With Kit’s hand on his shoulder, he cast the book into the fire, and stayed until it was reduced to ashes.
Chapter 50
Two peculiar things happened in the next couple of days.
The first was that the broadsides began bringing news of the new Duke of Clare’s latest doings. He altered his tenants’ leases and converted several properties to freeholds. Deeds of manumission were sent off to Barbados. Priceless artworks and a dozen horses were sent to auction. Funds were set aside for the building of schools and poorhouses, along with an endowment to keep them going for a generation. Public opinion was divided as to whether Percy had done these things to spite his dead father or because he had gone quite mad.
The second peculiar thing was that Kit returned from walking Betty home to find a note on his pillow.
“Stop fretting. I’m not dead. Tell your gent that Lady M isn’t dead, either, as she doesn’t seem disposed to do so herself. And for God’s sake, call off the hunt. Much love, R,” the note read, in Rob’s handwriting.
When Kit showed it to Percy that night, he studied it for a long minute. “I can’t be certain, but I think it’s the same handwriting as the blackmail letters. The way the ink blots at the tail of the R and M is distinctive. I might wish for a reassurance slightly more enthusiastic than ‘not dead’ but it was kind for your friend to put my mind at ease.” He said kind as if it were a complicated foreign word, as if his tongue and lips didn’t want to shape themselves around it, and Kit knew that Percy was trying to tell Kit that he intended to be civil to Rob and about Rob.
“I saw that you’re selling some horses,” Kit said.
Percy wrinkled his nose. “How do the papers learn these things so quickly? Yes, I’m selling everything that isn’t nailed down. Including Balius, who I can only hope will be as mean and ill-tempered to his new owner as he was to me. Good riddance, and all that.”
Kit had seen Percy croon to and cosset that stallion and didn’t for a minute believe that Percy was taking his loss well. He had little lines around his eyes hinting that whatever divesting half the Clare estate entailed, it was not easy on him. “Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested. “I’ll stand you a pint.”
As they were getting into their cloaks, Betty came over and touched Percy’s shoulder. “Please come back and put him out of his misery,” she said. “Do it for me? You should see how he’s been pining. It’s scaring away the customers.”
“Christ on a cross, Betty, go away,” Kit said, his cheeks heating.
“Since when do you even like me?” Percy asked.
“Who said I did?” Betty answered, blowing him a kiss.
It was cold, the first night of the year that made it impossible to pretend that winter wasn’t waiting around the corner. Their breaths clouded the air in front of them, mingling with the smoke and fog that drifted through the streets. It was, objectively, a foul night, but Kit had a sense of hopeful exhilaration that he hadn’t experienced since that fresh green springtime he courted Jenny. He had been little more than a boy then, and hadn’t known how rare and precious that sort of feeling was. Now he was jaded enough to know that most people never knew what it was like to take a walk side by side with the person they liked best in the world.
“Mind if we stop in here?” Kit asked when they passed the stable where he kept Bridget. It was a little warmer inside, thanks to a brazier the pair of stable boys were using to warm their hands. The boys looked up, recognized Kit, and wordlessly waved him in.
“Her name is Bridget,” Kit said when they reached the right stall. “I can’t ride her as fast as she likes, but she puts up with me anyway. You’re welcome to make use of her as much as you like.”
“Thank you. That’s—”
“She’s my horse, mind. I’m not making a present of her.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Percy laughed.
“You hear me, Bridget,” Kit said, holding out his hand for her to nuzzle, “you’re still mine. You can be as rude as you please to Percy, and he’ll only think it’s a sign of good breeding.” Percy leaned against him a little, shoulder to shoulder, just enough so Kit could feel his warmth and a comforting bit of pressure.
At the tavern, they tucked themselves into a dark, snug corner. Kit waited until Percy was finishing his second pint, his limbs just starting to get a bit loose and the careworn lines easing from his face.
“So, what happens on January first?” Kit asked. His own pint was only a quarter empty, and he held the tankard between his palms, the pewter warming to his touch.
