But the sun set, and still there was no sign of Rob. Hattie climbed a tree and got into position.
“Oi, Kit,” she said after a while. “I can see a coach and six coming up the road. There’s a picture painted on the door.”
“Bugger,” Kit said. “Something must have held Rob up.”
“Do you want to go to the inn and see if he’s all right?” Percy asked.
“No, I want you to go into the road and hold that carriage up.”
“We don’t even know if that’s my father,” Percy protested.
“It’s a coach and six on the right road at the right time.” He spoke with a calm that Percy would have thought impossible in the circumstances. “You have one minute to decide. It’s your choice.”
In the silence, Percy could hear the hoofbeats in the distance, indistinguishable from the beating of his heart.
“All right,” he said, and from his pocket he pulled the kerchief that he meant to use as a mask. “All right,” he repeated.
Kit took the kerchief from him and deftly tied it around the back of his head, then did the same for himself. He handed Percy a pistol and patted him on the shoulder, then Percy walked into the road.
Percy waited, feeling exposed and alone in the middle of the dusty road. As the carriage bore down on him, he saw that he recognized the horses and the coachman. Even though they had gone over this countless times, he was amazed that the carriage actually stopped.
“Your money or your life,” Percy called out, deepening his voice so it wouldn’t be recognized, and trying very hard not to pay attention to the fact that one of the outriders—a man he recognized as one of his father’s enormous guards—had drawn a pistol. “But I’d rather have the money.”
On that signal, Kit cleared his throat and held up his pistol, letting the moonlight glint menacingly off the steel, and Hattie fired an arrow directly over the heads of the horses.
He heard rustling from within the carriage and sauntered over as if he weren’t terrified.
But when he opened the carriage door, what he saw didn’t make sense. Because it wasn’t his father holding out a coin purse. It was Marian.
“Take this and leave,” she said haughtily, her face angled toward him so he could see her plainly in the moonlight, while his father remained half-concealed by shadows.
“I’m a highwayman, not a crossing sweep,” he answered. “I choose what I take and when I leave. Empty your pockets, sir,” he said to his father.
For a moment he thought his father wouldn’t comply, but then, with a sigh, his father pulled off one of his rings and handed it to Marian. Then he reached inside his coat pocket.
He could see the outline of the book through his father’s coat. And then his father shifted, and he could see a corner of the book visible above the edge of the pocket. He could reach out and take it. And so he did. As his hand darted out, he met his father’s eyes.
The last thing he remembered was the sound of the pistol being fired.
Chapter 42
Later, Kit went over the events of that night again and again, trying to figure out when exactly he ought to have known that something was wrong.
Rob’s absence ought to have tipped him off, of course, but he had been able to explain that away.
The way Percy’s hands shook might have been a clue.
But then everything had gone as planned. Percy spoke his lines, the carriage stopped. The outriders drew their weapons, but none aimed with anything like intent. It was all perfectly typical.
But there had been a woman in the carriage, and that hadn’t been right at all. The duchess was supposed to be in town, and Percy hadn’t mentioned that his father might travel with a mistress.
Before he could make sense of the woman’s presence, a pistol shot rang out, one of the horses startled, and as the coachman tried to get the animals settled, there came the sound of another shot. Then Percy emerged from the carriage, covered in blood.
Kit started for him, but then one of the armed outriders dismounted, aiming a pistol directly at Percy’s head. From where he stood, Kit could see Percy’s eyes, wide and dark.
“Go to the duke!” the outrider shouted to the coachman.
“Stay exactly where you are,” Kit called out. He drew his own weapon. From above, an arrow flew past, missing the outrider’s arm by inches.
Then the woman’s voice sounded, loud and clear above the shouting outriders and whinnying horses. “Get back on your horse, you oaf. You’re of no use to the duke lingering about here. We must get the duke to safety. Drive, Higgins! Fast!” The carriage took off down the road in a cloud of dust and accompanied by the sound of braying horses.
