The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(67)

“Yes,” Alice said proudly. “And at not even five months, too.”

“She’s a regular prodigy,” Marian said, momentarily filled with a pride she knew to be irrational.

“Will you be returning to Kent, Your Grace?” Alice asked.

“I’m not certain about my plans. But as soon as I know, I’ll tell you.” The household servants would need to know whether Percy and Marian intended to stay, or whether they too would have their lives thrown into turmoil if Percy revealed himself not to be the true Duke of Clare. Marian ought to begin writing their references now, as there were dozens of servants who would need new places. That reminded her of something. “Alice, where do your parents live?”

“Kentish Town,” the maid said with some surprise. “By St. Pancras.”

“Thank you.”

Marian watched the baby sleep for another moment, then returned to her bedchamber. Her own maid wasn’t there, thank heavens. Now, that was one member of the household who could look for a new post immediately, as she wasn’t spending another night under this roof. Marian would pay her the fortnight’s wages she was owed and even double it, as long as doing so meant not having to see one of the duke’s informants.

Come to think, there were probably other spies in the household besides the lady’s maid. And while they could no longer spy on her for the duke, she still couldn’t trust them. She didn’t think she could trust anyone in this house, except Alice and possibly Percy’s valet. She glanced around her apartments and knew she would never be comfortable here. She certainly never had been, although that owed more to her illness and the duke than anything else. But this place was poisoned for her. Her skin crawled at the prospect of spending another night here, let alone weeks and months.

It occurred to her that she didn’t have to. Percy could do as he pleased, but she didn’t have to go along with it. She could leave him up to his own devices, and—well, that was the problem. She had very little money of her own, and no way of getting any more unless she married again. And that was simply out of the question. She had made one ill-advised match, and she wasn’t ever again making the mistake of giving up control of her fate and fortune.

If Percy meant to conceal the duke’s bigamy, there would be a small widow’s portion left to Marian in the duke’s will. But she couldn’t let herself touch it. Whether for good or ill, she had killed the man and couldn’t profit from his death.

Perhaps Percy could help her hire a modest house, big enough for her father, Netley, Hester, and Nurse, along with Marian, Eliza, and Alice. That seemed like a paradise, almost impossibly ideal. And yet—it was a house. She remembered Rob’s embarrassment over spending money on his brown wool coat. He didn’t like spending money to indulge himself, and she didn’t like indulging herself full stop.

She walked around the perimeter of her sitting room, stepping softly on the plush carpet, her fingertips tracing along the polished woods and gilt surfaces. She didn’t have to stay here. She heard Rob’s words, telling her that just because something made her suffer didn’t mean it was the right choice.

She was out of the habit of wanting things. What was the point of wanting anything—anything that actually mattered, that was—if one wasn’t going to get it? What was the point of wanting anything if she had only a few years left?

But now she at least knew what she didn’t want, and it was to be in Clare House. She wanted a chance to figure out what she wanted, because right now all she could think of was that she wanted more time with Rob. She had dismissed that as ill-advised and impossible for a dozen reasons, but she was getting to be an old hand at doing things that were ill-advised and impossible.

She was about to ring for a bath when she heard footsteps outside her door. She braced herself to have to face her maid, but when the knock sounded, it was loud and impatient, not at all the quiet scratching she was used to from servants. “Come in!” she called.

Percy entered, dressed in an ensemble of a peacock blue so eye-wateringly bright that it nearly distracted her from the fact that Percy had to be terribly displeased with her.

“Percy,” she started, “I’m so sorry for running off like that. I can’t—”

“What are you wearing?” He stared at her in horror. “What is the meaning of this? What can be the provenance of these—these garments, Marian? Did they come from an attic?”

Marian glanced down at her gown, which was one of the gray worsteds she had found in the attic at Little Hinton. “Why, yes, they did. I thought they rather suited me.”

“They’d suit you perfectly well if it were twenty years ago.” He sank into a chair by the fire. “And if you were a provincial spinster who drank tea without any sugar and terrified all the neighborhood children.”

Marian, momentarily impressed with this aesthetic success, preened a little before remembering why she needed to speak to Percy. “Are you well? The last I saw you, you were bleeding and . . .” She trailed off. She hardly needed to remind Percy of the circumstances of their last meeting: him shot, her holding a smoking pistol, the duke bleeding.

“It was nothing more than a scrape,” Percy said, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m not even going to have an impressive scar. Those leather breeches are quite ruined, though, which is a pity, but Collins has already got me a new pair.”