The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(46)

A glass of brandy somehow found its way into her hand and she drank half of it in one shaky gulp, spilling some onto her chin. Rob swiped it away with the cuff of his shirt, as if tidying up people in the throes of hysterics was all quite ordinary, nothing remarkable at all. To her side, the cat eyed her with grave distaste, and Marian was glad that at least someone in this kitchen had standards.

She had spent a long time—months, the better part of a year—trying very hard not to have any feelings at all, except for anger, which was highly motivating, after all. And now that she no longer had a reason to be so ruthless with herself, all her emotions came rushing back uncomfortably, like sensation returning to a limb. With those feelings came a wave of—of affection, of fondness, of something terribly like fascination with the man beside her. She wanted to shove it far away, back where she had been keeping all the other things she didn’t want to feel, but it was too late for that.

He took the glass from her hand and drained it himself. “Now you look cross, which I suppose is an improvement over bereft. I have one other bit of news. Lord Holland has been making merry with the Clare estate. I don’t know the details, but the Tories are scandalized and even the Whigs don’t quite know what to think.”

Marian frowned. If Percy was acting as the rightful inheritor of the Clare estate, then it sounded like he didn’t plan to reveal his father’s bigamy to the world after all. Well, good for Percy, she supposed. That was what he had been raised for, and if he could live with the risk of someone coming out of the woodwork with information about the duke’s first marriage, then so be it. “If you don’t want the duke’s legitimate son to inherit, making sure Percy does inherit is your best bet. So this is good news all around.” She had rather reconciled herself to the prospect of being a disgraced woman and a commoner. More than reconciled herself, truth be told; she thought she might dread returning to Clare House, returning to that life, more than she dreaded the hangman. But that was immaterial. She was being silly, that was all.

She took hold of the poker and began prodding the fire back to life. The only real problem left to her was Sir John Fanshawe. If Percy was the duke, she could rely on his help to pay the rent, but the idea left a sour taste in her mouth.

“As much as I enjoy sitting on the floor with you, I’m half starved.”

Marian turned to look at Rob, because there was no trace of facetiousness in his voice. He sounded as if he did enjoy sitting on the floor with her, as if he had been looking forward to nothing so much as that very act. When he said that sort of thing, made those troublingly earnest allusions to his feelings for her, she knew he wasn’t toying with her, but she couldn’t take him quite seriously and didn’t know how to react. The last person who had poured that sort of nonsense into her ear had been the duke, and now it sounded both implausible and somehow ominous.

“Don’t try to charm me,” she said, scrambling inelegantly to her feet and pushing open the door to the larder. There was steak and kidney pie somewhere in there and she hoped she could contrive to heat it up.

“I’m not trying to charm you. You’d know if I were trying to charm you. Do give me some credit.” He stepped into the larder behind her and relieved her of the pie. “I charm strangers, and people I want to go to bed with, and strangers I want to go to bed with. And also people I’ve upset. And, all right, you fit in at least two of those categories, but the fact is that you’d have my bollocks off if I tried it on you.”

“I have no interest in your bollocks.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise,” he said lightly, ignoring her sound of protest. “Besides, charming you wouldn’t suit my purposes.” From one of the hooks near the hearth, he removed a pot, dropped the pie into it, and hung it over the fire.

She refused to rise to the bait and ask him what his purposes were, because no doubt all he would give her would be a load of moonshine. “Are you certain that’s how you’re meant to heat a pie?”

“Not in the least. Do you have a better idea?”

Hester was long since asleep so there was nobody to ask. “I think we’re meant to use the oven.” They both regarded the boxlike space set into the wall beside the stove as if it were a mysterious relic of a forgotten age. “But I can’t see how it would be hot enough yet.”

“I feel enormously relieved that you’re as ignorant as I am. Kit is forever mocking my ineptitude in the kitchen. In any event, I don’t want to charm you.” He regarded her with eyes that were somehow sharp and warm all at once. “I want you to know my worst possible self, Marian.”

She swallowed and looked away. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I don’t want you ever to be disappointed in me.”

“Considering the circumstances under which I made your acquaintance, my opinion of you could only improve.” She took out a second glass, filled both with brandy, and sat at the table.

“I really am tired of disappointing people,” he said, sitting beside her. “Do you know, I couldn’t work up the courage to see Kit? He was with your Lord Holland, and all I could think was that I’d interrupt them and have to watch his face fall.”

She grimaced, understanding this sentiment all too well. As much as she missed Percy, a part of her dreaded seeing him because of all the explanations and apologies their reunion would require. She lifted her glass of brandy to Rob in a wry salute. “I don’t think Kit would really be disappointed in you. He’s known you since you were a child, yes? I doubt that you’ve done nothing but impress him since then.”