The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

“Your hair is crooked again,” Percy said. “It keeps listing to the side.” Marian had evidently decided that sitting for a portrait required about two pounds of wig powder, not to mention a profusion of feathers; the coiffure probably couldn’t remain upright without the aid of flying buttresses, but Marian could at least put forth some effort. Percy had, at great expense and personal inconvenience, imported this artist from Venice as a wedding present for Marian and, he supposed, his father. The duke, making his move in the game of chess he and Percy had been playing for years, had that morning declared himself to be too busy to sit for a portrait. Percy decided that he would sit for the portrait alongside Marian. The duke would be painted in later, likely wearing something that clashed grossly with Percy and Marian, spoiling the entire portrait. Perhaps Percy could spirit the canvas away before his father was added in. How very quickly one could go from being a law-abiding citizen, the scion of a noble family, to consorting with highwaymen and then contemplating stealing one’s own portrait. There was a lesson in there, he supposed, but he preferred not to think about it. Instead, he allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation for having insisted on the sky-blue satin; it flattered Marian’s complexion while complementing the slightly darker blue of his own coat. The effect was pleasantly harmonious, without making Percy look like a lapdog tied with a ribbon to match his...

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 s...

All sorts of people came to Kit’s. That was the point of the place, the point of coffeehouses in general. Ink-stained Grub Street hacks could get out of their cramped hired rooms, shopkeepers could pretend to be intellectuals, and well-shod gentlemen could get their hands dirty—but not too dirty. What Kit sold was the fiction of democracy, accompanied by the aroma of coffee and tobacco and the company of a pretty serving girl. An afternoon in a coffeehouse was a chance for everyone to pretend the rules were less important than conversation. It was Twelfth Night, it was Carnival, but it took place in broad daylight, with everybody involved dead sober and wide-awake, with newspapers and hot drinks to lend everything the faint sheen of respectability. Still, they didn’t get too many gentlemen like the one Kit noticed in the corner. He was wigged and powdered, a birthmark too dark to be real affixed above one lip. Even from across the room, Kit could tell that the man’s coat—wool of a violet so dark it was nearly blue, adorned with gold braid and brass buttons—must have cost a small fortune. The buttons alone would be worth nicking, as would the expanse of lace that spilled over the man’s wrists. He had one leg crossed over the other, revealing, beneath the hem of his violet knee breeches, thin stockings of the palest lavender, embellished with a pattern of white flowers that crept up the side of his calf. On his feet he wore shiny black shoes with silver buckles and a small b...

Kit left Betty to manage the shop and stomped upstairs to punish himself by balancing the books. He always left the door to his office not only unlocked but open. Across the landing, the door to his bedchamber was fastened by a heavy bolt, but he wanted Betty to be able to reach him—and his dagger, his pistol, and the rest of the modest arsenal he kept about his person—with a single shout. He also wanted to be able to hear the hum of voices from down below. He wanted to hear the clatter of cups, the sound of chair legs scraping across the wood floor, all almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of the street outside his window. Anything was better than silence. And in through that unlocked door walked the powdered, beribboned gentleman. Kit didn’t say anything, nor did he get to his feet. It would be not only useless, but an admission that he didn’t have the upper hand, if he asked what this man thought he was doing. Instead, he calmly rested his dagger on the table before him, his hand relaxed on the hilt. For some reason, the sight of this made the stranger break into a broad, slow smile, revealing a row of small white teeth that transformed what might have been a pleasant face into something altogether vulpine. “Oh, marvelous,” the stranger said. “Really, well done. You are Kit Webb, are you not? Short for Christopher, middle name Richard, alias Gladhand Jack?” He pulled a chair out from the wall and brought it to face Kit’s desk, and then he sat, one leg delicately c...

vulpine /ˈvəlˌpīn/ I. adjective 1. of or relating to a fox or foxes. 2. crafty; cunning • Karl gave a vulpine smile. – origin early 17th cent.: from Latin vulpinus, from vulpes ‘fox.’ Vulpini is a tribe which represents the fox-like taxon of the subfamily Caninae (the canines), and is sister to the dog-like tribe Canini.[2] It comprises the 15 extant and 21 extinct species found on all continents.

Percy certainly hadn’t anticipated using his questionable powers of seduction to persuade the man, but if he could get that book from his father and also get into that highwayman’s breeches, he’d consider it time well spent. Not only did Webb have that jawline and those shoulders, but he spoke with a pleasantly rough growl of a voice. He would probably be as boring in bed as he was out of it, but when a man looked like that, one could lower one’s standards.

Percy had known from his earliest days that his parents were engaged in a protracted domestic war that seemed to have originated some time before their marriage, and over a cause no more complicated than their long-standing hatred for one another. Percy often only learned of the individual skirmishes long after the fact, and from overheard whispers among servants; this was how he learned the duke locked the duchess in her rooms after the duchess caused the duke’s morning chocolate to be laced with what was either an emetic or arsenic, depending on who one believed. It was also how he learned the duke had his mistress housed in the east wing of Cheveril Castle, and also that the duchess, either in retaliation or in provocation, had sold a coronet and used the proceeds to build a Roman Catholic chapel on the grounds of that same estate. During these years of civil war, Percy was well aware that his parents were equally matched adversaries, and that the only people who imagined the duchess to be an innocent victim were the same people who could not imagine a woman as conniving as his mother even existing.

When he returned to Clare House, Percy found his valet waiting in his apartments. “If you’ll forgive my forwardness, my lord,” Collins said as he helped Percy out of his coat, “but my lord is satisfied with my service, I hope.” Startled, Percy regarded his manservant in the looking glass. “Of course I am. We’ve been to Italy and back. You got me through that beastly sickness in the Alps. When you do something daft, like try to get me to wear crimson, I tell you so.” “That is a relief, my lord.” “What prompted this crisis of confidence?” “The duke has dismissed Mr. Denny.” “He’s done what?” Percy asked, astonished. Denny had been the duke’s manservant since before Percy was born. “Indeed, my lord. Mr. Denny’s replacements are two large and scruffy ruffians, neither of whom seems capable of brushing a coat or dressing a periwig. They take turns sleeping in the duke’s antechamber.” “Ah.” Percy wondered if Collins knew he was describing guards. “And where is Denny?” If the duke’s former manservant had been sacked and cast out without a farthing, Percy could possibly employ him to help access his father’s inner chamber. “He mentioned to the underhousemaid that he planned to open a public house in Tavistock, where his people are from.” Percy raised an eyebrow. That didn’t sound like the man was dismissed so much as paid off. He wondered if Marian’s brother could be persuaded to make a trip into Devon to have a chat with the fellow. “Thank you,” Percy said to his valet. “You are,...

