The Queer Principles of Kit Webb - Cat Sebastian Page 0,21

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.

He grabbed Holland’s jaw and tilted it to the side so he could see the bruise. “You have good reflexes,” he said.

“Why, thank you,” Holland said graciously. “The theater really didn’t prepare me for this in the least. I shall write a letter about the slanderous treatment of footpads and miscreants in modern drama.”

“Are you able to get home safely?”

“Am I— Yes, you lackwit, I can get home safely. You really are gallant. I wonder how much of the rest of that ballad is accurate.”

That jolted Kit back to his senses. “Then get the hell out of here.”

“Or what? You’ll give me another extremely mild bruise?” But Holland was already at the mouth of the alley. “Have a lovely evening. I’ll call on you later this week!” he shouted before disappearing around the corner.

Kit leaned back against the damp stone of the nearest wall. The Duke of fucking Clare. It was that name, that man, and every man like him, who had led Kit to become what he had been. Rage at Clare had fueled a decade of retribution against his entire class. But Kit had never been able to lay hands on Clare himself. His outriders were too well armed, his journeys too unpredictable, and his path usually limited to well-traveled roads. More than once, Kit had thought Clare lived like a man in constant expectation of being attacked. And well might he be, if he made a practice of treating people as cruelly and needlessly as he had treated—

But Kit could get him now. After nearly ten years, he could have his revenge. He’d have not only revenge, but the satisfaction of knowing