“I would have thought you’d be a prettier crier than that,” Kit observed, hoping it would cut the tension, and failing miserably due to the catch in his voice. “Percy, love, you don’t want to be that man. You don’t want to be the man handing down sentences, ruining lives. Your life isn’t what you expected it to be, but—” He didn’t know how to finish that. He didn’t know how to say that he was glad to know that Percy would never have the sort of power that could ruin lives on a whim.
Percy nodded. “I’m so sorry. And thank you for telling me.”
They walked back to Dorothy’s cottage in silence.
Chapter 45
“I need to see Marian,” Percy said that night when he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“You don’t know if you’re wanted for your father’s murder,” Kit pointed out. They were lying on the barn floor, tucked under a single blanket, staring at the roof beams as if they were particularly interesting.
“You can wait here. Or go back to London. Or do whatever you please. I’m going to Cheveril Castle and talking to Marian.”
“You realize she might have said I shot the duke, don’t you? She might not have been setting you up, but me.” Kit groaned and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the darkness, Percy could hear the rasp of a callused thumb over stubble. “Rob tried to convince me that you were setting me up, that you had found out about my history with your father and were trying to take advantage of me. I told him that was impossible. But Marian may have done precisely that. Where did she get my name?”
“I’m not certain. She was rather cagey on that point.” Percy didn’t want to concede that Marian had been setting anybody up, but he also didn’t want to waste his breath arguing that point. He turned his head so he could see Kit’s profile. “I’m glad you knew I wouldn’t do that.”
Kit didn’t turn his head. “So am I.”
“In any event, I don’t think you need to worry about being set up for the robbery or the shooting. The coachman and outriders saw a slim, fair man with a scar who walked without a limp.”
“I was on the side of the road.”
“You faded into the shadows. The only part of you that was visible was your pistol. Besides, if you’re worried about being mixed up in this, it’s all the more reason for you to get back to London and act like nothing happened.”
“It’s all the more reason for me to stay with you,” Kit said. “If she has any scruples about setting you up, then being with you is the best alibi I could hope for. And if she doesn’t, then I’m fucked anyway.”
Percy glared at Kit’s profile. “Well, I’m going to Cheveril Castle. It’s only a few miles from here.” He could tell that Kit was cross with him, but when Percy turned onto his side to go to sleep, Kit threw an arm over him and pressed his lips to the top of Percy’s head. And that was something Percy had never even contemplated—the possibility that someone could be cross with him but also fond of him. Come to think, Percy was more than a little annoyed with Kit—why would the blasted man not go back to London like any reasonable person would—but he didn’t think he had ever been so fond of anyone in his entire life as he was of Kit at that moment. He took hold of the hand that rested against his belly and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles.
“Kit,” Percy whispered when a few minutes had passed. The nighttime sounds of the forest seemed increasingly loud, and the space around them impossibly dark and empty. Percy felt small and lost, and like Kit was the only solid and safe thing in the world. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Kit said, gravelly and low.
Percy knew that it was pitiful to seek out reassurance, but he had never needed it more. “How are you able to look at me after telling me the role my father played in your life?” His voice was more querulous than he would have liked. “Don’t you see him every time you look at me?”
“Yes,” Kit said simply. “Of course I do.”
But he didn’t take his arm away, and the fact that he was here despite everything that could have stood between them was more reassuring than any words he could have uttered.
“But I also see you,” Kit went on.
Percy fell asleep feeling safer than he had in weeks.
In the morning Percy watched as Kit hugged Dorothy, the old woman looking small and frail beside him. Then Kit knelt and said something to the boy.
Percy mounted Balius, who was still visibly indignant about having traveled nearly fifty miles to sleep in a shed. Kit, with the aid of a tree stump, mounted a bay mare that Dorothy claimed to have borrowed from a neighbor. Percy stowed all his belongings in the horse’s saddle bags, except for the little green book, which he kept close at hand in his pocket, and which seemed to grow heavier as Percy began to suspect its purpose.
By midday, they were within sight of Cheveril Castle, the turrets and then the gatehouse coming gradually into view.
It was only a building, Percy told himself. Stone and shingle, plaster and mortar. He knew that it was only the work of his mind that had built it into something more—a legacy, an identity. But still, looking at the silhouette of his home against the gray autumn sky, seeing it for the first time in years and possibly the last time in his life, he had to grit his teeth to hold back a sob.
“I’m going to ride up,” Percy said. “Do you want to wait here?”
Kit leveled a dry look at him and rode ahead toward the gate.
When the gatekeeper told Percy that the duke and duchess were not in residence, Percy nearly asked the man to repeat himself, he was so stunned. He managed to ask where the duke and duchess might be, and the gatekeeper explained that the staff expected the duke and duchess two days ago, and could only assume they had changed their plans.
Percy knew he ought to turn around and return immediately to London to see if the duke lived, to confer with Marian, to plan out their next step.
But he was this close to Cheveril, and he might never get to see it again—not, at least, as its heir. He rode through the gates. If Kit was surprised, he didn’t let on, just kept riding along at Percy’s side.
