The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

  Percy glanced down at himself and saw that he was, indeed, still wearing his riding clothes from that morning. “Good thinking, Collins,” he agreed, and let himself be dressed in one of his more stylish ensembles—plum with lilac embroidery, purchased in Paris at significant expense. Admiring himself in the cheval glass, he had an alarming thought. “I suppose I’ll have to sell some of my clothes.”

  “Some of it, my lord. But whatever fate awaits you, you’ll need to meet it wearing something other than rags and sackcloth.”

  This advice was both sound and soothing. When Collins left, Percy considered what to do with himself for the rest of the day. It had been some time since he visited Kit’s wearing anything respectable. He could stop by now and give Kit a small thrill by allowing the man to surreptitiously ogle his ankles. But Kit had behaved abominably yesterday, and Percy was not in a frame of mind to reward the man.

  If Percy allowed himself to see through the cloud of anger and humiliation that blanketed the memory, he could perhaps understand that Kit had been startled. Startled might even be too mild a word for whatever one felt when confronted with someone returning from the dead. It was, arguably, ungenerous of Percy to put too much stock into what Kit had said at that moment.

  Ordinarily, if a lover treated Percy with less than perfect civility, he would walk away and never look back. He usually carried on his affairs with the same sangfroid with which he did almost everything else. He had been taught to keep people at arm’s length, and just to be on the safe side he typically kept them even further.

  That rule applied not only to lovers but to everyone. Marian was the only real exception, and he always suspected that she had gotten in on a technicality due to the fact that they had known one another before he learned how to get the better of his emotions. Fond is another word for weak, his mother had always said.

  He had believed her. He still did. His mother had taught him how to survive despite the weakness that was at the core of who he was. She had taught him how to shield himself in a carapace of pride and power.

  Right now, he wanted to go crawling to Kit and demand reassurance that Kit hadn’t meant what he’d told his friend. He wanted to admit to Kit how very much he liked him and say it again and again until Kit said it back. What was worse, he wanted to tell Kit all about his problems—from his father’s bigamy to the contents of the book to the fate of his sister and Marian—not because he thought Kit could do anything about it, but because he wanted a friend to tell him that everything was going to be all right.

  It was pathetic. It was the pitiful need for reassurance and affection that he thought he had long since subdued.

  That night, when he heard tapping at his window, he was not surprised.

  “I got your message,” Marian said, climbing into the room and dropping a bag onto the floor, causing its contents to clatter. “What’s wrong?”

  He poured them each a glass of brandy and sat in one of the chairs before the fire, gesturing for Marian to take the other one. “What if we called the robbery off?” he asked.

  She took a long drink of brandy and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I was wondering when you’d suggest something like that.”

  He was almost dizzy with relief. Surely, the pair of them were mad; this entire highway-robbery scheme was nothing more than a folie à deux. “So you agree,” he said.

  “Of course not, Percy,” she snapped. “Not in the slightest. Your father has done something unforgivable to both of us and I don’t know if I can live out the rest of my life if I know that he hasn’t been punished for it.”

  “People do it all the time,” Percy said, thinking of Kit. “Live their lives, knowing that someone who wronged them is alive and well.”

  “But we have a chance to take something back from him.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “We have a chance to make things—not fair, not equal, but just a little less unfair. I know it’s small and petty, and I know I’m being spiteful, but spite is all I have right now.”

  He nodded, remembering his conversation with Kit. “It’s honor.”

  “I feel far from honorable right now, Percy.”

  “The feeling that you and I have of something being taken away from us? That’s our honor. The need we have to make the duke pay isn’t any different from calling a man out in a duel. It’s not small and petty. I was raised on stories of the honor of the Talbots and the honor of the Percys, and all those stories come down to people taking unaccountable risks to stand up for what and who they value.”

  Percy could gather up his brooches and his rings and sell every last yard of silk in his wardrobe and eke out a plain existence. Marian could live with Marcus, or perhaps even stay on at one of the duke’s lesser properties. They could both be sufficiently content despite the niggling sense of incompletion that came when they remembered that the duke still had his name, his fortune, his coronet.

  But Talbots didn’t let their honor be sullied, and neither did Percys.

  Percy realized he had had it all wrong when he told Kit that honor is just spite dressed up; spite was honor when it was the only weapon you had against someone more powerful.

  “You’re right,” Percy said slowly. “I just had cold feet.” He extended his hand, and Marian grasped it for a long moment before she got to her feet and threw open the window. “The entire house is fast asleep,” he said. “You could simply walk to your apartments like a sensible person.”

  “And so I could,” she replied, looking over her shoulder, one foot already on the windowsill, “if I didn’t have business taking me elsewhere this evening.”

  “Evening,” he repeated, scandalized. “It’s past two in the morning.”

  “By the way,” she said, gesturing at the sack she had left on the floor, “fence those for me, will you?”

  Before he could protest, she was already gone.

  Chapter 36

  It took another day for Kit’s leg to get into a state that was amenable to being walked on for more than a few yards, and even then, he had to hire a hack to take him to the park.