“Where were you hit?” Kit demanded. Percy was walking, at least, so it couldn’t be too bad, but even in the moonlight Kit could see that he was pale. “Hattie!” he called.
“I don’t think I was hit,” Percy said, his voice thin. “I can’t be sure.”
He was in shock, Kit realized. “The lantern, Hattie!”
“I got the book,” Percy said.
“Bugger the book,” Kit snarled. “And bugger all these buttons.” His hands felt all thumbs as he tried to open the blood-soaked waistcoat.
“And I got Marian’s coin purse,” Percy said, with a slightly hysterical laugh.
“And what in hell was she doing there?”
“Kit, I don’t know.”
Hattie had arrived with the lantern by then. “Kit, we have to move him.”
“He’s injured.”
“Getting hanged won’t make him any better. We need to get out of here.”
The girl was right. “Run. Take this.” He took the coin purse from Percy’s hand and thrust it at Hattie in exchange for the lantern. “Run. I’ll take care of him. When you get to London, tell Betty exactly what happened. Do you know how to get back to town?”
She nodded and ran off.
“Kit,” Percy said, looking down at himself and at the blood-soaked clothes that were now illuminated by the lantern. “Damn,” he whispered, and fainted.
“I’ve got you,” Kit said, even though he didn’t have Percy so much as he broke Percy’s fall. “Wake up,” he said, shaking Percy’s shoulders. “Damn you, this is not the time. I’ll bring you—Christ and all the buggering saints, I don’t know where to bring you or how I’m meant to get you there.” He held the lantern up, while patting Percy down with his other hand, trying to find where the blood was coming from.
Finally, he found a tear in the fabric, a hole in the leather breeches the size of his thumb. Percy hissed when Kit touched it, which at least meant he was coming to. Even with the light from the lantern, Kit couldn’t tell how bad a wound he was dealing with, and he didn’t dare waste another minute in this spot when they could be found at any moment. He tore the kerchief from his own neck and tied it around Percy’s thigh, hoping it would at least slow the bleeding. He tied the knot, counted to ten. And when he touched the spot over the wound, his fingers came away dry.
“Percy, please, I’m begging you to wake up.” He took the flask from Percy’s pocket and splashed some gin onto the man’s face. “Come on now.” Percy’s eyelids began to flutter, and Kit let out a shaky breath.
“My father,” Percy said.
“Later. Now, see if you can get to your feet.” Kit stood and held out a hand, bracing his own weight on his walking stick.
When Percy reached out, his hand was cold, but he stood with little effort. “As I said, I don’t think I’m injured.”
“The blood that’s all over you argues otherwise.”
“I don’t believe that’s my blood,” Percy said. “And the less we talk about blood right now, the better.”
Kit realized for the first time that Percy didn’t have the pistol in his hand. “Where is the weapon?”
“I believe it’s in the carriage.”
“If you can mount your horse, you need to do it.”
It took Percy a few false tries, and in the end
Kit had to all but shove him into the saddle. Kit still couldn’t tell whether it was blood loss or shock that was affecting Percy. All he knew was that they needed to get far away from this place, and they needed to do it now, but between them they only had one horse and two working legs.
And this was why Kit should have hired someone else for this job. Kit should have stayed in London, because in his condition he was worse than useless to Percy. Well, he could take himself to task later; now he needed to get Percy to safety. If he remembered this part of Oxfordshire at all correctly, a short walk through the woods would bring him to Jenny’s gran. Kit’s leg was in a sorry state, and he’d pay for this tomorrow, but he still had some strength left.
“Get on behind me,” Percy said.
“Your horse can’t hold us both,” Kit said. Christ, the horse looked like he needed food and water, too. “Come on.”
Percy didn’t even ask where they were going, which could not be a good sign. He let Kit guide him through the woods, quiet and almost docile. Every few minutes—every few seconds, if he were honest with himself, Kit brushed his hands over Percy’s wounded leg and checked his fingers for blood. It didn’t take long for them to come away bright red.