“Only you, Betty, would see a man trying to do his best for once in his life and think there had to be some twisted explanation for it.” “Only you, Christopher, would have his head so far up his arse to think that this”—she gestured around the shop with the rag—“was the first time you did your best.”

He took extra care with his toilette. It was a bleak and dismal day, so he chose yellow. It was not, he would concede, his best color, but one of the many advantages of beauty was that he could wear the ugliest conceivable color and still look better than almost everybody.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve followed me. Who the hell are you?” Webb demanded. The street they stood in was little more than a lane, one of those narrow passageways that seemed to exist only to confuse strangers and to provide natives a series of expedient shortcuts. It was hardly wide enough for a single cart, with the result that it was mostly shadows. It had the air—and odor—of a place seldom frequented by anyone other than feral cats. “Haven’t we already had this conversation once today?” Percy answered. “Let’s not be tedious, Mr. Webb.” Webb’s eyes widened, and Percy realized his error. Webb hadn’t recognized Percy as the man from the coffeehouse; he had recognized Percy as the person who had already followed him several times. But now Percy watched as realization dawned in Webb’s eyes. He stared searchingly into Percy’s face, as if looking for traces of the man from the coffeehouse, then dropped his gaze, taking in Percy’s plain and utilitarian attire. “Which is the disguise?” he asked flatly, and of all the questions in the world, Percy couldn’t have expected that one. “This is,” Percy answered. Webb shook his head. “Unless my source is wrong, and she never is, there isn’t any Edward Percy among the quality.” He pronounced the last word with an acid irony that was not lost on Percy. He was, of course, correct: there was no Edward Percy among the quality. There was an Edward Talbot, but when Talbot was stripped away, he’d be left with his mother’s maiden name. ...

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...

Kit had seen the Duke of Clare only once, when he had sentenced Jenny. At the time, Kit had thought he had the man’s appearance seared into his memory, but now he could hardly conjure up a picture of the man. When Holland had said who his father was, though, Kit had seen traces of the duke on his son’s face. They had the same cold eyes, the same aquiline nose, the same air of a man used to moving through a world without obstacles. Unchecked power gave a man a certain look; it set him apart from normal people. Something terrible was unleashed when a person knew that not only could he tear down homes, take away a family’s livelihood, and send people to the far corners of the earth, but he would be praised for it. There were rich men who didn’t use their money and power as cudgels, but they still always knew that they had a cudgel ready at hand. They got so used to it, they probably thought they were doing a grand thing by not wielding it. And Kit hated them all for it. People might say that what he really hated was the system that put too much power in too few hands. But Kit knew he also hated the men. That hatred had been the engine of his life for the better part of a decade, and at the center of it was the Duke of Clare.

The duke was suspicious of all men Marian spoke to, even his own son, despite the fact that Percy had never in his life done anything to make anyone think he might be interested in going to bed with a woman. Indeed, during his teenage years, he had been something less than discreet, relying on his name and position to get him out of any trouble he might find himself in. There had been a few boys at school, then the village blacksmith and one of the grooms. And also one of Marian’s grooms. And also Marian’s brother. “How is Marcus these days?” Percy asked. She shot him an exasperated look. “Yes, I tiptoed along a ledge for twenty yards to gossip about Marcus. He’s still in France, trying to find Louise Thierry, or whatever that scribble in the parish register was meant to spell. More to the point, he’s trying to find out if she has a son.” Marian pressed her lips together. “We need to know who will be the next Duke of Clare.”

“Now are you going to tell me who hurt you?” “It was your highwayman.” “Ah. I take it he won’t be lending us a helpful hand, then?” “Oh, he’ll be lending us a hand. I guarantee it. Marian, who is he? He did not react well to the sound of my father’s name.” Percy gestured at his bruise. “I imagine the country, if not the entire hemisphere, is filled with people who become consumed with a murderous rage when they hear of the Duke of Clare.” “True,” he said. But Marian’s response hadn’t really been an answer to the question he had asked. “Does this man have a special reason to hate the duke?” “You should ask him,” she said lightly. That still wasn’t a proper answer. He knew Marian well enough to understand he’d never get any information from her she didn’t choose to divulge, so he let the topic drop. Still, he had the uncomfortable sense that she was playing a deeper game than he was, and was playing for stakes he didn’t yet understand. “Who told you about him? When I left England, you certainly didn’t have any connections to London’s criminal demimonde.” Her jaw tightened. “A lot happened after you left.” She shook her head briskly, her eyes sparkling with what he at first thought were tears but then recognized as anger. Then she got to her feet, the bloody piece of meat in her hand. “What are you doing with that thing?” he asked. “I have an idea,” she said. Before he could ask what she meant, she stepped out the window. He held his breath as she descended the trellis instea...

“You’re an idiot,” Betty said the next morning when Kit stumbled downstairs, his clothes rumpled and his face unshaven. “I can smell the gin on you from across the room. I hope your head hurts.” It did, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of his saying so. “Remember the man in the brightly colored coats?” he asked, the sound of his voice ricocheting off the insides of his skull like seeds in a dried-out gourd. “The one who stares at you all day?” She dragged a chair across the floor to the table where it belonged with more clatter than could possibly be necessary. “He’s the Duke of Clare’s son.” She raised her eyebrows. “Well, bugger me.” “Hence, the gin.” “Fair,” she said, her expression softening marginally. For a moment he thought she was going to hug him or attempt to say something soothing, and he braced himself, but she recovered her senses and resumed rearranging the chairs. “He wants to hire me to rob his father. I’m going to agree.” She stared at him for a long moment, her lips pressed together into a tight line. “You really are a fucking idiot,” she finally said. “Go get yourself cleaned up and don’t show your face until you’ve eaten something.” Kit rinsed off at the pump, then carried an ewer of water upstairs to wash more thoroughly. He thought about shaving, even going so far as to pick up his razor and look meaningfully at it, before remembering that Betty wasn’t the boss of him or his incipient beard, and decided to leave well enough alone. He b...

