The Queer Principles of Kit Webb - Cat Sebastian Page 0,2

Gentleman and Lady with Crooked Periwig.”

“Dearest, if you think we’re going to be remembered by posterity for our coiffures, you really haven’t been paying attention. We should be so lucky.”

“Your coiffure,” Percy corrected, although Marian was quite right. “Speak for yourself. My periwig is unexceptionable.”

Percy kept an eye on Marian’s maid, waiting until she appeared bored by the conversation and returned her attention to the hem she was mending. “Your highwayman is crippled,” he murmured. “He uses a cane.”

“Hmm,” Marian hummed. “They don’t mention that in any of the broadsides or ballads.”

“Probably because it’s a new injury, which would also explain his retirement. He can’t possibly be capable of much in the way of robbery with a limp like that. We need someone else.”

“We don’t have anyone else,” she snapped. “It was hard enough to turn up the name and address of one highwayman. For heaven’s sake, Percy. We don’t have that much time. Go back and get another name from him.”

She was right, of course. The first letter had arrived a month ago, relating the bare facts of Percy’s father’s bigamy and demanding five hundred pounds before the first of January. Now they were left with a scant two months to come up with a plan. “Can you get rid of everyone so we can speak privately?” he whispered. “Even if it’s only for a moment?”

Marian gave an imperceptible nod, then shifted in her seat, moving the doll that served as a placeholder for her daughter from one arm to the other.

“Your Grace,” the portraitist said, his heavily accented voice carefully polite. “If you could be still, I beg you. The light, it moves. And, Lord Holland, if you could be so kind as to keep your attention on your infant sister, if you please?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Percy said, playing his role. “First of all, that poppet is—” He broke off with a shudder. Marian had found the godforsaken thing in the attics. What she had been doing in the attics was something Percy strongly preferred not to think about. “I believe repellent is not too strong a word.” The doll’s head was carved from wood and painted with pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a rosebud mouth. Glued to its head were strands of yellow silk embroidery thread, which made Percy think that the ghastly thing had been made to resemble a Talbot for the amusement of some long-dead aunt. But between the combined efforts of damp, time, and quite possibly rats, it was more suited to ritual witchcraft than belonging in a civilized nursery. “The poor thing has either leprosy or an advanced case of the pox.”

“Don’t listen to him, my darling,” Marian cooed, covering the doll’s moldering ears and pressing a loud kiss to its decayed forehead. Percy wanted to gag.

“Secondly,” Percy went on, “if I fix my gaze on the doll, it’ll look like I’m staring at the duchess’s bosom.” Marian’s gown revealed an expanse of décolletage the approximate dimensions of a cricket pitch. “And while I daresay it’s a pleasant enough bosom,” Percy went on, “as far as those things go, I’m afraid I’d rather not be accused of leering at my stepmother.”

“You’ve given me the most brilliant idea,” Marian said in a tone of voice Percy knew from long experience meant nothing but trouble. She tugged down the bodice of her gown and determinedly applied the doll’s head to her exposed breast.

“Why?” Percy cried, flinging a hand over his eyes. “Put it away!”

“I feel certain this is what the duke would want,” Marian announced.

“Nobody wants this!” Percy protested.

“Like the holy mother,” Marian said grandly. “I’m even wearing blue. Who would you like to be, Percy? I believe Saint Elizabeth is the traditional choice, but a young John the Baptist would be a bold alternative.”

“You do have a point,” Percy observed. “I’ve seen paintings of the Madonna and child in which our savior is even uglier than that poppet.”

“That’s Lady Eliza to you,” Marian said, holding the wretched doll up as if for Percy to make its acquaintance.

“I feel certain this is blasphemous,” Percy remarked. “Poor Signore Bramante wasn’t expecting to have his principles compromised this afternoon,” he said, indicating the artist.

“I do beg your pardon,” Marian said, addressing the painter, who, Percy noted, had put down his brush and adopted an expression of mortified suffering, which he directed toward the ceiling, resolutely avoiding Marian’s bosom. “Perhaps we ought to rest now and resume in an hour’s time. Jane, will you fetch some hairpins