better of it. “Either it’s pulled back in a queue or it’s hidden by your wig.”
“I threw my wig in the river. At least I think it was the river. I got lost on the way here. And of course you haven’t seen my hair loose. What am I, a barbarian?”
“You’re definitely not a barbarian,” Kit said, not bothering to suppress a smile.
“Don’t ask me to spar with Betty.”
“Drink some of that coffee. The other reason I wanted you to start with Betty is that I’m not sure I can spar with my leg as it is.”
“I could see it threw your balance off,” Holland said, surprising Kit. “In any event, I’d rather get hurt than hurt anyone else.” He primly wiped biscuit crumbs from his mouth with a handkerchief.
“Would you, now.”
“Part of it is strategy,” Holland said. “If a decent man hurts you, he feels in your debt. If a cruel man hurts you, he thinks he’s your superior, which makes him underestimate you.” He spoke as if reciting a lesson learned by heart.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“You wouldn’t have. You’re honest. Honesty is incompatible with strategy.” Again, his words had the cadence of a schoolroom lesson.
“Honest?” Kit laughed. “Did you forget who I am and what I did?”
“Certainly not. There’s nothing dishonest about taking things that don’t belong to you. You told me so yourself. It may be wrong, and it may be cruel, but it isn’t necessarily dishonest. Someone who sneaks into your house may be dishonest. But you took things in broad daylight while telling people precisely what you were about to do.”
Kit felt there was something fundamentally flawed about this analysis but couldn’t quite figure out what. “Are you sobering up or do you talk like that even when you’re drunk?”
“Oh, I talk like this all the time, can’t help it,” Holland said, gesturing expansively with his coffee cup but somehow not spilling a drop. His gaze dropped to Kit’s bare chest, as it had several times already, not with the exaggerated leer he had deployed on previous occasions, which seemed designed to embarrass Kit more than anything else, but with a sort of interest that seemed accidental and unstudied, and which embarrassed Kit all the more. “I do talk too much, as you’ve pointed out, Mr. Webb.”
“I never said you talk too much,” Kit said, taking another biscuit out of the jar and offering it to Holland. “Just that you do talk a lot.” He watched Holland chew the biscuit, a crumb clinging above his lip where he usually affixed his beauty patch. Kit had to force himself to look away. “Everybody calls me Kit.”
“Is that your way of telling me to do the same? Are we to use given names? How very cozy of us. Then you ought to call me Percy.” He yawned, covering his mouth in a gesture that managed to be graceful despite his drunkenness. “People are so tiresome about names. Mine keeps changing.” He yawned, delicately covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s boring.”
“You’re about to fall asleep. I don’t know how I’m going to get you home.”
“I can walk,” Holland—Percy—said, rising unsteadily to his feet.
“Like hell you can. You’ll walk straight into the Thames.”
“Pfft,” Percy scoffed. He tried to step toward the door but tripped over the leg of his chair. Kit was by his side in a single stride and caught the man before he hit the floor.
“Oops,” Percy said, making a half-hearted effort to right himself but instead leaning on Kit. His forehead rested on Kit’s shoulder. Kit could feel Percy’s ribs under the linen of his shirt, could feel his heartbeat against Kit’s chest.
“Tell me again how you’re going to walk home.” Kit was surprised by how soft his own voice had become, but Percy’s ear was right there, inches from Kit’s mouth, so it was only natural to speak quietly. But still, the gentleness of his tone and the closeness of their bodies did something to make their nearness feel intimate rather than incidental. When Percy mumbled “slowly” into Kit’s shoulder, and Kit could feel his lips move, it sent a shiver through Kit’s body.
“All right,” Kit said briskly, setting Percy back in his chair. “You’ll spend the night here.”
“Oh really,” Percy said with a leer.
Kit snorted. “Can I trust you not to set yourself on fire or wander into the streets?”
“You can’t trust me at all,” Percy said, but he rested his head on the table beside him, cushioned on his