The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

  “Aye, my good man,” the fellow responded in what Percy gathered was meant to be an imitation of his accent. “Now, bugger off, Baron.” He flashed Percy a smile that contained far too many broken teeth.

  Percy took himself off to stand with the other men.

  “Smallsword,” said a man with closely cropped red hair, addressing the word more to the weapon at Percy’s hip than to Percy himself. He spoke in a thick London accent and appeared to be about thirty. Percy recognized him as one of the less skilled fighters he had watched on his previous visits. “You’re new, ain’t you. You take the nick, then.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, lud. A toff. Clancy’s barmy. You. Take. The. Nick,” he repeated slowly. “I scratch you, you fall, and the next time we switch.”

  That was not going to do at all. “Is that customary? Are all the matches prearranged?”

  “The ones early in the day are. Why tire yourself out, right?”

  “Right,” Percy said slowly. That made sense, in a way. However, he had not gotten dressed and disguised and given his valet a heart attack only to be taken out in the first round. “I’m about to be a very bad sport, I’m afraid,” he said. “I apologize in advance.”

  “Clancy!” the redhead bellowed. “I thought this was a quality establishment. Are you letting anybody fight, now?”

  “How else would you be here?” the man with too many chipped teeth—evidently Clancy—shouted back.

  “But do you really need to saddle me with gentlemen?”

  “Get fucked, Brannigan,” Clancy called cheerfully.

  “I do apologize,” Percy said. “It’s just that I don’t fancy getting, ah, nicked.”

  Brannigan stared pointedly at the scar that sliced across Percy’s face. “Oh, you don’t, do you?”

  “A lesson learned the hard way, shall we say?”

  Brannigan sighed heavily. “Fine, have it your way.”

  Percy watched as the crowd before the scaffold grew. He had never fought for any audience greater than the handful of people who might be gathered in a fencing studio. And some of these people had what looked like cabbages and turnips, no doubt to use as missiles in the event that the show wasn’t sufficiently entertaining.

  To his horror, he grew faint. This was not the time, damn it, for his latent cowardice to assert itself. He needed to keep his wits—and his consciousness—about him.

  “Come on,” Brannigan said with a sigh, tugging him by the sleeve. “We’re up.”

  They went through the motions of bowing to one another. As he suspected, Brannigan wasn’t up to snuff, and Percy had him disarmed within two minutes.

  To his surprise and horror, the crowd booed, and a cabbage landed at his feet.

  “Too fast, idiot,” Brannigan hissed at him when he got to his feet and Percy restored his weapon to him. “You’ve got to give them their money’s worth.”

  “They aren’t paying admission,” Percy argued.

  “It doesn’t fucking matter,” Brannigan said. “Next fight, make it last.”

  Brannigan’s words were still ringing in his ears as he started the next match, this time against a grizzled man who had to be twice his age.

  The problem was that Percy didn’t know how to make a fight drag out longer than strictly necessary. He knew how to be ruthless, efficient, and spare. He didn’t know how to be entertaining.

  Now he felt foolish for having thought he could take his one talent and use it to earn money. He was utterly unfit for earning a living. He didn’t know how to take a skill that he sometimes thought might be an art and make it into something fit for the consumption of—he let his attention get drawn to the crowd—rabble. Frankly, they didn’t deserve it. This was all profoundly beneath him, and he shouldn’t be here in the first place.

  That was when his opponent’s blade got him, right in the meat of his upper arm.

  Chapter 25

  Kit had long ago learned to trust his instincts. When something nameless and frightened in his gut told him to halt, he halted. He knew from experience that a vague suspicion that things were not what they ought to be was often founded in some small, hidden truth.

  For weeks now, he woke in the mornings with a sense of something left undone. He went to sleep only after limping downstairs and checking for the third, fourth, fifth time that the bolts were fastened, the windows closed, the fire safely banked. He walked Betty home every night, and every morning he paced the floors until she arrived safely.

  He listened in at the whispered conversations that took place in the darker corners of the shop. Outside, he watched for tails and kept a hand on his dagger.