  He knew that Percy went riding early most mornings and found him easily enough. The park was still mostly empty, except for shadowy figures returning from whatever mischief they had been up to in the dark. The ground was blanketed in a mist that drifted across the grass. Most people would take this as a sign that greater caution was needed, but Percy was reckless with his own safety, and so Kit followed the sound of hoofbeats until he caught sight of Percy racing along the path, disappearing into the fog and then reappearing as if by magic.

  Percy rode like he did everything else—he was graceful enough to make risking his neck look easy. He was fast and lithe, and it was a pleasure to watch him. Even in his loose riding clothes, even with his hair tied back and tucked under his hat, the long lines of his body were visible.

  Kit already knew Percy was beautiful—had known it the first time Percy walked into his shop, and every further encounter had only served as redundant proof. But the pleasure Kit took in watching him wasn’t simply because Percy was beautiful, or even because he was talented. It was because Percy was Percy. He enjoyed looking at Percy for the same reason he had been frightened out of his wits to see Percy sword fighting: he just liked the man.

  Kit told himself that he liked a lot of people, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He told himself that it was nothing unusual to like a person, even if, on paper, every single thing about them was antithetical to one’s staunchly held beliefs about what a person ought to be.

  He told himself that liking didn’t mean one held any tenderer feelings, and neither, for that matter, did kissing.

  He told himself all of this and didn’t believe a word of it. He clutched the parcel he held in his free hand, and when the fog cleared, he stepped closer to the path of Percy’s horse.

  “Please watch your step,” called Percy, breathless and pulling up on his reins. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for bloodshed this
morning.” Then he must have recognized Kit, because his face closed off entirely.

  “I came to beg your forgiveness,” Kit said immediately.

  “For what?” Percy asked after hesitating for only the space of a single breath.

  “For saying you were nobody. For saying you didn’t matter.”

  “Are you apologizing for hurting my feelings with an unpleasant truth, or for lying?” Percy asked.

  “For hurting your feelings with a lie,” Kit said.

  That must have been satisfactory, because Percy dismounted and came to stand face-to-face with Kit. “Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t want Rob to know that I was—that I’m fond of a person like you.”

  “And what kind of person am I, exactly?”

  “A bloody rich one.”

  Percy let out a startled, slightly bitter laugh. “And that’s what you thought when you saw that your friend, who you had believed dead for the past year, was alive and well? You thought—better not let him think I’m overly friendly with this man I’m rolling around with on the floor.”

  Kit didn’t know how to explain that Percy seemed to occupy the foremost portion of his brain, nor did he know exactly when that had happened. “Yes” was all he said. And then, because Percy’s eyes were searching his face, looking for something that Kit couldn’t hope to hide, “I don’t know how not to think about you. I don’t know how to stop, and I don’t want to.” He swallowed. He had felt like this once before, and the result had been him and Jenny standing before a priest as soon as the banns were called. He knew what it was, and he knew he wasn’t foolish enough to say so out loud. “I brought you something.” He held out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  Something gratified flickered across Percy’s face. Kit smiled, because of course Percy was the sort of person to be delighted by presents. “What is it?”

  “Nothing much.” Kit placed the parcel into Percy’s outstretched hand, then watched his face as he opened it.

  “It’s cake,” Percy said, not as if he had expected a golden snuffbox or something, but as if there was nothing in the world better than cake. He broke it into two pieces, giving one to Kit and popping the other into his mouth. “Oh, it’s very good.”

  “I thought you might like it.” In fact, Kit, arriving at the bakery as soon as they unlocked their doors, had picked out the cake that seemed the most unnecessarily complicated. The baker’s sleepy daughter had informed Kit that this cake had orange peel, rosewater, and a number of spices. It cost twice as much as the other similarly sized cakes. Kit knew at once that it would be Percy’s favorite.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “A bakery.”

  “Which bakery?” Percy asked, impatient.

  “That’s my secret. You’ll just have to let me get you another cake sometime soon.”

  “If you haven’t figured out by now that I’ll let you buy me as many cakes as you please, as often as you want, you’re stupider than you look.” That, from Percy, was as good as a declaration, and Kit drew in a breath.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Percy turned away and smoothed his horse’s mane. “If my mother knew I was acting like this, she’d roll over in her grave,” he said, avoiding Kit’s eye.

  “What about this situation would bother your mum? Is it that I’m a man or that we’re about to rob your father? No shortage of causes for worry.”

  Percy snorted out a very ungentlemanlike laugh, and Kit bumped their shoulders together. And then, because the fog was thick and Percy’s face was bleak, Kit tucked a loose strand of hair behind Percy’s ear. Percy shuddered, as if the contact were too much for him, but he didn’t step away.

  “One of her earliest lessons was never to act like one needed the approval, company, or affection of any earthly being,” Percy said.

  Kit hadn’t been expecting that. “Everybody needs those things,” he said.

  “Yes, but one isn’t supposed to let on. That’s what’s dangerous. And she was right, you know.”

  With anyone else, Kit might have argued that not only was it not dangerous, but it was the only way to live. But he could see that Percy believed it as a basic tenet of his existence. “Aye, but you like danger.”

  Percy laughed. “No, I do not. You are badly misinformed.”

