The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(20)

“It’s the only way,” he said sagely, and just like that he had three new friends. Five, if you counted the spaniels, to whom he fed bits of the ham and bread the barmaid brought to the table. Six, if you counted the wide-eyed infant, who was passed around the table like a jug of ale. Rob became the receptacle of a great deal of blowfly-related wisdom and advice, as well as instructions regarding prayers, herbal concoctions, and vaguely witchy practices all designed to thwart the blowfly’s rapacious tendencies. After a quarter of an hour, he had developed a deep and abiding respect for the blowfly.

When the conversation took an unfortunate turn in the direction of maggots—a turn he really should have foreseen as the natural outcome of the blowfly—he gently steered it to topics that were less likely to interfere with his enjoyment of his supper. The younger of the women was evidently the infant’s mother, and Rob proceeded to say all the usual things one said about babies—he had never in all his years seen a baby so fat and pink, and surely that was a gleam of intelligence in his eyes, and wasn’t he the very spit of his father—and soon found himself holding the infant in question, who had been presented to him in the manner of a great treat being offered. And Rob did like babies as much as he liked people of any age, so it actually was a bit of a treat.

When his new companions asked him what his business was in that part of Kent, he said that he was passing through on his way to Canterbury. It turned out that the younger of the women came from Maidstone, which he was certain to pass through, and had a great deal to say about which inns were worth stopping at and which were to be avoided at all costs. Rob got a pencil and paper from the innkeeper and dutifully wrote down everything the woman said, up to and including her request that he tell the proprietress of the Seven Stars in Maidstone that Nellie and the baby sent their love.

There, he told himself, folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket when his companions left the table and repaired to their beds. He was simply a sociable fellow. The past year had taken him away from all his friends, so he had latched onto Marian’s letters as the next best thing to friendship. It didn’t signify in the least. Any notion that he was fond of her—or, worse, trusted her—was an illusion brought about by his loneliness and confusion. He would bring her to her father’s house, because he had told her he would, and because she was clearly in no state to be left alone. But he would leave her in the bosom of her family or possibly stowed away on a fishing boat headed for Calais, and then return to London and be done with her.

He was feeling very pleased with himself for having resolved that problem to his satisfaction when he looked toward the stairs and saw a figure leaning against the wall, half covered by shadows. He didn’t have a clear view of her face, but he did recognize those breeches, which he had bought that very morning. He kicked out one of the empty chairs at his table and raised an eyebrow in her direction. She hesitated, then made her way across the room.

As she approached, he noticed that she had tucked her braid into her coat as he had suggested that morning. She looked unremarkable, like any apprentice or young man, only more drawn and wearier. Anyone’s gaze would pass her right over, which was good, exactly what they needed.

Why, then, did he never want to look away? It had to be because he had thought about her so much but seen her only a few times. She was pale, both naturally and with the added pallor of hunger and exhaustion. With that complexion, one expected blue eyes or maybe gray, but hers were dark to the point that they were nearly black. Her eyebrows were of a blackness that matched her hair, arching across her forehead in a way that he couldn’t help but find vaguely villainous. She might have looked severe, but the effect was ruined by her nose, which tipped up in a very silly fashion, and her chin, which was pointy enough to make her face heart-shaped.

Nobody would call her pretty, and handsome also seemed to miss the mark. He had seen her done up in powder and silks and knew that she was certainly very striking in that state. She was interesting-looking, but he couldn’t tell if this was because of her face or his feelings.

“Mr. Lawson,” he said, addressing her by the name she was traveling under.

“I thought you left,” she said reproachfully, ignoring the chair he had kicked out and instead sitting across from him. “You mustn’t do that.”

Her back was straight and she managed to look down her nose at him in an imperious manner that, much as he hated to acknowledge it, made him perk up like a dog hearing the sound of his name. He braced a forearm on the table and leaned in so his words would reach only her ears. “I have bad news for you, kitten—”

She abruptly sat back. “Kitten! I think not.”

“Darling,” he continued smoothly, “I come and go as I please, understand? I know you’ve had a rough go of it and have precious little reason to trust anyone, least of all me, but I haven’t the slightest intention of sitting around in dark little rooms, not for your convenience or anybody else’s.”

She sniffed. “You gave me a fright, that’s all. I didn’t know how I was meant to get to Little Hinton on my own.”

“Come, now. You’re going to tell me that after traipsing about London—and some of the seedier bits of London, at that—at all hours of the night, and after contriving to poison your enemies’ drinks—”

“One enemy! If you can even call yourself that. And it was only laudanum! You make me sound like a Medici!”