At the table nearest the door was a face that almost made Percy break stride. It was Collins, and seeing him outside Percy’s apartments was almost like seeing him in a masked disguise.
“What on earth,” Percy started.
“Hush,” the valet hissed. “Sit.”
Percy, after gesturing for Kit to carry on without him, sat.
“Her Grace has a message,” said Collins, softly enough that Percy almost couldn’t hear him.
“I see,” Percy said slowly. No message that had to be relayed in this cloak-and-dagger fashion could possibly be good news.
“She wants you to attend the Davenport ball this evening.”
“I already sent my regrets. That’s the message?” Percy asked, baffled.
“I believe Her Grace means to deliver the message to you in person at the ball, my lord.”
“Right. Of course. I suppose that if she wrote it down like a normal person, then she’d worry that you’d be intercepted by masked brigands and have to eat the notepaper to avoid discovery. We are in a stage comedy, Collins, and I’m afraid you got dragged into it.”
“I hope my lord knows he can rely on my discretion.”
Kit came then with two cups of coffee, placing Percy in the unprecedented position of needing to decide whether to introduce his manservant to the coffeehouse proprietor he was hoping to take as a lover. He could not even imagine what the protocol for that situation might be, so he settled on ignoring Kit entirely and trusting that the man would understand that Percy didn’t intend it as a slight.
“How did you know to find me here?” Percy asked Collins.
“Her Grace intimated as much.”
“I see.” Percy looked across the room and saw Kit grumbling over the pot of coffee. Percy would have to leave now if he hoped to get dressed and ready for the ball. There would be no chance to continue what he and Kit had started at Hampstead Heath. And he could hardly go to Kit and tell him as much without alerting Collins to the existence of a relationship between them.
Collins sighed. “My lord may wish to take his leave of any acquaintances he had hoped to engage in conversation this afternoon,” he said. Then, when Percy narrowed his eyes, he sighed even more heavily. “It has been my honor to work for his lordship since he was seventeen. His lordship is not subtle in certain circumstances.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Also, I saw you and that fellow enter the shop together.”
“It seems that everybody wants to spend their afternoon telling me how unsubtle I am,” Percy griped, getting to his feet. “How lowering.” He left without taking leave of Kit.
As he had no interest in this ball or in anyone he might possibly see there, Percy let Collins dress him and arrange his wig however the man saw fit. In the end, he was arrayed in a great deal of aquamarine satin and a diamond brooch that Percy realized he’d probably have to sell, along with the rest of his jewels, and soon.
“How charming that you’ve chosen to join us,” Marian said languidly when Percy handed her into the carriage. She wore approximately four acres of scarlet damask, a color that made her look positively lurid. His father was already in the carriage and hardly looked up at Percy’s arrival.
At the ball, Percy was greeted with a sea of half-remembered faces—schoolmates, friends of his parents, people he vaguely knew as his father’s hangers-on. He let himself be passed along on a wave of introductions. Yes, he would dance with this young lady. Yes, he would be sure to call on that matron. Yes, he most definitely would like a glass of whatever was on offer.
The ballroom glittered with candles and jewels, and the air was heavy with the scent of perfume and powder and overheated bodies. Music, played by unseen musicians stationed behind a screen, was almost inaudible over the earsplitting chatter. Percy realized exactly how solitary his life had been since returning to London. He was seldom in crowds unless he was at Kit’s, which, even at its most crowded, had nothing on the Davenports’ ballroom.
It wasn’t unpleasant, precisely. But the sights and sounds belonged to Lord Holland, as much as the powder and the wig did. Even the flickering, sparkling quality of the light seemed to belong to another world. He remembered, without wanting to, the smoky shadows at Kit’s, the only light coming from a smattering of candles and lamps and whatever daylight managed to struggle through the fog outside and the clouds of tobacco inside.
Marian waited until the orchestra played a minuet before seizing Percy’s hand. “You promised me this dance, my lord,” she said, sounding intensely bored by the prospect.
“You do me a great honor, Duchess,” he said, equally bored.
“Do you recall Louise Thierry?” she asked without inflection when the dance took them close enough for her to speak unheard by anyone else.
“One finds her hard to forget,” he murmured. Louise Thierry was the cause of all their troubles: the name scrawled onto the parish register in the French church, the woman his father married.
“That was, evidently, a professional alias, or perhaps poor spelling. Her real name is Elsie Terry.”
Percy hoped he managed not to show any surprise on his face. “How very common,” he drawled. He had assumed that his father took a Frenchwoman to church because that was the only means he had of getting into her bed. If he had wished to marry an Englishwoman, why on earth had he brought her to France? And if she had gone with him to France as his mistress, then why had he bothered marrying her at all?
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Some people in the village still remember the beau Anglais and the pretty strumpet he brought with him.”
“Marcus’s research is very thorough,” Percy observed the next time they passed close. “Since I doubt he would have put all that in a letter, am I to take it that he’s in London now?”
“I believe he’s playing cards somewhere around here,” she said.