  He asked Scarlett if something was brewing, and she had looked at him with eyes that seemed older these days and sighed. “Something’s always brewing,” she said, impassive as ever. “You know this.”

  He didn’t tell Betty anything, because he didn’t need to. She had one eye on him all day lately. She watched him like a pot about to spill over.

  “It’s your gentleman,” Betty said. “Something’s wrong there, and always has been. Hire a highwayman to pick your da’s pocket? Rubbish. Hire a highwayman who happens to have every reason to toss your da to the wolves? Fucking rubbish.”

  “I know,” he said, because what else could he say? They both knew that Kit’s sense of watchful unease had been steadily increasing from the first time Percy walked through the door. He wanted to tell Betty that he trusted Percy, but he didn’t. How could he? He hoped Percy wasn’t idiot enough to trust him, either. He didn’t trust Percy, but he believed him in a narrow, fragile way. He believed that Percy needed that book; he believed the loss of the book would harm the Duke of Clare. That was all he needed. As for the rest of it, he could look out for himself.

  The notion that he shouldn’t trust a lord wasn’t even interesting, certainly not enough to make him wary. And he didn’t trust Percy, not even in those quiet moments after sparring, when they both let their guard down a little, when they sat against the wall, tired and satisfied. That wasn’t trust; it simply couldn’t be. The Percy who existed in those moments was a person Kit grudgingly had to admit he was more or less fond of. But that didn’t mean he liked who Percy was in the rest of his life, let alone trusted him. The fact that it felt like trust, felt in his heart like something that mattered, like something he could count on—that he would just have to ignore.

  It was only that he needed to keep reminding himself of that, which was something he really shouldn’t need to do. It ought to be obvious, and it wasn’t, and Kit didn’t like what that meant.

  He was getting ready to close the shop, watching the minute hand move on the tall casement clock until it was a reasonable time to kick out the few remaining stragglers, and trying to pretend to himself that he wasn’t disappointed that the day had passed without Percy stopping by. The sun had set, and the only light in the shop came from the hearth and the handful of oil lamps and candles that were scattered around the room. In an effort to encourage the last customers to leave, he began snuffing the candles one by one.

  When the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, Kit turned, ready to send away whoever thought this was a decent hour to get coffee. The man was entirely in shadows, was nothing but a dark silhouette against an even darker background.

  This was it, Kit thought. This was the danger he had been waiting for. One hand went to the knife at his hip; the other grasped the handle of his walking stick even more tightly.

  But then the man tilted his head and a beam of light glinted off a strand of hair that was visible beneath the brim of his hat. The hair was a pale gold, and Kit took a step forward.

  “I hate to impose,” said a thin, precise voice.

  “Percy,” Kit said. He didn’t recall rushing to Percy’s side, didn’t quite know how he got past the tables and benches that stood between him and the door, but there he was.

  He couldn’t have said how he knew something was wrong. Maybe it was that Percy was l
eaning against the door frame instead of standing with the sort of posture that more than once Kit thought must have been whipped into him. Maybe it was just that he didn’t walk in as if he owned the place.

  “What’s the matter?” Kit asked. And then, over his shoulder, “We’re closed, lads. Out you go. Faster!” He put a hand on Percy’s arm, not sure if he had ever touched the man when they weren’t fighting. Percy flinched, but not before Kit felt the wet warmth under his fingertips. “Fuck,” he muttered.

  Percy stepped aside to make way for the customers to leave, and Kit bolted the door behind them.

  “What happened to you?” Kit asked.

  “It’s only a minor injury,” Percy said, the faintness of his voice giving the lie to his statement.

  With a hand at the small of his back, Kit led Percy to the chair before the fire. “Take off that coat.”

  When Percy complied, dropping an oddly shaped sack to the floor beside him, Kit saw that he was wearing the same clothes he wore to spar in the back room. As he was trying to puzzle out why that would be the case, he got distracted by the blood that soaked the top of Percy’s sleeve.

  “Were you attacked?” Kit asked, even though he didn’t think Percy was foolish enough to fight off armed footpads. Although—hadn’t Kit been teaching him to do almost precisely that? Perhaps Percy decided to put his lessons to the test.

