance to either take part in a very interesting robbery or prove to himself that he was capable of being decent for once in his life. Because either way, he was going to turn Percy down. He couldn’t stay in his saddle at anything over a trot. Hell, he couldn’t even dismount his horse without falling on his face. He certainly couldn’t hold anyone up, not if he wanted to get away with his life. It would have been nice to have the choice, though.
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 3