He was about to complain that he could have avoided this ball if Marcus had simply called at Clare House, but he supposed a conversation at a large gathering would be less remarkable and less likely to be overheard by the duke’s servants than a meeting at Clare House.
The dance finally ended. Percy bowed, Marian curtsied, and Percy strode off in the direction of the card rooms. All he had to do was follow the steady stream of men escaping the dance floor.
He found Marcus in a book-lined study, at a table with three other men, engaged in what looked like whist. Percy leaned against a nearby table, waiting until Marcus noticed him. Marian had gotten all the guile in that family, so when Marcus noticed Percy, he almost spat out his brandy.
“Christ almighty, how long have you been there, Perce?” He got up from the table, still holding his cards, and embraced Percy. Then he stood back and looked Percy up and down. “Look at you, you shocking fop. What have you done to yourself?”
“More than you have,” Percy said, wrinkling his nose as he took in Marcus’s coat, which had to be at least two years old. He gripped Marcus’s hand. “Now, darling, you’re forfeiting this game. We have to make up for lost time.” With that, he pulled Marcus out to the terrace.
“I don’t understand,” Percy said several minutes later. “If she gave a false name, then the marriage isn’t binding.” They were deep in the garden, where the noises from the party were remote and they could be assured of their privacy. Percy pulled his coat around his chest.
“Was it a false name, or was it a French priest’s best effort at transcribing a foreign name?” Marcus asked. “And even if it were an alias, that doesn’t necessarily mean the marriage is invalid. At the very least it would take some infernally long time in the courts to get settled and cast a long shadow over the future of the title. I say, what would happen if you went to your father and told him what you know? Surely he wouldn’t leave you and Marian and the baby to starve.”
Percy looked at his old friend in wonder. “He’d cut me off, cast me out, and spread it about town that I was mad. I’d be lucky not to end my days in a lunatic asylum.”
Marcus s
ighed. “In that case, I think you and Marian need to save as much money as possible. Sell your jewels and replace them with paste, invest the proceeds, and live off the income. Save your allowance for a few years and buy a modest house. That way, when the truth comes out, you’ll have something of your own to live on.”
This would be prudent, Percy had to concede. This was probably the counsel he would offer a friend, so he wasn’t going to hold it against Marcus. “And while I’m saving my pennies, I live with the sword of Damocles over my head. I let my father and the blackmailer control my destiny.”
“That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think?” Marcus gave a little laugh that made Percy want to scream. “It’s a title and some money—granted, a significant title and an enormous fortune. But you’d live quite well on the money you could put aside over the course of a few years. In fact, you’d live better than nearly everyone in this country. You wouldn’t be here”—he gestured at the distant ballroom—“but you’d be well-off, and safe.”
Percy grit his teeth, knowing that Marcus was right but also not able to communicate that this was inadequate, not because Percy was greedy, but because it was letting his father win. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me gracefully subside. He dishonored Marian and my mother, and he’s raised me to be—to be a lie, Marcus. Marian feels the same way.”
“I know,” Marcus said, with the weariness of a man who had heard at length his sister’s feelings on this topic. “I don’t mean to make excuses for your father,” he said, sounding like he was about to do precisely that. “We both know he’s despicable. But when he married this Elsie Terry, he was twenty. It’s possible he never thought it was a binding marriage—it took place in a foreign country and in a Catholic church, and neither of them would have been of age in England. It may have been a poor choice, but it’s not an inherently evil one.”
“Not inherently—” Percy broke off, sputtering.
“My only point is that revenge has never done anyone a bit of good.”
Well, of course it wasn’t going to do him any good. Percy wasn’t fool enough to believe that punishing his father would make him happy. The problem was that letting his father go unpunished would make it impossible for Percy to have any peace. But there was no use explaining that to Marcus. “If it makes you feel better, I fully intend to sell off everything I can in the next month or two.”
“Marian is engaged in a similar project,” Marcus said.
“I have one more lead,” Percy said. “My father’s former valet has an inn near Tavistock. His name was Denny.”
“Percy,” Marcus said gently. “There’s no doubt but that your father married this woman. There are people in Boulogne who remember her, and who remember where she came from. And when I visited the village where she was born, there were half a dozen Terrys still living there, including an old woman who says Elsie was her granddaughter. Elsie pays her a visit once a quarter.”
“I know that,” Percy snapped. “I know, Marcus. The woman’s alive, the marriage was valid, and Marian and I are well and truly fucked. What I care about now is Cheveril. Would you please visit Mr. Denny and see if he recalls whether there was a child. I need to know what will happen to Cheveril.”
“All right,” Marcus said. “I know this all feels impossibly dreadful right now, but there are certain advantages to being a commoner. You won’t have to worry about marriage or heirs, and with any luck you could perhaps form a lasting attachment with a person of your own choosing. I know that seems like a small compensation, but—”
Percy laughed bitterly. “Marcus, lasting attachments are the furthest thing from my mind.”
