It was as if the girl’s words freed Kit from whatever godforsaken spell he was under. He handed her a clean cloth and showed her how to press it between the damp pages to absorb the worst of the spill. The book wasn’t badly damaged after all, and Kit more than suspected that Flora’s tears—and possibly the spill itself—had been engineered for Percy’s benefit. When he looked up, he expected to see Percy and wondered whether the man would have caught on to what was happening. But when he raised his head, Percy was gone.
Chapter 10
With a great deal of effort and the unfortunate necessity of breaking into an unbecoming sweat, Percy managed to get back to Clare House, wash his face, change into drab clothes, and return to Webb’s coffeehouse before it closed for the evening. The serving girl hadn’t been there that afternoon, and Percy wanted to see if her absence changed Webb’s routine at all. Without Betty to walk home, might Mr. Webb actually do something interesting?
Percy knew he was close to getting Webb to agree. He had to be. Percy had seen it in his eyes that afternoon. All he needed was a push, and maybe tonight Percy could get an idea about exactly what might make that happen.
Percy watched from the shadows across the street as Webb stepped outside and locked the door, accompanied by the pretty red-haired woman who had been in the shop earlier that day. Percy hadn’t been paying her any attention at the time, and his memory supplied only a lacy white cap, a demurely cut gown, and a coffee-soaked Bible. A prostitute, no doubt, but the way Webb led her through the streets was how Percy imagined a man might walk with a niece—faintly gallant but no hint of anything sexual.
Gladhand Jack had a reputation for gallantry, in fact. At least two stanzas of that idiotic ballad were devoted to his chivalry, not that Percy had seen any evidence of it in person, unless grumbles were considered particularly charming. But the ladies he robbed returned home safe and sound with tales of how Gladhand Jack allowed them to keep some favorite bauble. The husbands, needless to say, had no such tales to tell, only empty purses and a disrupted journey. Even a highwayman who fancied men—as Webb plainly did—would likely not flirt with the men he robbed, although Percy was quite certain he could while away a pleasant afternoon daydreaming about getting held up by Kit Webb, with those dark eyes and big hands.
Before he could get too carried away, Webb and the girl stopped before a building Percy recognized but had never entered. The place was a famous brothel, easily one of London’s most expensive and exclusive. Webb saw the girl inside, and no sooner had Percy congratulated himself on correctly identifying her as a prostitute than Webb descended the steps, returning in the direction from whence he came and heading straight for Percy.
It was too late to avoid Webb, so Percy ducked his head, relying on the down-turned brim of his hat, his plain attire, and the nearly moonless night to conceal his identity. He thought he had succeeded when Webb seemed prepared to walk right past him. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Webb looped his arm through Percy’s, spinning him so they were walking in the same direction, and led him into a side street with so little fuss that no passersby would have noticed anything amiss. Percy was almost impressed.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve followed me. Who the hell are you?” Webb demanded. The street they stood in was little more than a lane, one of those narrow passageways that seemed to exist only to confuse strangers and to provide natives a series of expedient shortcuts. It was hardly wide enough for a single cart, with the result that it was mostly shadows. It had the air—and odor—of a place seldom frequented by anyone other than feral cats.
“Haven’t we already had this conversation once today?” Percy answered. “Let’s not be tedious, Mr. Webb.”
Webb’s eyes widened, and Percy realized his error. Webb hadn’t recognized Percy as the man from the coffeehouse; he had recognized Percy as the person who had already followed him several times. But now Percy watched as realization dawned in Webb’s eyes. He stared searchingly into Percy’s face, as if looking for traces of the man from the coffeehouse, then dropped his gaze, taking in Percy’s plain and utilitarian attire.
“Which is the disguise?” he asked flatly, and of all the questions in the world, Percy couldn’t have expected that one.
“This is,” Percy answered.
Webb shook his head. “Unless my source is wrong, and she never is, there isn’t any Edward Percy among the quality.” He pronounced the last word with an acid irony that was not lost on Percy. He was, of course, correct: there was no Edward Percy among the quality. There was an Edward Talbot, but when Talbot was stripped away, he’d be left with his mother’s maiden name. Percy shrugged.
“Who is your father?” Webb continued.
This, fortunately, was a much more straightforward matter. “The Duke of Clare.”
Percy had expected Webb to scoff, to express skepticism or to demand proof. He hadn’t expected Webb to go so pale that his colorlessness was obvious even in the scant moonlight. “The Duke of Clare,” he repeated, raking his gaze over Percy’s face again. But now he looked not curious so much as horrified. “What’s your given name?” he asked. “And don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I told you already. It’s Edward, but nobody calls me that because my family is lousy with Edwards. And honestly, everyone calls me Holland anyway—”
Percy might have kept babbling indefinitely if he weren’t silenced by the blow of a fist colliding with his jaw.
Chapter 11
Percy—no, Lord Holland, damn him—spit out a mouthful of blood with astounding delicacy. “I take it you’re not one of my father’s more ardent supporters, then,” he said, voice too steady and too wry for a man who had just been assaulted in a dark alley by a known criminal. “Well, neither am I, come to that. See, we’re going to get along splendidly.”
“Shut up, you,” Kit said, because he couldn’t decide what to do next, and the sound of Holland’s voice and the sight of blood on his split lip was making it impossible for him to hear himself think.
“Or is it that you respect and admire my father so greatly, and were so grievously offended by my plan to rob him, that you simply had to hit me? That must be it,” Holland said, idly tapping one long index finger against his lower lip.
“Shut up,” Kit growled, clenching his bruised knuckles into a fist.
“Why, are you going to hit me again?” Holland asked, not seeming particularly worried about that prospect. “Because if you are, please get on with it. I’m expected at supper in an hour and it’ll take an age to cover what will surely be an impressive bruise. And if you aren’t going to hit me, will you kindly bugger off, as I believe is the custom in these situations? Not, I hasten to add, that I’ve ever been accosted in an alley or anywhere else before this evening, so my intelligence may be lacking. It’s mainly from the theater,” he added confidentially.
“Do you ever shut up?” Kit asked, now fully exasperated.
“I’m afraid not,” Holland said apologetically with a faint smile. He oughtn’t to have been able to smile. Kit hadn’t pulled that punch in the slightest and had aimed right at the sweet spot of Holland’s jaw. His jaw wasn’t nearly as red as it ought to have been, either. Even without powder, his skin was the sort of white that bruised instantly and reddened easily. If his jaw wasn’t as red as a beet, it could only mean that either Kit had aimed badly, which he hadn’t, or Holland had managed to dodge at the last instant, so Kit’s fist only landed a glancing blow.