The drive from the gatehouse to the entrance had been designed to afford a visitor the best view, the facade that had been built during the time of Percy’s grandfather. On the approach, one passed through acres of parkland and gardens, then drove between matched fountains that had been imported from Italy.
This was how Cheveril appeared in Percy’s dreams—a dozen turrets, an uncountable number of windows, white stairs that were always swept clean of debris. This was how the house looked when he was coming home.
It was also art. It was the work of dozens of architects and God only knew how many craftsmen, gardeners, servants, and laborers. The amount of gold that had gone into the building of Cheveril Castle was nothing compared to the number of lives that had been devoted to making it what any right-thinking person had to concede was the finest example of sixteenth-century architecture in England, and possibly anywhere, as far as Percy cared.
“It was built two hundred years ago,” Percy said, “on the site of what had been Cheveril Priory. One used to approach the house from the south side, but my grandfather commissioned a facade that improved the roofline of the east side, and the result is what you see.” He had no idea why he was bothering with a history lesson, and one about rooflines no less, except that he wanted an excuse to linger here for another moment. He didn’t want to rush through the last time he’d come home.
“If you look to your left, you can see the Italian gardens,” Percy said, cursing himself for sounding exactly like a housekeeper giving a tour to holidaymakers. “My father put them in about a dozen years ago.” The view from the front of Cheveril Castle was now intricate garden beds, behind which lay a broad swathe of uninterrupted parkland.
“It was the spring of ’39,” Kit said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Percy said, puzzled that Kit would know this. “It was my second year away at school.”
“Did you ever wonder how t
he castle got its name?” Kit asked.
“It was named after the priory that used to stand here,” Percy said.
“And how do you think the priory got its name?”
“Oh—there used to be a village, didn’t there?” He only vaguely remembered it as a place he was occasionally allowed to visit with his nurse, his cooperation secured with a boiled sweet. At some point, the village hadn’t been there anymore, but he had been too occupied with school to ask what had become of it, and in any event conversation with his parents did not extend to the duke’s improvements to the property.
“Yes,” Kit said flatly, then rode ahead of Percy.
They probably ought to ride around to the stable block, but Percy wanted to walk up the broad white steps one last time. There was the usual awkwardness that attended arriving home unexpected, but Percy took advantage of the general confusion to avoid explaining Kit’s presence. “Really, I was hoping to see my father and the duchess, but if they aren’t here, then I’ll only stay long enough to rest the horses,” Percy said airily. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself about supper.”
Eventually he and Kit were in the great hall, alone except for the small army of servants that no doubt were just out of sight.
“This is the great hall,” Percy said redundantly, because it was fairly obvious where they were, with its enormous hearth and its minstrel gallery. “And this is the Grand Staircase,” he said. “We lack a certain creativity when it comes to naming things, I’m afraid. You’ll never guess what color the Blue Library is.” He spun on his heel and saw Kit standing in the middle of the hall, not looking at the ornately carved ceiling or the impressively large, if tragically ugly, oil painting of a battle scene that hung above the hearth, but rather at Percy himself, and with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Can you climb stairs?” Percy asked. “Frankly, I’m not certain I can, and there’s a solid chance a footman will have to carry me down, but would you like to give it a try?”
Kit shrugged. Percy’s wound pulled a bit with each step, and he regretted this idea by the first landing.
At the top, he led Kit toward the portrait gallery. “That’s my grandmother,” he said, gesturing at the portrait of a raven-haired lady who had an affronted-looking pug on her lap. And then, indicating a gentleman with an enormous black wig who was sitting in what was obviously the great hall downstairs, “That’s the ninth marquess, shortly before he was beheaded. He had several pet monkeys. Too many monkeys, if we’re honest. And this is my mother.” He hadn’t planned to stop, hadn’t planned to stare, but this was the first time he had seen his mother’s face since he left England. And while this portrait was a poor likeness, it was close enough to take his breath away. It had been painted shortly after her wedding, so when she was about twenty. The portraitist had contrived to give her a dreamy air, which was far from the sharp-eyed, quick-witted woman he had loved.
“You look like her,” Kit said. They were the first words he had spoken since entering the house.
“Thank you,” Percy said, even though it wasn’t exactly a compliment, given how daft his mother looked in that portrait. But he knew Kit meant that Percy looked like his mother, too. He let himself stare shamelessly at the portrait for another minute. “It’s a pity it’s so large, or I’d smuggle it out in my coat.” Most people didn’t even have the option of stealing portraits of their dead mothers, so leaving this behind wouldn’t really be a loss, he reasoned. Eventually his memory of his mother’s face would fade. It was fine. He would cope, just like everybody else.
“And these are my apartments,” he said, pushing open a heavy oak door. The rooms had been dusted and aired recently, and smelled fresh and clean despite having been unoccupied for over two years. “The Talbot family tradition of obvious naming continues unbroken, as these chambers have been known as Lord Holland’s Rooms since my first ancestor used the courtesy title.”
Kit stood in the doorway, his jaw set and his expression dark. Again, he looked at Percy, rather than at the objectively impressive collection of Dresden figurines that sat on the chimneypiece, or at the honest-to-God Caravaggio that hung beside the door to the inner chambers. Nor did he seem interested in the thick carpets or silk draperies.
