The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(36)

And yet now that he thought about it, he could see the old man’s resemblance to his daughter. But where she was hard edges and sharpened knives, he seemed gentle, vulnerable almost.

Marian resumed her progress through the kitchen, now opening jars and cannisters and examining their contents. He followed her, leaning back against the shelves she was inspecting. “Oats,” she announced, and put the cannister back.

“If you’re doing an inventory, would you like me to write things down?”

She was only a few inches away, close enough that when she took down the next cannister, her arm brushed against his shoulder. “I’m not doing an inventory.”

“I know.”

“Dried currants,” she said, peering into an earthenware jar. “Care for some?”

“Why not.” He held out his hand, palm up.

She removed a cluster of tiny currants with two fingers and brought it not to his palm but toward his mouth. He stayed perfectly still but so did she, the fruit six inches from his lips, her eyes a little wide and her jaw firmly set. He bent his head and took the fruit, letting his lips remain on her fingertips only for a moment before pulling away.

“The landlord has raised the rent,” she said. “To far more than what we agreed on. It’s plain extortion, with a little blackmail thrown in just for fun. I can’t ask Richard for help, because he’d like nothing more than to have our father sent to some genteel version of Bedlam, which is why Father needs to be here rather than anywhere near Richard. I could write Percy or Marcus and ask them to come up with the balance, but Marcus is impossible to find in addition to never having any money, and as for Percy, he has troubles of his own.”

Rob wanted to sift through this information about asylums and extortion, but decided to focus on what was apparently Marian’s most pressing concern. “Who pays for the running of this household?”

“My father’s estate is depleted, but not so badly that he can’t afford to live in a shabby little house with a couple of elderly retainers.”

Sometimes Marian didn’t even bother to pitch her voice in a way that made her lies believable. He took it as a compliment. “That’s not an answer.”

She looked at him as if deciding whether to tell him the truth. “I do. I pay for it. A few years ago, I won a bit of money at Newmarket. Not a lot, mind you. But enough, and the duke never knew about it, so it was safe.”

“Why not use your father’s own income?”

“Because it’s all tied up. When Father’s mind began to slip, many of his decisions were not very wise. And even in my grandfather’s time, there were years of bad investments. Much of the estate was either sold or mortgaged.” She frowned. “The debts were terrible.”

He heard the past tense there. He had been wondering for months what had possessed her to marry the duke, and he supposed that now he had an answer. “The duke?”

“He paid off my father’s debts when we married.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I really thought that would be an end to it. I am not going to let Sir John Fanshawe steal from my father.”

“Naturally,” he agreed. “I didn’t for a minute think you would. You’ve dealt with worse men than Sir John Fanshawe, whoever he is.”

“Precisely,” Marian agreed.

“I wonder if you’ll shoot him or poison him,” he mused.

“Certainly not, Rob, be practical.” She was almost smiling. “Unless his heir is more fair-minded, killing the man would do me no good at all.”

She had said his name only a handful of times, and he wanted to clutch each instance in his fist like a lucky penny. “So you plan to make off with all his silver,” he said.

“I’m going to talk to him,” she said repressively.

“Ah, so he’s a reasonable, charitably minded fellow?”

She gave him a withering look. “Doubtful. But I can’t move directly to more straightforward means without first giving him a chance.” The cautious optimism slid off her face and was replaced with something grim. “However, I can’t present myself in his drawing room until I know whether I’m wanted for murder.”

Rob started calculating how quickly he could get to London and back. “I could do it for you. I could visit his home, possibly have a few choice and terrifying words with him, but more likely help myself to whatever I can fit in my pockets and easily pawn.”

She looked like she was considering what he said, but then turned on her heel and began inspecting a wall on the opposite side of the room. When she came to another door, she opened it. “Ah. This is the room Hester said you could have. There’s a bed and a chair. I think it’ll do for you.”

He followed her in. “I’d sleep in the stables and you know it.”

“Nonsense.” She began to strip the bed and he went to help her, pulling the sheets off one end of the mattress. “I’ll bring you clean sheets presently.” She was gone before he could protest. He opened his satchel and took out all their shirts and the bar of soap. In the scullery, he filled a bucket with water and dumped the shirts and soap in to soak. He wasn’t going to have an eighty-year-old woman do his wash. Worse still, he wasn’t going to have Marian do it.

Marian returned, carrying a stack of neatly folded sheets. He intercepted her in the kitchen. “I’ll make the bed myself.”