The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

“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...