The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

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...