Percy descended carefully from his carriage, stepping gingerly over one of the more egregious puddles that stood between himself and the door to Webb’s coffeehouse. He could not do what he was about to do with muddy stockings.
He took his time opening the door and stepping through it, giving Webb the opportunity to notice him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Webb turn his head, stiffen momentarily, then bring a hand to his hip. That, Percy assumed, was where Webb kept his dagger, or perhaps a pistol. Whatever it was, Webb didn’t remove it, didn’t even put his hand inside his coat to grip it. Percy supposed that was partly because he wasn’t afraid, and partly because he didn’t want to frighten his patrons. Either way, Percy was counting on that weapon remaining inside Webb’s coat.
Percy went directly to the table where Webb brewed his coffee. “Mr. Webb,” he said, smiling in the way he would before asking someone to dance. “My apologies. I realized after leaving last week that I left vital information out of my proposition.” Before Webb could object, Percy went on, leaning in. “I’m going to tell you a story. There’s a man who is, shall we say . . .”—he drummed his fingers on the table—“a stunning piece of shit. I could enumerate his misdeeds, but you have a business to run and my shoes aren’t meant for standing around in. Suffice it to say, he’s a negligent landowner and in general a brute.”
This was so far from a comprehensive list of his father’s worst misdeeds that it was almost incorrect, the understatement so severe as to verge on dishonesty. But he could hardly explain the whole truth. Webb looked at him, flat and unimpressed. Remembering how Webb saw the serving girl home on dark nights, Percy added as if in afterthought, “He’s also one of the worst husbands a woman could ask for.”
Something shifted in Webb’s expression, a hardening of his jaw and a flintiness that crept into his dark eyes, and Percy suppressed a victorious smile. One corner of Webb’s mouth hitched up in the beginnings of a smile—but not, Percy noticed, the kind smile he shared with the serving girl. “But what kind of father is he, Mr. Percy?” Webb asked, his voice low and scratchy. His voice was, Percy reflected inanely, the verbal equivalent of the stubble on his jaw—rough, careless, inconveniently attractive. Percy was trying to determine which trait he found more distressing, when the full import of Webb’s question struck him. Percy had carefully avoided disclosing his relation to the man he wished to rob and wasn’t sure what he had said that gave it away. Stupidly, he allowed himself to become flustered for a moment, and he knew that one moment of letting his thoughts show on his face was enough to confirm Webb’s suspicions.
“What is it you wish to steal from your father, Mr. Percy?” Webb asked in that same sandpaper voice. “Is your allowance insufficient? Do you have gaming debts? Did you get a girl in trouble?” He spoke as if each of these predicaments was boring, as if anything that might afflict Percy was beneath Webb’s notice. Percy might have been offended if he didn’t entirely agree that those problems were laughable compared to the truth.
Then he remembered that Webb had repeatedly addressed him as Mr. Percy rather than Lord Holland, which meant he didn’t know who Percy was or who his father was. That was a relief. It meant that Webb was nothing more than a good guesser. He allowed a flicker of amusement to pass over his face. “If you think I’m interested in personal gain, Mr. Webb, you’re badly mistaken. In fact, you’re welcome to help yourself to anything of value you find during the robbery,” he said, his voice nothing more than a murmur. Webb would have to strain his ears to hear. “All I want is a book.”
“A highway robbery is the most dangerous, least reliable method you could possibly have come up with if all you want is a book,” Webb said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Hire a housebreaker, Mr. Percy. Hire a burglar and a lockpick. There are many who would jump at the chance. You don’t need a man of my skills.”
“He sleeps in a room guarded by two armed men. The book is always on his person.”
And that, of all the things, was what made something like interest flicker in Webb’s eyes. Percy wanted to crow in victory. Webb opened his mouth and snapped it shut, as if he was dying to know what exactly this book was but didn’t want to ask. Well, Percy wasn’t going to help him out.
“Pity you can’t help,” Percy said. He turned on his heel and walked through the coffeehouse and out the door, feeling Webb’s gaze on him all the while.
Chapter 6
Try as he might, Kit couldn’t stop thinking about Percy. No, not about Percy, he told himself, but about Percy’s proposition. Percy’s target, moreover. A man who needed two guards was interesting in and of himself; a man who had a book he never let go of was even more interesting, especially if Percy valued the book over whatever jewels or gold this man had on him. And Kit would wager that a man who could afford two guards and a son who dressed like the worst kind of popinjay carried around plenty of valuables.
Kit was certain the mark was indeed Percy’s father. The man had seemed caught out, and he had the sort of face that didn’t look like it was in the habit of giving away any secrets. Kit was inclined to trust that fleeting hint of surprise.
“You look lively,” Betty said as they were closing up the shop. “Nice change not to see you sulking about. I don’t think you snapped at a single customer all afternoon.”
“I don’t sulk,” Kit said, depressed by the realization that contemplating a return to crime had put him in a sunny mood. “Christ, I’m an unprincipled bastard.”
“Of course, you are, pet,” said Betty, handing him a clean rag to polish his half of the table. “Famous for it, you are.”
“It wasn’t meant to be a boast and you know it,” he protested, dutifully attempting to scrub off a stain left by a dripping cup of coffee. “It was meant to be a confession.”
“If you want to confess to something, confess to being sad as shit and a thorn in my side. Never in my life have I seen a man carry on the way you are. You’re like a lady in a play, pining.” She clutched the polishing cloth to her chest in a way he gathered was meant to be theatrical.
“I am not pining,” Kit said, torn between outrage and amusement. “My face doesn’t do that.”
“You keep telling yourself that. Lord, do I wish you’d just go and nick somebody’s handkerchief and be done with it. Get it out of your system. Nick a handkerchief, receive stolen goods, clip some coins. I have a lot of ideas, just ask,” she said helpfully.
“You’re a real mate, Betty.”
She gave him a shrewd sideways glance, the one that always made Kit suspect her of mind reading. “Plenty of mischief you can get up to even with a bad leg.”
That fucking leg. Every time he almost got used to it, it found a way to get worse. Every time he thought he figured out how far it would carry him, it decided to give out completely, and Kit would need to hire a bloody chair to get home. It was better to just stay put.
And now his leg was ruining his chance to either take part in a very interesting robbery or prove to himself that he was capable of being decent for once in his life. Because either way, he was going to turn Percy down. He couldn’t stay in his saddle at anything over a trot. Hell, he couldn’t even dismount his horse without falling on his face. He certainly couldn’t hold anyone up, not if he wanted to get away with his life. It would have been nice to have the choice, though.