“I won’t do what you asked me to do,” Webb said, his voice quiet but firm, as if he thought the words would put a barrier in between their bodies.
“A shame,” Percy said, leaning closer and almost purring into Webb’s ear. Then he pulled back sharply. “And a waste of time for you to have traveled half the breadth of London to deliver a message that your absence would have conveyed just as effectively. I take it you want me to persuade you to do my evil bidding, and I’m meant to sweeten the deal by some means. I’m afraid it’s too early for this tedium. I’ll visit you at your place of business later this week or the next time I’m in the mood to be bored. Good day, Mr. Webb.”
“No,” Webb said, this time blocking Percy’s progress with a hand to his chest. “You might let a man get a word in edgewise.”
“I might, but why should I, when so few people have anything to say that I care to hear?” Webb hadn’t dropped his hand from Percy’s chest, and Percy felt the pressure from Webb’s broad hand as if it were a hot iron burning through his clothes.
“You’ll want to hear this.” Webb’s voice was low enough that Percy had to lean even closer to hear him, which meant pressing into Webb’s palm. “I won’t rob your father, but I’ll show you how to do it.”
Percy suppressed the urge to laugh and abruptly stepped back, letting Webb’s hand fall. “I’m a man of many skills, Mr. Webb, but highway robbery isn’t among them and I doubt it ever will be.”
“As I said, I’ll show you.”
“You say that as if anybody could do what you did. As if highway robbery were a trick like juggling or a skill like playing the flute. I doubt it’s either, or the roads would be teeming with attempted robbers.”
Even in the shadows, Percy could see something uneasy flicker across Webb’s face. “Ah, but there is a trick.”
“Oh?”
“The trick is to not worry overmuch about being hanged.”
“Oh, is that all,” Percy said. “A trifling consideration. I’m afraid I don’t agree to your terms, Mr. Webb. It has not escaped my notice that you’d like to see the duke get his comeuppance—ah, don’t deny it, I can already see that you’re a terrible liar and it pains me to watch you try. As I said, you wish to see my father suffer, which means you’re a man of taste and judgment, for which I commend you. However, you must think me an utter simpleton if you believe I’m going to do your dirty work.”
“I’m sure you’d prefer me to do your dirty work.”
“Because I’d be paying you,” Percy said, exasperated. “People don’t walk into your coffeehouse expecting to be told to make their own coffee.”
“I wouldn’t take your money.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Talbot money is filthy.”
Percy was only slightly taken aback. “Well, of course it is, my good man. I defy you to find a single wealthy man whose money isn’t filthy. There’s even something in the Bible about it. Eyes of the needle and so forth, positive I’ve heard about it. All the more reason for you to take it. Good heavens, why am I trying to persuade you, a man who is positively infamous for taking other people’s money?”
“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 stepped back. 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 back and 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.
Chapter 16
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 su
itable 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 like Tom Jones.
When Kit returned to gather the empty plate and replace the coffee with a fresh cup, he found Holland engaged in a conversation with half the table. He likely thought he was giving the other customers a thrill by allowing them to consort with their betters.
Betty sidled over to him with a dark look and murmured something about Kit’s weakness for a pretty face.
“I just thought it would be a nice change to get out from behind the counter,” Kit said.
“Don’t lie,” Betty said. “You’re so bad at it, I feel embarrassed for you.”
The next two hours crept by with agonizing slowness, but finally the last customer left and Kit bolted the door. When he turned around, he found Holland already on his feet, his parcel in his hands.
“Where are we to do this?” Holland asked.
Kit gestured with his chin toward the back room.
“Ah, your assignation room,” Holland said knowingly.
Kit was stunned into silence. Betty stopped gathering plates and cups and stared at Holland.
“In the circles I travel in, one does know about these things,” Holland said, looking back and forth between Kit and Betty. “Heaven knows I’ve used plenty of rooms like that, and I know what to look for.”
“Is that supposed to be blackmail?” Betty asked, regarding Holland with narrowed eyes and a hand on her hip.
“My dear girl, if I meant to blackmail Mr. Webb, I’d start with his life of crime, not his amorous predilections, which I happen to share, for that matter.”
“I don’t do that,” Kit protested, then wanted to bang his head into the wall. Both Betty and Holland knew that Kit had been looking, and protesting about it just made him look deluded. And now they were both staring at him. “Get changed,” Kit grumbled. “And be quick about it.” He tried not to watch as Holland walked out of the room.
“Amorous predilections?” Betty asked. “Is he just talking about fucking men or some fancy shite I don’t want to know about?”
“Shut up, you,” he told Betty.
“Is that what you’re doing back there? Predilecting?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Betty!”
“You should try. Do you a world of good.”
He didn’t go into the back room until fifteen minutes had passed, both because he didn’t want to risk seeing Holland half-dressed and because he wanted to make Holland wait. When he pushed open the back door, he found Holland leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed. The room was only lit by a pair of old oil lamps, but they were bright enough to see that Holland was dressed in plain breeches and a matching coat, his hair pulled into a queue.
