The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(2)
And so he did what anyone would do, or at least anyone with a long-standing habit of making terrible choices—he addressed his correspondence to the lady herself. She deserved to know the truth about the man she believed to be her husband. She deserved to choose whether to present him with information that might make him extremely difficult to live with. If the duke were as bad as Rob suspected, then he didn’t like to think about what might become of a woman who found herself in possession of such a dangerous secret. He didn’t like to think about what might become of a child who was revealed to be illegitimate. Perhaps it would be in everybody’s best interest to get this business settled without the duke ever finding out. Surely, the duchess could raise a bit of money on her own.
He wrote the letter. “Dear Madam,” he began—polite, but not ingratiating—“As much as one hates to be the bearer of bad news, I regret to inform you . . .” It should have ended with that letter, and indeed would have done if he had been halfway reasonable. But among all the acts of which Rob had rightly and wrongly been accused, nobody had ever accused him of making reasonable choices in matters of the heart.
And yet, nearly three months later, he still thought it was a sufficiently good plan until he tasted the laudanum in his beer and recognized the woman across the table.
Interstitial
October 1751
Ten Weeks Before the Incident
Dear Madam,
As much as one hates to be the bearer of bad news, I regret to inform you that the man you believe to be your husband contracted a valid marriage in 1725 to a woman who still lives. This marriage was duly recorded in the parish register of the ?glise du Sacré-Couer, Boulogne-sur-Mer, France. I have myself seen both the parish record and the woman. You will, of course, note that this renders invalid not only his marriage to you, but also his marriage to Lord Holland’s mother.
It would give me no joy to expose these facts to the world, and I might venture to guess that you are much of the same mind. If you present me with five hundred pounds by the first of January, I will take this secret with me to the grave.
I can be reached via letter at the Lamb and Flag in Hackney. Kindly address correspondence to John Smith.
Your obedient servant,
X
*
Dear Sir, How droll it is that you expect me to simply take your word for it that this woman, who if you are to be believed is the rightful Duchess of Clare, still lives. Even supposing that this purported marriage ever took place, you cannot possibly expect me to give you five hundred pounds with no evidence except what may or may not be written in a parish register somewhere in France. You must be one of those gentlemen who is unaccustomed to having his statements challenged, and as such belong to the most sadly overrepresented specimen of humanity.
You may be interested to know that Dante placed blackmailers in the eighth circle of hell, where they were thrown into boiling pits of tar and guarded by demons armed with grappling claws (or possibly hooks; I am not in the mood for accurate translation).
Your mortal enemy,
Marian, Duchess of Clare
*
Dear Madam,
Believe me that I would gladly present you with any evidence you could possibly desire if not for the fact that the other parties in this case require privacy. The woman in question has no desire whatsoever to have her name bandied about town as the lawful wife of the Duke of Clare, a man she delights in being rid of. I’m afraid I cannot and will not give you any information about her.
Naturally, it is your right to refuse to take me at my word. I can’t say that I’d be overeager to put much stock in what a blackmailer says, myself. But whatever the case, I will present this information in as public a venue as I can dream up on the first of January—unless, that is, you pay me five hundred pounds.
I have no idea who Dante is or what you are going on about in re: circles but you may feel free to enlighten me.
Your obedient servant,
X
P.S. How bold of you to assume that I’m a gentleman.
P.P.S. Address correspondence to Jebediah Chisholm, care of The Seven Stars in Putney.
*
Dear Sir,
Regrettably, I must concede that you are correct about the parish register. Its contents have been verified, as has the duke’s signature. You are surely clever enough to understand that this means we also know the name of his bride and are presently looking for Louise Thierry.
I will gladly educate you regarding Dante and any other poets of the Italian vernacular who strike your fancy. My fee is five hundred pounds, payable immediately.
Your mortal enemy,
Marian, Duchess of Clare
P.S. I refuse to believe that you are a woman. There is something inexpressibly masculine about expecting to be believed.
*
Dear Madam,
Indeed, I confess that I am a man but must refute all charges of being a gentleman. As for my being in the habit of getting my own way, I’m afraid you can’t expect me to admit to any such thing.
You say that you have confirmed the contents of the parish registry. As you have not left London, this must mean you have taken somebody into your confidence. I am glad to know that at least you aren’t alone in your predicament.
Considering the circumstances, I have put a guard on Madame Thierry.