Chapter 29
Long after closing, Kit sat in the empty shop, using the broad expanse of the table to spread out maps of the road from London to Oxfordshire and the country surrounding Cheveril Castle. In the margins, he marked information that he still needed. He would have to hire someone to scout out that length of road in advance. In the past, he would have gone himself and committed every farmhouse and hedgerow to memory, but it turned out he could do most of the planning right from his shop.
His work was interrupted by a rap at the door. “Come in,” he called, wondering when it happened that people had started to drop in on him at odd hours. His hand went to his knife, more out of habit than out of any actual belief that he was in danger. People who meant harm seldom knocked.
He hoped that it might be Percy at the door. Percy had, after all, left without a word despite the fact that earlier they had more or less made plans to spend the night together. Or at least that was how Kit had interpreted it at the time, but the more he thought about it the more doubtful he became.
But the person who walked in wasn’t Percy. It was a woman, wrapped head to toe in a dark, hooded cloak. Only after the door was shut and bolted behind her did she slide the hood off her head.
“Scarlett?” Kit asked, rising to his feet. He could count on one hand the number of times he had ever seen her outside her establishment. “What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t send word that Flora had arrived safely at her aunt’s house.”
“It slipped my mind. I apologize. I wouldn’t have thought that would merit a clandestine trip across town, though,” he said, gesturing at her cloak.
“It’s cold,” she sniffed. “Nothing clandestine about it. And you’re hardly across town.” She glanced around the shop, not bothering to conceal her interest, and Kit realized she had never set foot inside the place before.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
“Tea, please,” she asked, sitting primly on the edge of one of the benches that lined the long table. “You took Lord Holland with you in the carriage today.”
He decided not to ask her how she already knew that, figuring he wouldn’t like the answer. “And?” he asked, not turning away from the kettle.
“I came here to tell you that you’re in over your head,” she said. “Without Rob to look out for you—”
Kit laughed, and it came out bitter and startled. “You of all people know that I looked out for Rob, not the other way around. Don’t tell me that grief has made you forget what kind of man he was.” Kit had spent half his life getting Rob out of scrapes, and he’d give up the use of his good leg for the chance to do it again.
Scarlett pressed her lips together in a line of displeasure. “He’d have kept you away from Holland.”
“I see.” Kit could hardly deny it. Rob would have tied Kit to a chair before letting him get cozy with a lord.
“No, you don’t. Tonight, Lord Holland is at a ball.”
Kit recalled how abruptly Percy had left that afternoon. “I imagine he goes to a good number of balls.”
“No, he doesn’t, because he spends his time drinking coffee here and doing what I can only imagine in your back room. Tonight, though, he made an exception, because an old friend of his was to be at the ball—the duchess’s brother, Marcus Hayes. Holland’s childhood playmate. Tonight, Lord Holland was seen embracing Mr. Hayes and then proceeded to spend an hour privately with him in the gardens.”
Kit glanced at the clock. “It’s not even ten o’clock. I’d love to know how you already know all this.”
“Whatever it is that he’s doing with you, he’s also doing it with your betters.”
“I’ll be sure to offer him my felicitations the next time he drops in.”
“Betty’s worried about you.”
Kit sighed and slid a cup of tea in front of Scarlett, shoving the maps to the side to make room. “Betty’s always worried about me.”
“When I was a girl, I let my head get turned by a man who was handsome, rich, and titled, not to mention charming. When we were together, he made me believe I was the only person in the world who mattered. I left my home and only learned when it was too late how cheaply he held me.” She held the teacup in her hands, as if to warm them. “Understand me. I don’t regret what came of that. But I
will never forgive him for making me believe that I was worth as little as he valued me.”
Kit knew enough of Scarlett’s history to understand that it was a common one. But he also knew that the moral of Scarlett’s story wasn’t that rich men abandon their conquests; it was that when you’re treated badly, you start to believe you don’t deserve any better.
He could hardly disagree. He could hardly tell Scarlett or even himself that he expected Percy to do otherwise. The truth was that he didn’t expect anything different.
“I hope you know,” he said, “that I realize how lucky I am to have women like you and Betty looking out for me.”
“Spoken like a man about to ignore some good advice,” Scarlett said ruefully.
As there was no answer he could possibly make to that, he simply raised his teacup in a silent toast.
Chapter 30
Percy had to concede that he wasn’t precisely making the best decisions.
His last attempt at prizefighting had ended with injury and mortification. The prospect of more of the same did not deter him so much as serve as enticement. He thought another slice to the arm might shake him out of his dismal mood, or at least give his melancholy something to focus on other than his future.
Besides, he wanted a sword in his hand. And, God help him, he wanted to win that purse. He wanted to know that he could take what he was and make it amount to something.
“My lord,” said Collins from the door to Percy’s dressing room. “I took the liberty of making some purchases.” In his arms he held a mass of black objects of some sort.
Percy watched as his valet placed a pair of black leather boots before him. They were soft, probably kidskin, and laced up the front in the way a woman’s boots might. But unlike a woman’s boots, they were tall enough to almost reach Percy’s knees.
Next to the boots, Collins laid out a pair of black breeches. They, too, were made of soft black leather, far softer and thinner than even the kidskin of the boots.
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 15