“Don’t lie,” Betty said. “You’re so bad at it, I feel embarrassed for you.”

When Kit woke, stiff necked and muddle headed, in the hard chair by the fire and noticed that Percy had gone, his first thought was disappointment, followed quickly by horror that he regretted the man’s absence. He ought to be pleased that Percy was out of his hands, back where he belonged. He ought to hope that Percy never showed his face again. Instead, Kit had to admit that he had . . . not minded Percy’s presence the previous night. He had even enjoyed it, enjoyed the man’s drunken chatter as much as he enjoyed his sober chatter. He had found it surprisingly satisfying to put Percy to bed, to know he was keeping Percy safe. It had been a long time since Kit had taken care of anyone, since anybody had needed him, and he found that he missed it. He didn’t think of himself as a particularly nurturing person; God knew taking care of Hannah hadn’t come naturally, and look how badly that had turned out. After Jenny had been taken away, Kit hadn’t been fit to look after a cat, let alone his sickly, motherless daughter. Looking after the adult heir to a dukedom after a night of drunkenness was hardly the same thing, even though it prodded that same old place in Kit’s heart. Kit’s heart, frankly, needed to sod off. When Betty warned him against letting his feelings get tangled up in this job, she had been talking about anger, resentment, and vengeance. She teased him about being weak for a pretty face, but neither of them really thought that he’d care about the fucker. And Kit ...

Kit’s only question was whether she was surprised to learn Percy’s identity, or whether she was surprised that Kit knew. “Of course,” she said. “They all do call him Percy. I ought to have made the connection. And—good God—he’s the one who wants to hire you to rob someone. He knows who you are. This is all most unfortunate.” “Do you know him?” Kit asked, trying not to betray his eagerness to know the answer. He needn’t have bothered, because she didn’t so much as look at him. “He’s never been here,” she said. Kit almost laughed. “I gathered that he wasn’t likely to be among your customers.” Now she looked at Kit shrewdly. “Did you, now?” He swallowed. “He hardly makes a secret of it.”

then his hand was on Percy’s jaw. “It’s just that sometimes, you actually make sense. A man’s allowed to be shocked.” The words came out stupidly tender, an impression that was probably only compounded by the thing his thumb was doing to Percy’s cheekbone. He was afraid it was a caress, that he was actually caressing Lord Holland. Lord Holland who had made an argument for the virtues of crime, Lord Holland who was Percy, who maybe thought Kit wasn’t so bad— He wasn’t sure which of them moved first to close the gap, but that was a lie because it was definitely Kit, it was definitely, lamentably Kit who put his hand to the back of Percy’s head and held it there very carefully when he leaned closer. He moved slowly, carefully, as if giving Percy a chance to think twice. His hand slid into Percy’s hair at the same moment their lips met. It felt familiar—not the brush of lips over lips, not the fact that he thought Percy might actually be smiling—but everything else. The way their bodies fit together. The sound of Percy’s breathing. The way he smelled like lemons and soap. The sure grasp of his hand at Kit’s hip. All the fighting had made them familiar with one another’s bodies, and God knew they were used to wanting one another, so the only thing that was different was the actual fact of their mouths touching, the pure sensation of it. And Percy was smiling, damn him. Kit could feel it with his own lips. It was probably that smug little smile that Kit really shouldn’t like hal...

Percy watched Kit frown at the door to the coffeehouse. “What’s the matter?” Percy asked. “It’s not locked. I thought Betty would have locked up and gone home, but I guess she waited for me.” Percy wanted to say that of course Betty waited for Kit. Betty and Kit worried about one another to an extent that was frankly comical. They were both notorious criminals and accomplished fighters, and yet they each acted like the other was as helpless as a kitten. Kit opened the door and called out. “Betty!” There wasn’t any answer. Percy saw that the candles and lamps were all extinguished and the fire in the hearth was safely banked. “Maybe she left it open for whoever is staying upstairs this week,” Percy suggested. There always seemed to be somebody occupying the garret, and Percy would have bet his new leather breeches that Kit had never once asked for rent. “No lodgers this week,” Kit said, and Percy could just tell that he was about to get very boring about checking to see whether imaginary housebreakers were hidden in every corner, so instead he took hold of Kit’s coat and pushed him against the wall. “Shut up,” Percy said, and then kissed him before he could argue. Kit Webb kissed in a way that was positively unfair. It was an injustice. It was sweet and tentative and totally at odds with the bad grooming and the criminal past. He kissed Percy as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed, as if he were worried about being woken from a dream. Percy preferred to keep his lovers at a sa...

The fact that the back room had nothing approaching a proper mattress, let alone a bed, would ordinarily have been a serious objection, but at the moment Percy could only groan his approval. “God, I want you,” Kit said, his gaze raking hungrily up and down Percy’s body. “Can’t stop thinking about it.” Percy all but dragged Kit into the back room and kicked the door shut behind them. He was nervy and exhilarated from the prizefight, from his victory, and from the knowledge that Kit had been watching him. “How do you want me?” Percy asked. His erection was straining painfully against the unforgiving leather of his breeches. He palmed himself in a futile effort at readjustment and heard Kit hiss. “Take it out,” Kit said. With fingers that felt clumsy and frantic, Percy managed to undo his laces and comply. He had just enough presence of mind to be mortified by his reaction to Kit’s hand closing around him—a strangled sob. Until that point, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted this, how long he had been craving Kit’s touch. He thrust helplessly into Kit’s fist, his face buried in the warm skin of Kit’s neck, lips moving over stubbled skin, breathing in the scent of him. With one hand he began unfastening Kit’s buckskins, finally shoving them down. He almost sobbed again when his fingers reached Kit’s cock, thick and hot in his hand. It would be best not to rush. He wanted to take off Kit’s clothes item by item and touch every patch of skin that he exposed. He had been thinkin...