Percy passed through the antechamber into the sitting room, then through that into the bedchamber. He knew Kit followed only from the muffled sound of his walking stick thumping against the carpeted floor. Percy lifted a hand to touch the pale blue silk bed hangings. A few motes of dust scattered, catching the light in a way that almost sparkled.
Then the dust settled, and he knew he must have been staring into space for minutes. He felt his cheeks heat, and he turned to Kit, who was leaning in the doorway. “I’m sorry.” His voice was thick, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was about to cry. “The clock above the mantelpiece is—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the clock.”
“Of course you don’t, you barbarian.”
Kit’s mouth twitched. “What do you need?” Percy must have looked as confused and lost as he felt, because Kit clarified. “What do you need to do here? We can’t stay. I’m sorry, Percy, but we have to go to London. What do you need to do before we leave?”
What he really wanted was to shrink the entirety of Cheveril to the size of one of the Dresden figurines and put it in his pocket to keep it safe. What he really wanted was to burn it down so nobody else could have it, or maybe because he hated caring so much about brick and stone.
He glanced at the bed, then at Kit. “Will you—would you fuck me?” His voice was small, doubtful, the opposite of seductive. “The mattress is very comfortable,” he added, because he was thoroughly committed to being a moron.
“Is that what you need?”
Percy nodded. Kit crossed the room, still not touching him, still looking at him too closely.
“All right, then,” Kit said, and kissed him.
Chapter 46
“Make it so this is what I remember,” Percy said as they fumbled with one another’s clothes.
“You may be overestimating my abilities,” Kit said. He wished he could, though. He wished all it would take was a thorough fucking to obliterate Cheveril Castle and all it stood for from Percy’s mind. From who Percy was.
Percy had cast off the last of his clothes and stood naked in front of blue bed curtains that Kit strongly suspected had been picked to flatter its occupant. The idea simultaneously struck him as sinfully extravagant and an admirable use of funds.
Kit tugged off his boots. “Get on the bed.”
Percy arranged himself on a coverlet of the same sky-blue silk. “Oh, there’s oil in the pocket of my coat.”
“Optimistic, were you?” Kit shucked his jacket and his shirt, letting them drop to the floor.
“Shut up and do your job,” Percy said, spreading his legs and taking himself in hand.
Laughing—and wasn’t that a marvel, to be laughing in this place, with this man—Kit got the oil and tossed it to Percy. “You know I haven’t done this, right?”
“Why haven’t you, Kit?”
Kit sat on the edge of the bed and palmed one of Percy’s bent knees. “It never seemed worth the risk.”
Percy stared at him, propping himself up on one elbow. “Let me understand. You, while routinely committing highway robbery and other capital crimes with such wild abandon you’re almost a household name, balked at a little buggery?”
“Well, it sounds silly when you put it that way.”
“I think we need to acknowledge that your priorities may be overdue for some realignment.”
Kit grinned, but he knew Percy was right. Maybe Kit hadn’t thought his own pleasure should matter. Maybe Kit had only thought it was all right to risk his neck when it was for somebody else’s benefit—or somebody else’s punishment. But when he touched Percy, the idea that he was risking his neck made him as furious as it did when he thought about places like Cheveril existing while regular people went h
ungry. Any law against this was the sort of rule Kit wanted to break on principle alone. Whatever they had between them, for all its confusion, was good, and it was theirs, and they should take it. Fuck anything that said otherwise.
Percy licked his lips and pulled Kit down beside him. “You think that being with me is worth the risk?”
Kit heard the uncertainty in the other man’s voice, and it broke his heart. “You’re worth any price I could pay,” he said, and then kissed him. Usually Percy kissed like it was a fight, like he planned to kiss until he was the last man left standing. But now he was pliant, his mouth soft beneath Kit’s. Kit took the leather cord from Percy’s hair and undid his plait, letting the golden strands spill over the pillow.
Percy poured some oil onto his fingers and stroked himself, then trailed his fingers lower, over his bollocks and then along the crease of his arse. Kit sat up, watching intently as two of Percy’s fingers disappeared inside himself. He put a hand on the inside of Percy’s knee, nudging his legs further apart so Kit could watch better. Percy obligingly tilted his hips up, and Kit heard himself make a punched-out-sounding noise.
When he looked up, he saw that Percy’s eyes were on him, watching Kit watching him. Kit felt his face heat, and saw an answering flush on Percy’s neck and down his pale chest. “Look at you,” he breathed, and had the satisfaction of watching Percy redden to the tips of his ears.
Kit bent down and kissed him. Then he skimmed a hand down Percy’s chest, circling a nipple, palming his erection, before coming to rest on his wrist. He kissed Percy some more, rutting his hardening cock into Percy’s hip, feeling his desperation mount.
“Please, Kit,” Percy breathed.
Kit got to his knees between Percy’s legs and just looked at him for a moment, pale limbs against the expanse of blue silk, bright hair fanned out on the pillow. And the expression on his face was so candid and open that Kit had to look away.
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 24