“I lay out the evidence of my illegitimacy before my solicitor and hope he can figure out how to make it so that I’m not the Duke of Clare. I haven’t any idea what that entails, but the important thing is that I’ve made a number of decisions that I don’t think can be easily undone.”
“I don’t think Rob would want to.”
“Fair. But let’s say the courts decide he isn’t my father’s legitimate son, and instead the title and estate go to some horrible Tory cousin. I’ve tried to set it up so that nothing I did could be easily reversed. You would not believe how cross my solicitors and agents are right now. So much hand-wringing. So many lamentations.”
“Fuck ’em,” Kit said.
“Fuck them indeed,” Percy agreed, and lifted his pint in a toast.
“But that isn’t what I wanted to know. What happens to you on January first? You don’t plan to stay at Clare House, do you?”
“God no. I, well.” Percy traced a finger around the rim of his cup. “I did have something to ask you, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. And mind you, there are other options, naturally.”
“Out with it, Percy.” Kit was braced to hear that Percy had decided to go abroad or to live as a recluse in the country, both of which were probably very reasonable choices.
“Would you mind if I hired the house next door?” Percy asked. “You probably think that given my circumstances, I ought to content myself with a set of rooms, but Collins insists that any sister of mine must be raised as a lady, which evidently means in a proper house, and I’m afraid I’ve put myself in a position where I owe Collins so many favors that I simply must do as he says.”
Kit blinked. “You want to move in next door?”
“As I said, there are other suitable houses, if you think it would be, ah, too much of a good thing to have me next door. It’s a decent house with large rooms and plenty of light.” Percy added quickly, “And I can get it on a long lease. This neighborhood has many advantages, as I’m certain you know; for example, proximity to the prizefights as well as, not to put too fine a point on it, you. But as I said, I can hire a different house with all the above qualities, except that last one, which of course wouldn’t be an advantage at all if you’d prefer me elsewhere—”
“I wouldn’t prefer that,” Kit said. “Not even a little.” He hadn’t quite realized it, but he had been waiting for something like this—a sign that Percy was choosing him, choosing them. Love, while a fine thing, might be little more than an accident. It was what came next that mattered.
“Really?” Percy looked as if he felt as unsure of what to do with this abundance of hope as Kit was himself. “Well, of course you wouldn’t. Who wouldn’t want me as a neighbor? Apart from, you know, quite a number of people, as it turns out, if you’ve been reading the papers.”
Kit slid his hand across the table so his thumb brushed once against the inside of Percy’s wrist.
“Yes, well, it had to be done,” Percy said, even though Kit hadn’t spoken.
Percy looked just as much like the old Duke of Clare as he had the day they’d met, and Kit didn’t think he’d ever fail to note the resemblance or forget the family connection. But now the likeness was proof that Kit himself had changed; it was proof that Kit had relearned how to hope.
Chapter 51
When they got back to the coffeehouse, it was dark and empty. Percy had already slept two nights in a row in Kit’s bed,
and he was debating whether it would be indiscreet to attempt a third, when he was distracted by the sight of a parcel leaning against the wall. It was large and flat and wrapped in brown paper.
“That wasn’t here when we left,” Percy said, eyeing it warily.
“It certainly was not,” Kit confirmed, walking over to examine it. “There’s nothing written on it. No direction or name.”
“Might as well open it,” Percy suggested.
Percy couldn’t have said exactly when he realized what he was looking at. Was it after Kit tore off the first strip of paper and he caught a glimpse of blue paint? Or was it after the second strip was removed and Percy could make out the roofline of Cheveril? In either case, he tore off the remaining paper with his own hands and stared at the life-size portrait of Marian and himself posed before the eastern facade of Cheveril Castle.
The portraitist had caught Percy in half profile, either turning his head toward Marian or away from her, and looking like he was about to laugh. Marian held the baby—who thankfully looked like a human infant rather than a small goblin—close to her chest, and wore an expression that hovered between serene and calculating. As for Cheveril, Percy could only speculate as to who had directed the portraitist to paint in the house in place of the duke.