Kit thrust back, groaning and swearing. “Wait,” he said, and turned around so his back was to Percy, his hands braced on the wall. “Fuck me,” he said, his voice raspy and ragged. “Please.” It was the please that did Percy in. He very much had his heart and other parts set on getting fucked this evening, but who was he to deny a politely phrased request, especially one delivered by a gorgeous man with his breeches around his thighs. “You certain?” Percy asked, thinking of Kit’s leg. “Christ. Please. Can’t stop thinking about it,” Kit said, sounding desperate. “Oil’s in the cupboard by the door.” Percy threw open the cupboard, uncorking the bottle with an overheated hand. He returned to Kit, crowding him against the wall. He let his cock slide against Kit’s arse as he kissed Kit’s neck. He was rapidly becoming obsessed with Kit’s neck. “Like this?” Percy asked. “If you don’t stop asking questions and fuck me, I’m never speaking to you again,” Kit said, pressing back against Percy. “All right,” Percy laughed. “Calm down.” He poured some oil onto his palm and slicked up his fingers. Once again kissing Kit’s throat, he slid his fingers along the crease of Kit’s arse, lingering over h...

Percy tried to remember the last time he had been someone’s first in this way, and thought it was probably when he was still at school. In all likelihood, he had been careless and ignorant, and he didn’t want to be that way with Kit. He wanted to take care, wanted to make this good, wanted to make it something Kit would feel good about when he remembered it. He whispered praise and gentle instruction into Kit’s neck and only after a while did he realize he was speaking in the way Kit had during their fighting lessons. “You sure you don’t want to get on the floor?” Percy asked when he had another finger inside Kit. “Can’t,” Kit breathed. “My leg. Oh fuck. Please, Percy, just do it.” Percy slicked himself up and tugged Kit’s hips back to make him bend at the waist a little. Then he pressed the head of his cock against Kit’s entrance. Kit went tense—of course he did, Percy had been expecting that—but then visibly forced himself to relax. Percy moved slowly, slower than he had ever done anything in his life. And he kept talking, coaxing and soothing Kit through it. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew Kit was going to laugh at him later for not being able to shut his mouth. He t...

They were too close and too badly angled for anything more than grinding together, Percy sliding his length over the spot that made Kit’s swearing take on a desperate edge. It was all too much for a backroom fuck, for a quick stand up against the wall. It was too much for who they were to one another. And throughout it all Percy couldn’t stop talking, could not stop saying things that were lamentably true and just as ill-advised. He ought to be concentrating on making this better for Kit instead of nattering on about how beautiful Kit was, how lovely Kit was being for him. A voice inside Percy’s head told him to stop being like this—weak, needy, desperate—but at the same time he saw the way Kit was responding to all of that, and thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad. He extricated one of his hands and brought it to Kit’s cock. Kit gasped at the contact, clenching around Percy’s length in a way that made Percy almost sob. A few strokes later and Kit was coming, Percy’s name a strangled sigh, his body hot and grasping around Percy’s. Percy pulled out and came into his own fist, his climax so hard it nearly knocked him off his feet. He collapsed against Kit and could have stayed ther...

“Ugh, I don’t know why I like you,” Percy said, and then immediately regretted it. And then immediately after that, he allowed himself to briefly wonder why it was a bad thing to admit. In addition to the past half hour—which admittedly could be explained by a host of other things besides anything so tender as liking—there had been weeks of laughter and conversation. Admitting it shouldn’t even be significant. Happily, he was spared further reflection on this boring and fruitless topic by Kit’s mouth sliding over his own. It was different from their earlier kisses, slower and less urgent. Lazy, even. One of Kit’s hands sifted through Percy’s hair and Percy arched into the touch. Right when Percy was starting to wonder if this might be the time to take off the rest of the clothing that they both still, unaccountably, wore, Kit went still. At first, Percy didn’t realize what had happened. He thought, perhaps, that Kit had hurt his leg. Then Kit climbed to his feet, shoving Percy behind him. He took out the knife he kept on his belt and snarled, “Show yourself,” at a figure that had emerged on the threshold of the door that Percy had left open. Percy was calculating how long it wou...

“If I may make a suggestion, perhaps my lord would be cheered by dressing in something other than dirty riding clothes? Those breeches would be enough to put anyone in a melancholic frame of mind.” Percy glanced down at himself and saw that he was, indeed, still wearing his riding clothes from that morning. “Good thinking, Collins,” he agreed, and let himself be dressed in one of his more stylish ensembles—plum with lilac embroidery, purchased in Paris at significant expense. Admiring himself in the cheval glass, he had an alarming thought. “I suppose I’ll have to sell some of my clothes.” “Some of it, my lord. But whatever fate awaits you, you’ll need to meet it wearing something other than rags and sackcloth.” This advice was both sound and soothing. When Collins left, Percy considered what to do with himself for the rest of the day. It had been some time since he visited Kit’s wearing anything respectable. He could stop by now and give Kit a small thrill by allowing the man to surreptitiously ogle his ankles. But Kit had behaved abominably yesterday, and Percy was not in a frame of mind to reward the man. If Percy allowed himself to see through the cloud of anger and humiliation that blanketed the memory, he could perhaps understand that Kit had been startled. Startled might even be too mild a word for whatever one felt when confronted with someone returning from the dead. It was, arguably, ungenerous of Percy to put too much stock into what Kit had said at that moment....