  “What would you call sword fighting, then? And don’t tell me you’re too talented to get injured, because I’ve dressed your wounds.”

  “Wound, singular,” Percy corrected him.

  “And what would you call carrying on with men if not dangerous?”

  “It’s hardly my fault that the laws are what they are. You can’t expect me to be celibate.”

  “And associating with hardened criminals?”

  “What hardened criminals do I— Oh, I suppose you’re referring to yourself.”

  “Yes,” Kit said, laughing. “Had you forgotten?”

  “Hardened criminal sounds like someone who goes around frightening old ladies, when really you’re just a darling.”

  “I’ve frightened scores of old ladies,” Kit protested.

  “No, you didn’t. You charmed them. I’ve heard the ballad, you remember.”

  Kit frowned. “Maybe they were charmed after the fact, but I think a lot of those stories are from people who were only relieved that they got away with their lives. I promise they were frightened when their carriages stopped. I saw their faces. That’s something I don’t miss.”

  Percy looked carefully at him. “It’s a pity you can’t arrange for the carriages of villains to be empty of any innocents. Well, my father won’t have anyone in the carriage with him other than his henchmen, and I’m hardly going to wring my hands about frightening them.”

  “As I said, you really don’t seem to have any problems with danger.” Kit took the remnants of cake from Percy’s hand, broke off a piece, and held it up to Percy’s lips. “I’d even say you seek it out. So you ought to be perfectly fine letting on that you need me.”

  Percy stared at him, and for a minute Kit thought he’d protest. But he leaned forward and ate the cake from Kit’s fingers.

  Chapter 37

  The next morning at breakfast, the duke announced his plan to visit Cheveril Castle in two days’ time.

  “Indeed,” Percy said, managing a bored air as he cut his ham into ever smaller pieces. “Will Marian be joining you?”

  “The duchess,” his father said severely, “must call on her mantua maker, and therefore must remain in town.”

  Throughout this, Marian remained very still, and Percy inferred that it had not been easy for her to negotiate her unsupervised stay in London. If everything went as planned, Marian would only need to endure two more days of silent cold meals and the ever-watchful eye of the duke. Two more days. Percy hadn’t known it was possible to feel terror and relief at the same time.

  Percy excused himself from the table and went directly to Kit’s. When he arrived, Kit was at his usual station by the hearth, but he looked up when he heard the door. He didn’t quite smile, but an expression of pleased surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow and careful appraisal of Percy’s fine attire.

  Sitting on a stool nearby was Rob, and he was staring at Percy in a way that left no room for Percy to hope that he had not been recognized as the man Kit had been with several nights ago. Feeling that it would be more awkward to feign ignorance of the man’s presence, and also possessed by the lamentable urge to be on his best behavior around Kit’s friends, he bowed his head at the man.

  Rob did not return the nod. Instead, he looked shrewdly, but not quite unkindly, at Percy, then flicked his gaze to Kit, and then back again. Percy wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or if he detected a somewhat mad glint in the fellow’s eye. One had to be a bit mad, he supposed, to let one’s friends think one was dead for an entire year. But no matter; Kit cared for the man. Kit also seemed to care for Percy, which not only gave him and Rob something in common, but proved that Kit was a terrib
le judge of character.

  Rob was somewhere between Kit’s and Percy’s ages, which was to say about twenty-five, with hair that could only be described as carroty and a build even leaner than Percy’s. Even sitting, he seemed strung tight with a dangerous tension, like a whip pulled back and about to strike. He looked familiar in a way that Percy could not quite put his finger on, but before he could think further on this, Rob spoke.

  “I can’t decide whether I’m more surprised by his being rich or his being a man,” Rob said, his eyes still on Percy but his words plainly directed at Kit. It was an impertinence, to talk about him as if he weren’t there, and Percy was shocked to find that he didn’t care. Perhaps it was that with so much else to worry about, the petty trappings of rank and courtesy did not even merit a second thought. Perhaps it was that he was willing to be generous with Kit’s friends. Neither explanation pleased him.

  “I need to speak to you. In private,” Percy said, remembering the purpose of his errand and trying to ignore the flames of fear and anxiousness that licked at the edges of his mind.

  Kit gestured at the door to the back room, and then, apparently thinking better of it, made toward the stairs. The office, Percy supposed, was a much more suitable place for a meeting with Lord Holland.

  When the door shut behind them, Percy cleared his throat. “This will probably be too short notice to arrange the robbery, but my father will be traveling to Cheveril in two days.”

  Kit frowned. “Two days is plenty of time. You already know your part. The main difficulty was always going to be knowing your father’s route beforehand, and then separating him from his outriders and the other carriages in his party. Now we have the first part settled, and with Rob around, the second part will be child’s play.”

  “You’ve told him?” Percy didn’t know why he felt betrayed. Of course Kit would have told Rob who Percy was and what Percy planned. Of course Kit’s loyalty would be to Rob, not to Percy. Percy knew this, knew better than to assume otherwise. Never in his life would Percy have valued a mere lover—not even that, just someone who had fucked him in a seedy back room—over one of his inner circle. He was being childish and naive to expect Kit to behave differently.