“There’s a scrap of paper gummed to the back,” Kit said.
Percy moved to the back of the canvas and knelt to read the note. “‘Kiss Eliza for me,’” he read aloud. “What does that mean?” he asked in rising panic. “What can that possibly mean? Does it mean she isn’t coming back?”
Kit took hold of Percy’s shoulders. “It likely means she needs time.”
“Right. Right. That makes sense.”
“Who chose the artist?”
Percy raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t taken Kit as someone who was interested in art or artists. “I did. I visited Signore Bramante’s studio in Venice and liked his work.”
“Why? I mean, the likeness is good, and it’s not a bad-looking painting, but there’ve got to be dozens of artists who can do the same, and who wouldn’t need to be shipped in from Venice.”
Percy cast his mind back to what felt like a lifetime ago but was only earlier that year. “His subjects seemed to like one another.” There were other reasons, ones having to do with light and composition and a certain misplaced optimism about getting into Bramante’s bed. But the truth was that when he’d learned that his father had married Marian, of all people, he had hoped it was a love match. And so he had hired Bramante, as if spending a silly amount of money on a portrait might make it so.
That answer seemed to satisfy Kit, as little as it pleased Percy, though. He nodded. “You look like family. You and Marian and the child.”
Percy, who had more or less kept his cool for the past abominable week, for the past wretched couple of months, felt tears prickle his eyes. “Oh, damn you, Kit Webb. I ought to go,” he said, even as Kit pulled him close. “I have more trouble to make for the solicitors. And you might not be aware of this, but it might raise eyebrows if I broke down and started to sob on your shoulder. Commoners must be discreet.” He knew he was being absurd; the shop was empty, they were safe and alone. But he couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried. It felt rather nice, though, in a self-indulgent and histrionic way, to let himself go a little, and to know that Kit was fond of him just the same.
“There are other things commoners can do, though,” Kit said, pulling back and looking Percy in the eye, and Percy knew he was referring to what Percy had said at Cheveril, about how Percy could be with Kit in a way the Duke of Clare never could.
Percy flushed. “I hope so,” he said.
He had begun to imagine what his life could look like now, and how it might be a life he could share. He imagined two houses close enough that traffic through the alley behind them might not attract notice, whatever the hour. He imagined shared meals, shared time, coffee cups migrating from one building to the other.
He had thought of his changes in circumstance in terms of loss, but what he had gained was precious. “I find that I have nobody to oblige but myself,” Percy said. “Nobody to please but myself. But I want to please you. Of all the choices that I never thought I’d get to make, that’s the one I want the most, Kit. If you’ll have me.”
“I love you, too,” Kit said, and pulled him close.
Epilogue
One month later
One morning in the middle of January, when it was early enough that the winter sun hadn’t quite risen and Kit had only just lit the fire, a knock sounded at the door.
“Some of us can’t tell time,” announced Percy as he entered the shop, looking sleep rumpled and holding a furious baby.
“So I see.” Kit ushered them in toward the hearth. “Are you going to burp that child or not?”
“I beg your pardon. Talbots do not belch.”
“Give her over,” Kit laughed, holding out his arms. “There now,” Kit said, firmly patting the child’s back.
“I tried patting her. I’m not entirely incompetent with— Oh, that’s revolting. Eliza, I’m appalled. We need to discuss standards.”
Kit laughed as the baby gave him an indignant look that closely resembled one of Percy’s. “Have either of you managed any sleep at all?”
“Well, not recently. She seems to be getting a new tooth and is under the impression that it’s my fault.”
“They often are,” Kit said, and saw a stricken look flicker over Percy’s face as he recalled how Kit came by his knowledge of babies. “This one, however, comes from a long line of complainers, so I daresay she came by it honestly.”
The baby was getting to the age where she was a bit too heavy and wriggly to hold with one arm, so Kit sat before the fire and let her chew on the collar of his coat.