sangfroid /säNGˈfrwä/ I. noun composure or coolness, sometimes excessive, as shown in danger or under trying circumstances. – origin mid 18th cent.: from French sang-froid, literally ‘cold blood.’ The pervasiveness of words of French origin that have been borrowed into English is comparable to that of borrowings from Latin. Estimates vary, but the general belief is that 35%, 40%, or possibly as many as 45% of the English dictionary have words of French origin.[1] This suggests that up to 80,000 words should appear in this list. The list, however, only includes words directly borrowed from French, so it includes both joy and joyous but does not include derivatives with English suffixes such as joyful, joyfulness, partisanship, and parenthood. The percentage of modern English words derived from each language group: Anglo-Norman French, then French: ~29% Latin, including words used only in scientific, medical or legal contexts: ~29% Germanic: ~26% Others: ~16% At least a third of English vocabulary is of French origin, or even two-thirds according to some specialists.[2] It was William the Conqueror who originally brought his Old French vocabulary to England, which was then inserted into a British English already shaped by the Germanic language.[2] Of the 15,000 words in William Shakespeare's works, 40% are of French origin.[3] Furthermore, the list excludes compound words in which only one of the elements is from French, e.g. ice cream, sunray, jellyfish, killjoy, lifeguard, and passageway, and English-made combinations of words of French origin, e.g. grapefruit (grape + fruit), layperson (lay + person), magpie, marketplace, petticoat, and straitjacket. Also excluded are words that come from French but were introduced into English via another language, e.g. commodore, domineer, filibuster, ketone, loggia, lotto, mariachi, monsignor, oboe, paella, panzer, picayune, ranch, vendue, and veneer. English words of French origin should be distinguished from French words and expressions in English. Although French is mostly derived from Latin, important other word sources are Gaulish and some Germanic languages, especially Old Frankish. Latin accounts for about 60% of English vocabulary either directly or via a Romance language. As both English and French have borrowed many words from Latin, determining whether a given Latin word entered English via French or not is often difficult. Historical context edit Most of the French vocabulary now appearing in English was borrowed in the centuries following the Norman Conquest of 1066, when England came under the rule of Norman-speaking peoples. After William the Conqueror had invaded England, subsequent rulers invaded other parts of the British Isles, distributing lands and property to Norman, Breton, Flemish, and French soldiers. As a result, Old French became the language of high culture and government, while Anglo-Norman French was widely used by the nobility. The use of French and Norman in the kingdom was "extremely important" from William the Conqueror's coronation in 1066 until 1260.[1] Old English, which the vast majority of English people continued to speak, started to change due to the increasing number of borrowings from French and Latin, the languages of the ruling elite. Over time this led to pairs of words, many of which belong in different language registers: commence/start, commerce/trade, continue/carry on, depart/leave, disengage/withdraw, encounter/meet, exchange/swap, fatigue/tire, fume/smoke, maintain/uphold, marry/wed, menace/threat, plume/feather, purchase/buy, revenue/income, vend/sell. Walter Scott popularized the idea of the Anglo-Norman nobility eating the meats of the animals that Anglo-Saxon peasants had raised: beef/cow, mutton/sheep, veal/calf and pork/pig. In each case the word of French origin was only used in the kitchen. In fact this occurred centuries after the Norman conquest and might owe more to the enduring prestige of French cuisine than to a hypothetical specialization of tasks.[4] Words of French origin often refer to more abstract or generalized concepts than their Old English equivalents (e.g. liberty/freedom, justice/fairness, source/spring, vision/sight, sentiment/feeling); they are therefore less frequently used in everyday language. However, this is not true for all English words of French origin. Consider, for example, some of the most common words in English: able, car, chair, city, country, different, fact, fine, fruit, group, journey, juice, just, large, move, part, people, person, place, point, problem, public, push, real, remain, stay, table, travel, use, very, and wait. After Henry Plantagenet ascended the throne of England, other French dialects gained influence at the expense of Anglo-Norman, notably the Angevin dialect from whence the House of Plantagenet came, and possibly Poitevin, the tongue of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The motto of the British monarchy was proclaimed in French as "Dieu et mon droit".[1] The aristocracy ruled England using French, which was considered "the language of an elite", until 1260.[1] After 1260, English merchants and jurists began to speak French.[1] Between 1260 and 1400, everyday and popular language adopted words borrowed from French.[1] With the English claim to the throne of France, the influence of courtly French of Paris increased. French cultural influence remained strong in the following centuries. From the Renaissance onwards, most borrowings were from Parisian French, which had become the de facto standard language of France. Le Devoir's Jean-François Nadeau wrote, "Many English words were borrowed from Old French, but also from Norman".[1] Nadeau noted, "More than a third of English vocabulary is indeed of French origin."[1] Modern-day older Norman-speaking people in Normandy recognise English words as Norman.[1] Linguist Bernard Cerquiglini said, "All of the sustained vocabulary of English or almost, belongs to the French language", adding, "International English comes from French."[1] Reflecting on the globalised dimension of English, he said that "English was able to dethrone French by first plundering French".[1]

That night, when he heard tapping at his window, he was not surprised. “I got your message,” Marian said, climbing into the room and dropping a bag onto the floor, causing its contents to clatter. “What’s wrong?” He poured them each a glass of brandy and sat in one of the chairs before the fire, gesturing for Marian to take the other one. “What if we called the robbery off?” he asked. She took a long drink of brandy and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I was wondering when you’d suggest something like that.” He was almost dizzy with relief. Surely, the pair of them were mad; this entire highway-robbery scheme was nothing more than a folie à deux. “So you agree,” he said. “Of course not, Percy,” she snapped. “Not in the slightest. Your father has done something unforgivable to both of us and I don’t know if I can live out the rest of my life if I know that he hasn’t been punished for it.” “People do it all the time,” Percy said, thinking of Kit. “Live their lives, knowing that someone who wronged them is alive and well.” “But we have a chance to take something back from him.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “We have a chance to make things—not fair, not equal, but just a little less unfair. I know it’s small and petty, and I know I’m being spiteful, but spite is all I have right now.” He nodded, remembering his conversation with Kit. “It’s honor.” “I feel far from honorable right now, Percy.” “The feeling that you and I have of something being taken away fr...

