The Queer Principles of Kit Webb - Cat Sebastian Page 0,10

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.

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