“Put that kettle on, will you?” Kit asked, then watched as Percy glanced around, as if not entirely clear what a kettle was or where it was supposed to go. “On the hook over the fire,” he clarified. “Then come here.”
Percy came to sit on the arm of his chair. When Kit tilted his head up and raised his eyebrows, Percy bent down for a kiss. He tasted of tooth powder and smelled of shaving soap, and Kit’s heart thrilled at the normalcy of it.
“You could come for supper,” Percy said softly. “Collins hired a cook, because apparently he’s far too grand to get his food from taverns and chophouses.”
Kit was impressed with how well Collins had maneuvered Percy into living in a way that Percy—and, presumably, Collins—would find acceptable. “The baby will need nourishing food to eat with all these teeth you’re insisting she grow. Collins is staying on, then?”
Percy sniffed. “He’s being quite unreasonable. I told him to go to Marcus, because Marcus doesn’t have a valet, and I tell you, Kit, it shows.”
As Percy spoke, he pulled the leather cord from Kit’s queue and proceeded to plait Kit’s hair at the nape of his neck. “Would you like to know something exceptionally droll?” Percy asked. “I haven’t stopped being invited to things. If anything, I’m getting more invitations than ever, presumably from people with a taste for scandal and disorder. One imagines I’m invited as a spectacle, but I’m invited nonetheless.”
That reminded Kit of something he had been turning over in his mind for the past month. “I wonder,” he said, “if you’d like to help me with a project.”
“Anything,” Percy said.
“I don’t know if Rob got to me or if Betty did or if I’ve just stopped trying to argue with myself. But I loved planning that holdup, Percy. And not just because your father was the target, although that was part of it. God help me, this is probably prideful in a dozen different ways, but I think I can right wrongs. With some information from Scarlett, a proper burglar, a runner, and a fence, I’d have enough to go on. But what I really need is someone to get access to the homes of targets—someone to open a window, leave a door unlocked, draw up the layout of the house.”
“I’d be delig
hted to turn traitor to my class,” Percy said easily. “Honestly, I’ve been wondering when you’d ask.”
Percy knew he had promised Kit supper, but when Kit came over that night, he found Percy sitting on the bare floor of the empty sitting room, surrounded by yards of sky-blue silk and staring at a framed portrait.
“Did you do this?” Percy asked. He knew it was obvious he had been crying, and he didn’t even care.
Kit knelt beside him. “I thought you might like it, but I’ll take it all away if you don’t.”
“How did you manage it?”
“I very politely explained that you required your bed hangings and your mother’s portrait, and the housekeeper wrapped them up immediately.”
Percy laughed wetly. “That’s all it took?”
“I reckon you were expecting a daring heist, but I took a gamble that the servants would either be fond of you or . . . less than fond of your father, and it worked.”
Knowing what Cheveril meant to Kit, Percy could hardly believe that Kit had willingly gone back. He took Kit’s hand and kissed it. He was being maudlin. Soft. And he reveled in the freedom to be that way.
“I don’t have any supper for you,” Percy said. “Because I sent everybody out of the house. Except Eliza, and she’s asleep in her cradle and unlikely to inform on us. And you may visit her later, Kit. Right now you have other matters to attend to.”
“Is that so,” Kit said, already pushing Percy back into the blue silk.
“I’m prizefighting tomorrow,” Percy said while kissing Kit’s jaw. “Want to watch?”
Kit kissed him hard, as if to show him how much he wanted to watch.
It felt unexpectedly intimate to be together in this narrow little house that was Percy’s in a way no place ever had been, a place he had chosen because he had chosen Kit. He felt exposed, as if all the weakest parts of him were visible for Kit to see. But it was also comforting to know that Kit would guard his weaknesses as fiercely as Percy would, rather than exploit them. Percy knew he would do the same for Kit. This was what he wanted—the chance to be known for the worst of what he was and to be held dear anyway, the ability to trust a person as more than an ally.
The Queer Principles of Kit Webb Page 27