Folie à deux (French for 'madness of two'),[1] also called shared psychosis[3] or shared delusional disorder (SDD), is a rare psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief[4] are "transmitted" from one individual to another.[5] Induced delusional disorder Other names Lasègue–Falret syndrome induced delusional disorder shared psychotic disorder Pronunciation UK: /ˈfɒlɪ æ ˈdɜː/[1] US: /foʊˌliː ə ˈdʌ/[2] French: [fɔli a dø] Specialty Psychiatry The disorder, first conceptualized in 19th century French psychiatry by Charles Lasègue and Jules Falret, is also known as Lasègue–Falret syndrome.[6][4][7] Recent psychiatric classifications refer to the syndrome as shared psychotic disorder (DSM-4 – 297.3) and induced delusional disorder (ICD-10 – F24), although the research literature largely uses the original name. The same syndrome shared by more than two people may be called folie à trois ('three') or quatre ('four'); and further, folie en famille ('family madness') or even folie à plusieurs ('madness of several').[8] This disorder is not in the current, fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), which considers the criteria to be insufficient or inadequate. DSM-5 does not consider Shared Psychotic Disorder (folie à deux) as a separate entity; rather, the physician should classify it as "Delusional Disorder" or in the "Other Specified Schizophrenia Spectrum and Other Psychotic Disorder" category. Signs and symptoms edit This syndrome is most commonly diagnosed when the two or more individuals of concern live in proximity, may be socially or physically isolated, and have little interaction with other people. Various sub-classifications of folie à deux have been proposed to describe how the delusional belief comes to be held by more than one person:[9] Folie imposée Where a dominant person (known as the 'primary', 'inducer', or 'principal') initially forms a delusional belief during a psychotic episode and imposes it on another person or persons (the 'secondary', 'acceptor', or 'associate'). Normally the latter, described as "un malade par reflet", does not suffer from a true psychosis. If the parties are admitted to hospital separately, the delusions in the person with the induced beliefs are typically abandoned.[10] Folie simultanée Either the situation where two people considered to independently experience psychosis influence the content of each other's delusions so they become identical or strikingly similar, or one in which two people "morbidly predisposed" to delusional psychosis mutually trigger symptoms in each other. Due to the lack of a dominant partner, separation of patients might not improve the condition of either.[10] Folie à deux and its more populous derivatives are psychiatric curiosities. The current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders states that a person cannot be diagnosed as being delusional if the belief in question is one "ordinarily accepted by other members of the person's culture or subculture". It is not clear at what point a belief considered to be delusional escapes from the folie à... diagnostic category and becomes legitimate because of the number of people holding it. When a large number of people may come to believe obviously false and potentially distressing things based purely on hearsay, these beliefs are not considered to be clinical delusions by the psychiatric profession, and are instead labelled as mass hysteria. As with most psychological disorders, the extent and type of delusion varies, but the non-dominant person's delusional symptoms usually resemble those of the inducer.[11] Prior to therapeutic interventions, the inducer typically does not realize that they are causing harm, but instead believe they are helping the second person to become aware of vital or otherwise notable information. Type of delusions edit Psychology Today magazine defines delusions as "fixed beliefs that do not change, even when a person is presented with conflicting evidence."[12] Types of delusion include:[13][14] Bizarre delusions Those which are clearly implausible and not understood by peers within the same culture, even those with psychological disorders; for example, if one thought that all of their organs had been taken out and replaced by someone else's while they were asleep without leaving any scar and without their waking up. It would be impossible to survive such a procedure, and even surgery involving transplantation of multiple organs would leave the person with severe pain, visible scars, etc. Non-bizarre delusions Common among those with personality disorders and are understood by people within the same culture. For example, unsubstantiated or unverifiable claims of being followed by the FBI in unmarked cars and watched via security cameras would be classified as a non-bizarre delusion; while it would be unlikely for the average person to experience such a predicament, it is possible, and therefore understood by those around them. Mood-congruent delusions These correspond to a person's emotions within a given timeframe, especially during an episode of mania or depression. For example, someone with this type of delusion may believe with certainty that they will win $1 million at the casino on a specific night, despite lacking any way to see the future or influence the probability of such an event. Similarly, someone in a depressive state may feel certain that their mother will get hit by lightning the next day, again in spite of having no means of predicting or controlling future events. Mood-neutral delusions These are unaffected by mood, and can be bizarre or non-bizarre; the formal definition provided by Mental Health Daily is "a false belief that isn't directly related to the person's emotional state."[citation needed] An example would be a person who is convinced that somebody has switched bodies with their neighbor, the belief persisting irrespective of changes in emotional status. Biopsychosocial effects edit As with many psychiatric disorders, shared delusional disorder can negatively impact the psychological and social aspects of a person's wellbeing. Unresolved stress resulting from a delusional disorder will eventually contribute to or increase the risk of other negative health outcomes, such as cardiovascular disease, diabetes, obesity, immunological problems, and others.[15] These health risks increase with the severity of the disease, especially if an affected person does not receive or comply with adequate treatment. People with a delusional disorder have a significantly high risk of developing psychiatric comorbidities such as depression and anxiety. This may be attributable to a genetic pattern shared by 55% of SDD patients.[16] Shared delusional disorder can have a profoundly negative impact on a person's quality of life.[17] Persons diagnosed with a mental health disorder commonly experience social isolation, which is detrimental to psychological health. This is especially problematic with SDD, as social isolation contributes to the onset of the disorder; in particular, relapse is likely if returning to an isolated living situation, in which shared delusions can be reinstated. Causes edit While the exact causes of SDD are unknown, the main two contributors are stress and social isolation.[18] People who are socially isolated together tend to become dependent on those they are with, leading to an inducer becoming able to influence those around them. Additionally, people developing shared delusional disorder do not have others reminding them that their delusions are either impossible or unlikely. As a result, treatment for shared delusional disorder includes those affected be removed from the inducer.[19] Stress is also a factor, as it is a common factor in mental illness developing or worsening. The majority of people that develop shared delusional disorder are genetically predisposed to mental illness, but this predisposition alone is not enough to develop SDD. In other words, stress is a risk factor of this disorder. When stressed, an individual's adrenal gland releases the stress hormone cortisol into the body, increasing the brain's level of dopamine; this change can be linked to the development of a mental illness, such as a shared delusional disorder.[16] While there is no exact cause of shared psychosis, there are several factors that are contributors depending on different cultures and communities and taking into consideration the individual's circumstances, including their environmental changes and relationships