“Take off your coat,” Kit said. “Can’t do this properly in a coat. Waistcoat, too.”
Holland hesitated a moment, then stripped down to his shirt.
“How are we going to do this?” Holland asked. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”
“And you’re not going to start now. This isn’t pugilism. It’s not even a brawl. What you need is to be able to disarm an adversary.”
“At least four adversaries,” Holland said. “My father travels with four armed outriders, and I’m certain the coachman has a pistol as well.”
“You only need to trouble yourself with the coachman, because he’s nearest to your mark. You’ll hire people to deal with the rest.”
“Oh, so now I’m hiring people, am I?”
“Were you under the impression that I worked alone?”
“I believe the ballad mentions a Fat Tom and a woman named Nell.”
Kit snorted. “Her name is Janet, but that doesn’t rhyme with nearly as many things as Nell. Janet’s married with a baby on the way, but Tom is still working.” Tom’s principal talent lay in knocking people off horses with minimal fuss.
“Oh, Tom’s still working, is he?” Holland asked dryly, his arms folded before him. “And is there some reason I can’t give him fifty pounds to take my father’s blasted book?”
“If you ever need your father’s nose bloodied, Tom’s your man. But you need more than that to manage an actual robbery.”
“Like what? Because all I bring to the table is a propensity to chatter and exceptional good looks.”
Kit opened his mouth, ready to say something about strategy, but he stopped himself. He doubted that this man, the duke of bloody Clare’s son, thought that men such as Kit were capable of anything so refined as strategy.
Kit held up a wooden spoon he had carried with him for the occasion. “We’re pretending this is a pistol. You’re going to try to disarm me.”
“All right,” Holland said. “How should I start?”
“Do whatever you need to knock it out of my hand, or, better yet, take it for yourself.”
Holland reached for it; he was fast but Kit was expecting it.
“They aren’t going to let me saunter up to them,” Holland said. “This is pointless.”
“You’d be surprised. Try again.”
Holland did so, and this time Kit stepped out of the way, causing Holland to trip and nearly fall.
The third time, Holland went in with his left hand, which surprised Kit, and Kit went to block him with his own right hand. That put weight on his bad leg, and Kit almost fell. He managed to recover himself but was startled by both the sudden pain and the fact that he didn’t know how to fight without both legs. He ought to have realized beforehand that this would be a problem.
Worse, Holland seemed to have noticed at the same time Kit did. “Perhaps if you sat,” the man said. “After all, the coachman will be sitting.”
“No,” Kit snapped. “Betty!” he called. When she came in, he explained to her what he was trying to do.
“I think not,” Holland said. “I will not tussle on the floor with a woman.”
“Good luck getting me to the floor,” Betty said, kicking off her shoes.
“Why are you agreeing to this?” Holland asked the girl. “I have at least eight inches and several stone on you.”
“You think I’m going to pass up a chance to kick a lord? Been dreaming of this since I was a little girl,” she said.
“You have the chance to make a young woman’s dreams come true,” Kit said. Percy glared at him.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” Holland stepped toward the girl, and when she began to extend her arm toward him as if about to fire a pistol, he tried to grab her wrist.
“You’ve just been shot in the head,” Kit announced. “Try again. This time grab her around the middle.”
With obvious reluctance, Holland stepped behind Betty and attempted to get one of her arms trapped behind her back. She stepped on his foot and elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow!” he cried.
“Try again,” said Kit.
“I’d much rather be doing this with you,” Holland protested.
“I bet you would,” said Betty.
“I mean that I don’t relish the prospect of hurting a woman.”
“I’m still waiting for proof you can even come close to hurting me,” she said.
“I don’t feel comfortable becoming violent with women,” Holland said primly.
“Well, get comfortable with it,” Kit snapped. “If you’re too squeamish to grab Betty, then you’ll be hopeless when you actually have to hurt someone. On the day of the robbery, it won’t be a bloody spoon and the person you’re trying to get it from won’t be afraid to kill you. You need to act like this matters.”
“It does matter,” Holland insisted.
“This book that you want to get—”
Holland cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at Betty.
“She’s a part of this job. She knows everything,” Kit said. “This book, either you’re willing to hurt people to get it or you aren’t. You need to decide now, before you waste any more of our time or your own, what it’s worth to you.”
“It’s of the utmost importance,” Holland said tightly.
“Then act like it. Try again.”
He did try again, and this time Betty managed to trip him so thoroughly he landed sprawled on his back on the bare floor.
“No more,” Kit said. “Go home. And don’t come back until you’re ready to act like you mean it.”
Holland got to his feet. “You never really meant to help me at all,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re simply amusing yourself by watching your friend humiliate me.”
Kit narrowed his eyes. “The people you need to hire to work with you on this robbery are my friends. I’m not asking them to risk their necks to work with a man who isn’t willing to put his own neck on the line. If you can’t take this seriously, if you aren’t willing to do what it takes, then I can’t help you.”
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 8