  “Not exactly,” Percy said, his voice strained. “I think it’s only a scratch. I’m just—I’m not particularly good with blood, and I thought to myself, Percy, you know a man who will know just what to do with a bit of a gash.”

  Kit tore the shirt at the place where the knife had slashed it, then pushed up the sleeve to get a clear view of the injury. It was a clean slash, about two inches long, not particularly deep. He had gotten worse slicing hard bread. A bit of pressure and a few days of bandaging and it would be good as new.

  Kit found that he still wanted to hunt down whoever had done this and tear them apart, slowly and with great relish.

  Percy glanced down at the wound Kit had exposed and visibly shuddered, then went even paler than usual. “I dare say it wouldn’t have bled half so much if I had bandaged it right away, but I rather desperately needed not to look at the thing.”

  “So, you came here,” Kit said, wetting a rag with water from the kettle.

  “I thought I’d spare my valet the trouble. I’ve already been quite a trial to him today, you see. And also, I was a bit unsteady on my feet and doubted I could walk that far. One doesn’t want to bleed all over a hackney.”

  “We’ve bloodied one another’s noses,” Kit pointed out. He dabbed at the wound, and Percy’s only reaction was a slight hiss. “You’ve split your knuckles, I’ve bit my tongue. I never saw you go faint at the sight of blood any of those times.”

  “Yes, well, I was having fun, wasn’t I? I assure you I was not having fun at the moment this occurred.”

  “Footpads?”

  Percy pressed his lips together. “No. And I’m not going to talk about it, so let’s not be tiresome. Will I be fit for our trip to Hampstead tomorrow?”

  “As fit as a fiddle,” Kit promised.

  Kit took the sleeve he had torn off Percy’s shirt and folded it into a bandage, then wrapped it around the wound. When he finished tucking in the loose end of the cloth, he saw that Percy was looking intently at him. Kit felt his breath catch. There wasn’t any mistaking the nature of that look, and even if there had been, it would have vanished when Percy’s tongue darted to wet his bottom lip. Christ. Kit’s gaze skittered away, then flicked back over the swell of Percy’s exposed arm, the sharp line of his jaw, the damp plumpness of his lips.

  They had been looking at one another for weeks—Percy shamelessly, and Kit at first reluctantly but now hungrily, avidly, as if there were no sight in the world quite as worth looking at as Percy. Kit kept telling himself there was no harm in looking, but maybe there was no harm in more than looking.

  He took his finger from where it rested on the bandage and trailed it up to the bare skin of Percy’s shoulder. A cluster of freckles rested at the top of his arm, half concealed by the remnants of his shirt, and Kit slid a finger underneath the ragged edge of fabric. It was just a fingertip, just a shoulder, just a frankly tender caress to the flesh of the man whose father had all but murdered his family. God, in the half-light, Percy even looked like his father, and why in hell didn’t that make Kit want to shove him far away?

  He moved his hand up the long line of Percy’s throat, feeling his pulse flutter beneath his fingertips, only stopping when he had the other man’s jaw in his hand, his thumb resting at the corner of Percy’s mouth. Percy opened his mouth slightly, and Kit could feel the promise of wet warmth inside. Kit sucked in a breath.

  It would have been simpler if they could just fuck. With a little luck, maybe he could take this man to bed and then not think about it the rest of the time. They could plan their robbery, snipe at one another, and carry on pretty much as usual. But he didn’t want to keep it separate: the man he wanted to take to bed was the man who fought like it was a dance only he knew the steps to, who was brazen enough to hire notorious criminals for insane jobs, and who, apparently, swooned at the sight of blood.

  He brushed his thumb against Percy’s cheek, feeling the gentle rasp of stubble so pale that it was invisible. Percy had gone perfectly still, and Kit knew he was waiting for Kit’s next move. It was time for Kit to either lean close or step away. He had to choose. Instead, he looked some more. He thought he might never get tired of looking at this man. “Christ,” Kit breathed. “You’re beautiful.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true.

  Percy brought a hand to rest at Kit’s hip, tugging slightly, only the lightest pressure, more of a suggestion, really.