Percy rode like he did everything else—he was graceful enough to make risking his neck look easy. He was fast and lithe, and it was a pleasure to watch him. Even in his loose riding clothes, even with his hair tied back and tucked under his hat, the long lines of his body were visible. Kit already knew Percy was beautiful—had known it the first time Percy walked into his shop, and every further encounter had only served as redundant proof. But the pleasure Kit took in watching him wasn’t simply because Percy was beautiful, or even because he was talented. It was because Percy was Percy. He enjoyed looking at Percy for the same reason he had been frightened out of his wits to see Percy sword fighting: he just liked the man. Kit told himself that he liked a lot of people, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He told himself that it was nothing unusual to like a person, even if, on paper, every single thing about them was antithetical to one’s staunchly held beliefs about what a person ought to be. He told himself that liking didn’t mean one held any tenderer feelings, and neither, for that matter, did kissing. He told himself all of this and didn’t believe a word of it. He clutched the parcel he held in his free hand, and when the fog cleared, he stepped closer to the path of Percy’s horse. “Please watch your step,” called Percy, breathless and pulling up on his reins. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for bloodshed this morning.” Then he must have recognized Kit, becau...

“Make it so this is what I remember,” Percy said as they fumbled with one another’s clothes. “You may be overestimating my abilities,” Kit said. He wished he could, though. He wished all it would take was a thorough fucking to obliterate Cheveril Castle and all it stood for from Percy’s mind. From who Percy was. Percy had cast off the last of his clothes and stood naked in front of blue bed curtains that Kit strongly suspected had been picked to flatter its occupant. The idea simultaneously struck him as sinfully extravagant and an admirable use of funds. Kit tugged off his boots. “Get on the bed.” Percy arranged himself on a coverlet of the same sky-blue silk. “Oh, there’s oil in the pocket of my coat.” “Optimistic, were you?” Kit shucked his jacket and his shirt, letting them drop to the floor. “Shut up and do your job,” Percy said, spreading his legs and taking himself in hand. Laughing—and wasn’t that a marvel, to be laughing in this place, with this man—Kit got the oil and tossed it to Percy. “You know I haven’t done this, right?” “Why haven’t you, Kit?” Kit sat on the edge of the bed and palmed one of Percy’s bent knees. “It never seemed worth the risk.” Percy stared at him, propping himself up on one elbow. “Let me understand. You, while routinely committing highway robbery and other capital crimes with such wild abandon you’re almost a household name, balked at a little buggery?” “Well, it sounds silly when you put it that way.” “I think we need to acknowledge that...

Percy sighed, and took a step back, then another. Kit pressed forward again, then dropped his sword, deciding that he didn’t much care for the idea of a sharpened blade too close to Percy. It landed on the floor with a clatter. “Now I’m going to have to sharpen it,” complained Percy as his back met the wall. Kit took hold of the wrist of Percy’s sword hand and turned it, pressing the blunt edge of the practice sword against Percy’s neck. “You just wanted me to shove you up against the wall,” he growled. “You shouldn’t let me win.” “Can’t blame a man for trying,” said Percy, sounding abominably pleased with himself. He was short of breath, and Kit knew it wasn’t from exertion. “I wonder what I’ll do with you,” Kit said, casting Percy’s sword to the floor and crowding against Percy. Only when their chests were pressed against one another did Kit bring a hand up to Percy’s jaw, angling his mouth for a kiss. He took his time about it, sliding a leg in between Percy’s, then tucking a hair behind Percy’s ear, before finally closing the gap and kissing him. Percy was soft and pliant, the way he rarely was. He opened his mouth against Kit’s as if he had been waiting for that kiss all day or even longer. Kit couldn’t have said how long they stayed like that, sharing kisses that were long and slow and only a little heated. “When do you have to go?” Kit finally asked. “I don’t, actually,” Percy said, sounding the slightest bit shy about it. “I told my valet not to wait up.” “Stay,” K...

ewer /ˈyo͞oər/ I. noun a large jug with a wide mouth, formerly used for carrying water for someone to wash in. – origin late Middle English: from Anglo-Norman French ewer, variant of Old French aiguiere, based on Latin aquarius ‘of water,’ from aqua ‘water.’ American English, a pitcher is a container with a spout used for storing and pouring liquids. In English-speaking countries outside North America, a jug is any container with a handle and a mouth and spout for liquid – American "pitchers" will be called jugs elsewhere.[citation needed] Generally a pitcher also has a handle, which makes pouring easier. French ewer, 1795, hard-paste porcelain, height: 25.4 cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York City) Ewer is an older word for a pitcher or jug of any type, though tending to be used for a vase-shaped pitcher, often decorated, with a base and a flaring spout. The word is now unusual in informal English describing ordinary domestic vessels.[1] A notable ewer is the America's Cup, which is awarded to the winning team of the America's Cup sailing regatta match. In American English, a pitcher is a container with a spout used for storing and pouring liquids. In English-speaking countries outside North America, a jug is any container with a handle and a mouth and spout for liquid – American "pitchers" will be called jugs elsewhere.[citation needed] Generally a pitcher also has a handle, which makes pouring easier. French ewer, 1795, hard-paste porcelain, height: 25.4 cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York City) Ewer is an older word for a pitcher or jug of any type, though tending to be used for a vase-shaped pitcher, often decorated, with a base and a flaring spout. The word is now unusual in informal English describing ordinary domestic vessels.[1] A notable ewer is the America's Cup, which is awarded to the winning team of the America's Cup sailing regatta match.[2] Etymology edit Plastic pitcher of milk. The word pitcher comes from the 13th-century Middle English word picher, which means earthen jug.[3][4] The word picher is linked to the Old French word pichier, which is the altered version of the word bichier, meaning drinking cup.[5] The word's origin goes as far back to the Medieval Latin word bicarium from the Greek word βῖκος : bîkos, which meant earthen vessel. Compare with Dutch beker, German Becher, English beaker and Italian bicchiere.

