“That’s a pity,” Percy said lightly. “If you remember anything about it, please do tell me. Meanwhile, I’ve brought a bank draft for you to use as you see fit in the tending of your flock.” He took the paper from his pocket and left it casually on the chimneypiece, and hoped that his cousin would correctly interpret that as a promise to pay for future information.
When he returned to Clare House, Percy found his valet waiting in his apartments.
“If you’ll forgive my forwardness, my lord,” Collins said as he helped Percy out of his coat, “but my lord is satisfied with my service, I hope.”
Startled, Percy regarded his manservant in the looking glass. “Of course I am. We’ve been to Italy and back. You got me through that beastly sickness in the Alps. When you do something daft, like try to get me to wear crimson, I tell you so.”
“That is a relief, my lord.”
“What prompted this crisis of confidence?”
“The duke has dismissed Mr. Denny.”
“He’s done what?” Percy asked, astonished. Denny had been the duke’s manservant since before Percy was born.
“Indeed, my lord. Mr. Denny’s replacements are two large and scruffy ruffians, neither of whom seems capable of brushing a coat or dressing a periwig. They take turns sleeping in the duke’s antechamber.”
“Ah.” Percy wondered if Collins knew he was describing guards. “And where is Denny?” If the duke’s former manservant had been sacked and cast out without a farthing, Percy could possibly employ him to help access his father’s inner chamber.
“He mentioned to the underhousemaid that he planned to open a public house in Tavistock, where his people are from.”
Percy raised an eyebrow. That didn’t sound like the man was dismissed so much as paid off. He wondered if Marian’s brother could be persuaded to make a trip into Devon to have a chat with the fellow.
“Thank you,” Percy said to his valet. “You are, as ever, invaluable.” He wanted to say more, wanted to assure Collins that whatever was happening in the rest of the household, Percy would see that Collins was treated fairly. But he did not, first because he knew he was in no position to make promises, and second because he knew better than to be effusive in his praise or excessive in his reassurances—both were sure signs of a desperate man, according to the duchess, and the duchess had seldom been wrong about these things.
Chapter 5
Percy was surprised to find that he was an adequate spy. After twenty-odd years of assuming that attention and notice were his due, it was rather humbling to see how quickly he became invisible. Without all the usual accoutrements of fashion—wig, powder, patch, rouge, and so forth—and wearing a forgettable brown coat and a similarly forlorn pair of breeches Collins grudgingly acquired at the secondhand stalls, he was able to spy on Webb unnoticed. For a week, he sat at the central table of the coffeehouse, sometimes armed with a newspaper but always keeping a keen eye on the proprietor. Nobody cast him a second glance, not even Webb, who had hardly been able to take his eyes off Percy when he had been dressed to attract attention.
After a week, Percy realized that he had badly missed his mark by offering Webb money. While Percy was certain that everybody had his price, Webb’s price would not be strictly monetary. He was plainly living within his means. He kept the premises in good repair, let the girl—Betty—keep any tips the patrons left, and often swept and polished the tables and fittings himself. When a drunken street brawl became a regular melee and a broom handle got put through one of Webb’s windows, Webb had the glazier repair the broken pane that very day and paid him on the spot without even attempting to haggle over the cost.
While Webb’s upstairs office was furnished in a spare, almost spartan, manner, Percy had noticed a wax candle burning in the simple pewter candlestick, not cheap and smelly tallow or a humble rushlight. Percy didn’t know much about poverty, but he knew what it looked like when a man wasn’t in the least bit worried about where his next meal was coming from—mainly because he could compare what he and Marian had looked like before their present crisis with what they looked like now. Perhaps Webb had just been that good at his former trade and now had ample savings.
If Webb couldn’t be enticed with money, then Percy would have to find another way to persuade him to join in his scheme. He watched Webb, looking for a weakness he could exploit. A weakness, according to his mother, was anything at all that Percy could use to his advantage. He’d find Webb’s weakness; it was only a matter of time. Meanwhile, it was no hardship watching the man.
Webb was tall, possibly even taller than Percy. He filled out his ill-tailored breeches admirably and, even while using his cane, carried his weight with the ease of a man who had always been strong. His hair was the same dark brown as the coffee he brewed, falling past his shoulders in heavy waves. He made some minimal attempt to keep it confined to a respectable queue, but whenever Percy saw him, some strands around his face had broken free. He seldom smiled at anyone other than the serving girl, but when he did, he exposed a chipped incisor, and Percy’s heart flipped around in his chest for no good reason at all.
But Webb had lines around his eyes that hinted at some old, forgotten readiness to smile. He also had other lines, the kind that never came from laughing.
Percy watched to see who Webb paid attention to. He didn’t look twice at any of the handful of women who ventured into his coffeehouse, but he didn’t look at men, either. The only person he seemed to care about was Betty, and he treated her like a daughter. In fact, Percy had thought she might actually be his daughter, but Webb couldn’t yet be thirty and the girl had to be nearly twenty.
After a week of close observation, Percy concluded that Kit Webb was grouchy, sullen, and palpably bored, and no wonder. Percy was bored just watching him, and nobody would accuse Percy of having a taste for adventure. Webb had to be chafing at the bit for some excitement. Percy had seen the man’s expression when he gripped his dagger the other evening. He had seemed almost relieved, as if he had been waiting for an excuse to wield the thing, as if a spot of violence would be a welcome reprieve.
His entire life was a picture of almost soporific boredom, and if Marian’s informant hadn’t been certain, Percy wouldn’t have believed that this man had ever done anything as thrilling as go for a walk without an umbrella, let alone engage in any criminal activity. It seemed unfathomable that he was a highwayman of such famous charm and bravado that a ballad, multiple handbills, and no small number of engravings paid tribute to his feats of daring and his cunning escapes from the law.
Percy could use that; he knew he could. Webb would want to join in their scheme if only Percy could come up with a pretext that would allow him to gracefully agree. Percy had to give him a reason why saying yes would be easier than saying no.
In preparation for their second meeting, Percy dressed in much the same way he had for their first: coat and breeches of duck-egg blue, waistcoat just a few shades darker, stockings a few shades lighter with clocks the same hue as his waistcoat. He wore a freshly curled wig that was powdered to the requisite shade of alabaster, generously powdered his face, applied a velvet birthmark over the corner of his mouth, and then added just enough rouge to make it clear that he was wearing it. If his valet noticed that Percy’s toilette was as elaborate as it would be for a dinner party whose guests included members of the royal family, he did not mention it.