  Kit stepped back. He felt drunk on the nearness of this man, unable to think straight. And he didn’t want to do this without really meaning it. He smiled ruefully at Percy and was relieved to see Percy returning more or less the same expression.

  “Have your valet change your bandage in the morning, then again tomorrow night,” Kit said, his voice rougher than he had expected. “It’s right in the part of your arm that will split again if you move the wrong way, so keep it covered until it’s nicely scabbed over.”

  “Thank you,” Percy said. “I know that I shouldn’t have imposed on you, but—”

  “I’m glad you did.” And that was all wrong, too much, too earnest. “I can’t have you collapsing in a puddle of blood. Our scheme would go straight to hell if you were dead, right?”

  Percy looked up at him with a faint flicker of amusement in his cool eyes, and Kit knew he hadn’t sold that last bit, not even slightly. “I’m glad I did, too.”

  Chapter 26

  “I’m a prosperous shopkeeper and you’re a gentleman,” Kit had told Percy when informing him of their outing to Hampstead Heath.

  “Of course I’m a gentleman,” Percy had said, furrowing his brow.

  “Our cover story,” Kit said impatiently. “We’re escorting your cousin to the visit her aunt in the country.”

  “What kind of gentleman?” Percy asked.

  “The kind who can sit quietly in a carriage for an hour.”

  “How very helpful.”

  “I don’t know, Percy. Figure out a way for the two of us to share a carriage without it looking remarkable.”

  Percy had gone directly to Collins. Really, he would not have guessed that a life of crime and dishonor would afford his valet such a wide scope for demonstrating his talent.

  In the end, he let Collins choose a new suit of clothes to establish Percy’s sham identity, and which Percy hoped went some distance toward soothing the valet’s feelings over seeing one of Percy’s shirts torn to shreds after the fencing incident.

  Percy himself was not thinking of that. It had been humiliating, during a time when all the fates seemed to be conspiring in his humiliation. He was also not thinking of what had followed at Kit’s, ex
cept for when he brought himself off. He figured that nobody could blame him, what with the way Kit had looked—all rugged and dangerous in the firelight, his enormous hands featherlight on Percy’s skin, his gaze almost soft.

  Percy couldn’t remember the last time anybody had looked at him like he was something special, something precious. He wasn’t certain anybody ever had. He didn’t even know if he liked it—he felt rather like a bad penny about to be discovered as counterfeit. But he kept turning the moment over and over in his mind, imagining what would have happened if Kit hadn’t stepped away when he had.

  When he met Kit at the appointed place—an inn near Spitalfields—he was surprised to find Kit sitting at a table with a young woman. When he approached, Percy recognized the woman as the redhead who frequented Kit’s coffeehouse. He had known that there was to be some girl they were purportedly escorting to the country but hadn’t expected it to be this bird of paradise. She was done up like a parson’s daughter, covered stem to stern in gray serge and topped off with a bonnet that hid her face in modest shadows unless she chose to look up. She had another, even more demure, woman with her, evidently playing the part of maid.

  When they got into the coach that Kit had hired, Percy found himself steered into the forward-facing seat alongside the girl, who went by the name of Miss Flora Jennings. Kit and the maid sat facing them.

  It was a good thing the village to which they were bringing Miss Jennings was only a short distance, only slightly further north than Hampstead Heath, because the conveyance that comfortably sat two men of their height had not yet been devised. Percy’s and Kit’s knees bumped together repeatedly, and Percy saw Kit suppressing wince after wince. He imagined that all this jostling was murder on Kit’s leg.

  “Mr. Percy,” said Miss Jennings, “what part of the country do your people come from?”

  It was an innocuous enough question, but one that Percy did not know how to answer. Cheveril Castle was in Oxfordshire. Farleigh Chase was Derbyshire. Those were the two principal properties of the Duke of Clare, with several others scattered around the country. These facts were of such common knowledge that Percy was almost certain nobody had ever bothered to ask him where he came from. It ought to be straightforward—he had been raised at Cheveril—had been born there, in fact, and had thought his sons would be born there as well. He had thought he’d die at Cheveril, and that one day his portrait would hang in the gallery with all the other dead Dukes of Clare.