Two peculiar things happened in the next couple of days. The first was that the broadsides began bringing news of the new Duke of Clare’s latest doings. He altered his tenants’ leases and converted several properties to freeholds. Deeds of manumission were sent off to Barbados. Priceless artworks and a dozen horses were sent to auction. Funds were set aside for the building of schools and poorhouses, along with an endowment to keep them going for a generation. Public opinion was divided as to whether Percy had done these things to spite his dead father or because he had gone quite mad. The second peculiar thing was that Kit returned from walking Betty home to find a note on his pillow. “Stop fretting. I’m not dead. Tell your gent that Lady M isn’t dead, either, as she doesn’t seem disposed to do so herself. And for God’s sake, call off the hunt. Much love, R,” the note read, in Rob’s handwriting. When Kit showed it to Percy that night, he studied it for a long minute. “I can’t be certain, but I think it’s the same handwriting as the blackmail letters. The way the ink blots at the tail of the R and M is distinctive. I might wish for a reassurance slightly more enthusiastic than ‘not dead’ but it was kind for your friend to put my mind at ease.” He said kind as if it were a complicated foreign word, as if his tongue and lips didn’t want to shape themselves around it, and Kit knew that Percy was trying to tell Kit that he intended to be civil to Rob and about Rob. “I saw that...

It was cold, the first night of the year that made it impossible to pretend that winter wasn’t waiting around the corner. Their breaths clouded the air in front of them, mingling with the smoke and fog that drifted through the streets. It was, objectively, a foul night, but Kit had a sense of hopeful exhilaration that he hadn’t experienced since that fresh green springtime he courted Jenny. He had been little more than a boy then, and hadn’t known how rare and precious that sort of feeling was. Now he was jaded enough to know that most people never knew what it was like to take a walk side by side with the person they liked best in the world. “Mind if we stop in here?” Kit asked when they passed the stable where he kept Bridget. It was a little warmer inside, thanks to a brazier the pair of stable boys were using to warm their hands. The boys looked up, recognized Kit, and wordlessly waved him in. “Her name is Bridget,” Kit said when they reached the right stall. “I can’t ride her as fast as she likes, but she puts up with me anyway. You’re welcome to make use of her as much as you like.” “Thank you. That’s—” “She’s my horse, mind. I’m not making a present of her.” “I didn’t think you were,” Percy laughed. “You hear me, Bridget,” Kit said, holding out his hand for her to nuzzle, “you’re still mine. You can be as rude as you please to Percy, and he’ll only think it’s a sign of good breeding.” Percy leaned against him a little, shoulder to shoulder, just enough so Kit could ...

“So, what happens on January first?” Kit asked. His own pint was only a quarter empty, and he held the tankard between his palms, the pewter warming to his touch. “I lay out the evidence of my illegitimacy before my solicitor and hope he can figure out how to make it so that I’m not the Duke of Clare. I haven’t any idea what that entails, but the important thing is that I’ve made a number of decisions that I don’t think can be easily undone.” “I don’t think Rob would want to.” “Fair. But let’s say the courts decide he isn’t my father’s legitimate son, and instead the title and estate go to some horrible Tory cousin. I’ve tried to set it up so that nothing I did could be easily reversed. You would not believe how cross my solicitors and agents are right now. So much hand-wringing. So many lamentations.” “Fuck ’em,” Kit said. “Fuck them indeed,” Percy agreed, and lifted his pint in a toast. “But that isn’t what I wanted to know. What happens to you on January first? You don’t plan to stay at Clare House, do you?” “God no. I, well.” Percy traced a finger around the rim of his cup. “I did have something to ask you, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. And mind you, there are other options, naturally.” “Out with it, Percy.” Kit was braced to hear that Percy had decided to go abroad or to live as a recluse in the country, both of which were probably very reasonable choices. “Would you mind if I hired the house next door?” Percy asked. “You probably think that given my cir...

When they got back to the coffeehouse, it was dark and empty. Percy had already slept two nights in a row in Kit’s bed, and he was debating whether it would be indiscreet to attempt a third, when he was distracted by the sight of a parcel leaning against the wall. It was large and flat and wrapped in brown paper. “That wasn’t here when we left,” Percy said, eyeing it warily. “It certainly was not,” Kit confirmed, walking over to examine it. “There’s nothing written on it. No direction or name.” “Might as well open it,” Percy suggested. Percy couldn’t have said exactly when he realized what he was looking at. Was it after Kit tore off the first strip of paper and he caught a glimpse of blue paint? Or was it after the second strip was removed and Percy could make out the roofline of Cheveril? In either case, he tore off the remaining paper with his own hands and stared at the life-size portrait of Marian and himself posed before the eastern facade of Cheveril Castle. The portraitist had caught Percy in half profile, either turning his head toward Marian or away from her, and looking like he was about to laugh. Marian held the baby—who thankfully looked like a human infant rather than a small goblin—close to her chest, and wore an expression that hovered between serene and calculating. As for Cheveril, Percy could only speculate as to who had directed the portraitist to paint in the house in place of the duke. “There’s a scrap of paper gummed to the back,” Kit said. Percy mov...

Epilogue One month later One morning in the middle of January, when it was early enough that the winter sun hadn’t quite risen and Kit had only just lit the fire, a knock sounded at the door. “Some of us can’t tell time,” announced Percy as he entered the shop, looking sleep rumpled and holding a furious baby. “So I see.” Kit ushered them in toward the hearth. “Are you going to burp that child or not?” “I beg your pardon. Talbots do not belch.” “Give her over,” Kit laughed, holding out his arms. “There now,” Kit said, firmly patting the child’s back. “I tried patting her. I’m not entirely incompetent with— Oh, that’s revolting. Eliza, I’m appalled. We need to discuss standards.” Kit laughed as the baby gave him an indignant look that closely resembled one of Percy’s. “Have either of you managed any sleep at all?” “Well, not recently. She seems to be getting a new tooth and is under the impression that it’s my fault.” “They often are,” Kit said, and saw a stricken look flicker over Percy’s face as he recalled how Kit came by his knowledge of babies. “This one, however, comes from a long line of complainers, so I daresay she came by it honestly.” The baby was getting to the age where she was a bit too heavy and wriggly to hold with one arm, so Kit sat before the fire and let her chew on the collar of his coat. “Put that kettle on, will you?” Kit asked, then watched as Percy glanced around, as if not entirely clear what a kettle was or where it was supposed to go. “On the hoo...