The moon was high in the sky when they came to the part of the woods he knew. Past an old well, across a shallow stream, and there was the cottage, firelight flickering in the windows and smoke coming from the chimney.
Jenny’s grandmother might not even live there anymore. It wasn’t as if Kit had kept in touch. Well, even if strangers answered the door, it was better than sleeping rough or raising suspicions at an inn where news of the robbery may have already spread. This was their best bet.
When he raised his arms to help Percy down from the saddle, Percy scoffed and tried to dismount on his own, and would have fallen if not for Kit’s arm around his middle.
“We’re stopping at this cottage,” Kit said into Percy’s ear. “You’re Edward Percy. You’re no relation of the duke. You’re a friend of mine from London.”
When Kit knocked, the door was answered by a woman with a long white plait. It took Kit too long to realize it was Jenny’s grandmother.
“Granny Dot,” Kit began, then corrected himself. “Mistress—”
“Christopher. I should have known that if I ever were to lay eyes on you again, it would be on a moonlit night in the company of a blood-soaked stranger. Dennis!” A lad of about seven or eight appeared behind the old woman’s skirts, his mouth open in a yawn. “Set up a pallet bed in the barn and light the brazier.” Then, to Kit, “That’s John’s youngest.”
“And how is John?” John had been Jenny’s oldest brother.
“Dead,” Dorothy said curtly. “They’re all dead, except you, me, and Dennis.”
Kit realized Percy was looking between him and Dorothy. “This is Mr. Percy. He fell off his horse and injured himself. We need a place to sleep for a night or two, some supper, and some hay for the horse, if you can spare it.”
“You’d be welcome to stay longer than that, but I imagine you have your own reasons for not lingering. I imagine you always have,” Dorothy said, not unkindly.
The lad came back then and showed them to the barn, which was little more than a shack that Kit thought might at one time have housed a milk cow. Kit could hardly look at the boy for how much he resembled Jenny, for how much he seemed like a ghost of what Hannah might have looked like.
“Sit,” Kit ordered Percy once the boy had left them to go tend to the horse. “And strip. I need to check you for wounds.”
“Are you mad? It’s freezing in here.”
The barn was drafty and smelled of damp old straw, but it wasn’t the worst place Kit had ever spent the night, and once the brazier was lit it would be fine.
Kit unsheathed the dagger at his hip. “Strip or I’m cutting those breeches off you.”
Percy raised his eyebrows. “In another context that would have been a very fun game indeed.”
Kit supposed it was a good sign if Percy was talking like that. It was not a good sign, however, that Percy couldn’t seem to unlace his boots. Kit, ignoring his leg’s screaming protests, managed to kneel on the ground before Percy and get his boots off. He untied the bloody kerchief. “Lift your hips up,” he said, and tugged Percy’s breeches off. Percy gasped when the leather peeled off the wound, but he kept still and didn’t complain.
“Drink,” Kit said, handing Percy the flask of gin. Percy complied, and then before capping it, Kit poured a generous slosh over the wound.
Percy flinched and swore. “You could have warned me.”
The blood cleaned away, Kit could make out the contours of the wound. It was about two inches long on the outside of Percy’s thigh, as if Percy had been trying to step out of the path of the pistol ball and had nearly managed it. Kit let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. From the satchel, he removed a clean kerchief and tied it around the wound.
And then he bent and rested his forehead on Percy’s knee and let the relief and exhaustion wash over him.
“Shh,” Percy said, his fingers tangling in Kit’s hair. “It’s all right.”
Kit opened his mouth to protest that of course it was all right and Percy could just shut up about it, but when he tried, all that came out was a sob, and he realized his cheeks were wet with tears.
So he let Percy pet his head, and it occurred to him that Percy wasn’t as awkward at soothing as Kit might have guessed. He said things like “hush, hush,” and “there, now, I have you,” as if they came naturally to him.
