The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(65)

“I recall,” Kit said dryly.

“I immediately went to France to see the parish records for myself. When I came back, I learned you were alive, of course, but I let you believe I was dead, because I didn’t want to admit that I might be the legitimate son and heir of a person I reviled.”

“A person we reviled,” Kit amended softly.

“Right. So I was a coward about it, not to mention thoughtless and cruel, because it was so much easier not to deal with any of it. I can’t even tell you how sorry about that I am. I know it was—”

“Rob,” Kit interrupted softly. “We already did this. It’s forgiven. Now, out with the rest.”

Rob took a deep breath. “Then I made things worse by deciding that I ought to at least get something out of the mess, so I blackmailed Lord Holland and Marian.”

“Marian?” Betty repeated. “Who?”

“He’s talking about the Duchess of Clare,” Kit said.

“Oh, right. Somehow I forgot that we’re all on a first-name basis with lords and ladies,” said Betty. “Now everything makes perfect sense.”

“Well, she did leave me tied to a bed all night,” Rob offered as an explanation.

“It’s how I make all my friends,” said Betty.

“Can we get back to the part where I’m apparently the legitimate heir to some fucking dukedom?” Rob turned to Kit. “Why aren’t you more upset about this? I thought for sure you’d be upset.”

“Mainly because I already knew. Percy figured it out last week.” The bastard sounded almost smug about his horrible paramour’s acuity. “But also I don’t really give a shit who got your mother pregnant and it’s a little insulting that you thought I would.”

“But. The Duke of Clare. It makes my skin crawl to think that he might have been my—” He shuddered. Rob really didn’t want to think about how much of his belief that his friends would hate him for an accident of birth was actually due to his hating that accident enough for all three of them. “Anyway, it might not be true. My father could be anybody.”

Kit and Betty both raised their eyebrows in identical expressions of skepticism.

Kit narrowed his eyes. “You do look—”

“Don’t mention my cheekbones,” Rob pleaded. “Marian already did and now I want to go about with a sack over my head.”

“You told her?” This was the first time in the conversation that Kit sounded surprised—and pleasantly so, if Rob had the right of it.

“No, she mentioned the resemblance in passing.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Kit asked.

“Do about it? I’m going to bloody ignore it and let your Percy do what he pleases. He can ponce about in ermine all he bloody well likes, and I can . . . not do that, and everybody lives happily ever after.”

“I meant, what are you going to do after Percy tells the world that you’re the true Duke of Clare?”

Rob paused with his tankard halfway to his lips. “And why in hell would he do that?”

“He and the duchess didn’t much care for the idea of always being vulnerable to blackmailers,” Kit said. “They reckoned that if one person knew the truth, there would always be somebody knocking at the door. And what they’re doing is telling the truth, which I’m not sure needs an explanation.”

Rob put his head in his hands. These were the wages of sin people were always going on about. He was furious, and only more so because he had only himself to blame. “I already told my mother that I’d deny having ever met her and insist that my real mum is some nice lady who never married any dukes.”

“That’s one way of going about it, I suppose,” said Kit. “I don’t know how much your mother would like it. But I reckon they can’t make you inherit a fortune and a title if you insist that it’s a case of mistaken identity.” Kit paused, as if weighing his words. “I might have hoped that after the past year you’d have thought twice about running away from your problems.”

“Running away?” Rob scoffed. “I’m not running away from anything. I’m refusing to participate in inherited wealth.”

Kit sighed. If Rob didn’t know better, he’d think that Kit was trying to shame him into inheriting gobs of money. He changed the topic as best he could, asking Betty about a pawnbroker who was the bane of her existence, which set her off on a monologue.

While Rob listened, he thought of what Kit had said a moment earlier. He’d said that Lord Holland and Marian had intended all along to expose the duke’s bigamy. He was hardly in a position to blame anyone for keeping secrets. But her title and position were what stood between them and any kind of future. If she had meant to rid herself of those encumbrances, her choice to keep that information from him was tantamount to saying that she didn’t want anything more to do with him.

Except—no, that was all wrong. She had definitely believed that she was returning to London to live at Clare House and resume being the Duchess of Clare. And she had been miserable about it. He couldn’t make it add up.

“Well, I’m off,” Betty said, rising to her feet. “God knows what’s become of the shop without me or Kit there for an hour.” They had left the coffeehouse in the hands of some lad Rob had never met, the sight of whom viscerally reminded Rob of how much he had missed during his year away.