“What have I done to you,” Kit said.
“What have you done to me?” Percy scoffed, his hand stilling in Kit’s hair. “You have it all backward, you great lummox. Now let’s go to sleep before you say anything even stupider.”
And Kit was so relieved to hear that edge of comfortable rudeness in Percy’s voice, more reassured by it than he could have been by any gentle words.
The night was cold, so Kit told himself that it was only practical for them to lie pressed up against one another. Kit fell asleep with his head buried in the fine hair at the base of Percy’s neck, one arm thrown around Percy’s middle. And if he was dimly aware that Percy was still wide-awake, he didn’t let that stop sleep from overtaking him.
Chapter 43
Percy had never slept on the ground in his life. He had also never been shot. Nor had he spent an entire night in another man’s arms. It was an evening of firsts, all of which combined to put him into a state quite unfit for sleep. He shut his eyes and might have managed to doze off once or twice, but he kept being startled by the sounds of owls hooting and leaves rustling, or by the solid presence of Kit behind him.
Or by the throbbing ache in his thigh.
Christ, he knew it was only a graze. He had known as soon as it happened—before it happened, even, because he had thrown himself against the side of the carriage to avoid being hit directly. He knew it was hardly any worse than the gash he got in his arm during the prizefight, but its existence was an unwanted reminder of the predicament he was in.
All their efforts had come to naught, even though Percy now had the book. The central problem remained: a blackmailer was about to expose the duke as a bigamist. If the duke was dead, they could not hope to extract funds from him, and as his illegitimate son and false wife, they could not inherit anything from the estate. If he lived, they certainly couldn’t plan on extorting any funds from him because—Christ—because Marian had shot him. Percy could hardly believe it. If the duke lived, they’d be lucky to escape the gallows. He supposed he’d have to run away.
Percy didn’t know where this left him. He didn’t know what his next step needed to be, or what his future might look like. The less he thought about what Marian had done and why, the better. By all rights, he ought to be miserable. And yet he felt strangely—not peaceful, exactly, nor resigned, but somewhere in between.
Kit began to stir well before dawn. Percy, taking this as a sign tha
t it was time to give up any hope of sleep, tried to sit up, only to feel Kit’s arm tighten around him. Kit grumbled something along the lines of “Not yet,” and “Stay,” and Percy was sorely tempted. But he also knew what would come next, and sure enough, he felt Kit go still, heard a sharply drawn breath. And there, that was Kit realizing where he was, who he was with, and what had brought them there.
“I’m so sorry,” Percy said, because he hadn’t said it the day before.
“So am I.” Kit’s voice was sleep rough, and the words were more growl than actual speech. He still hadn’t loosened his hold on Percy, though, so Percy turned in his arms.
“How is your leg?”
“How is my leg?”
“It didn’t escape my attention how badly you were limping by the end of the night.”
“It’s pretty fucking terrible,” Kit said after a moment. “But nothing I haven’t been through before. It’ll be fine to walk on.”
Percy decided to postpone that argument. He got to his feet, gritting his teeth through the pain in his thigh. The pistol ball had torn through about an inch of muscle. The scar would be unsightly and he was afraid nothing could be done to salvage those leather breeches, but the shot had missed both bone and artery; as long as he escaped fever, he would recover. Carefully, he stepped into his riding breeches, thankful for once that they were loosely tailored.
The barn door creaked open, and the little boy stuck his head in. He carried a jug and a basket. “Gran thought you might be hungry. We haven’t any tea or sugar,” he added, shifting from foot to foot.
Percy looked between Kit and the boy. Last night, even through his fog of pain and confusion, he noticed the way Kit looked at the child as if he were seeing a ghost. Kit had said little about his past, but from what Percy had been able to piece together, it was filled with ghosts.
“Thank you,” Percy said, taking the jug and basket from the boy.
“Your horse doesn’t like me very much,” said the boy.
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 22