The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(68)

Percy shifted in his seat, as if he didn’t quite know what to say next, and then got to his feet. Marian thought he meant to leave, so she automatically stood. The next thing she knew, his arms were around her and her face was being pressed into the peacock-blue silk of his coat. “I do apologize—I know we don’t ordinarily do this, but I’m so pleased to see that you’re well. You had me worried. When you disappeared after—after what happened, I thought you might have done something drastic.”

It was true that they didn’t ordinarily embrace; Marian wasn’t in the habit of embracing anybody and Percy was loath to wrinkle his clothes. She didn’t know what to do with her hands and settled for patting feebly at his back.

“I’m sorry that I—” She stopped before she could finish that statement with a lie. “I’m sorry that you had to see it.” She swallowed. “I didn’t plan to do it. That’s not why I was in the carriage that day.”

“I know that,” Percy said quickly, pulling back to look Marian in the eye. “I knew that all along. I know you better than that.”

She wanted to say that she was glad that he did, because at some point she had lost all sight of who she was. She wanted to tell him that the idea of leaving this life behind and starting something new—something she chose for herself—terrified her.

Instead she managed a watery smile and they both sat down again.

“What if we don’t talk about any of that,” Percy suggested. “And you don’t have to tell me where you’ve been this past fortnight if you’d rather not.”

Marian instantly felt guilty. This kindness was more than she deserved. He had to at least wonder why she had been in the carriage during the robbery, rather than safe in London. And she wanted to explain that to him—she wanted to explain everything to him—but right now he seemed light and happy in a way he seldom was, and she didn’t want to interfere with that. “It’s not a secret. At least, it wasn’t meant to be. I was with my father.”

“You went to Chiltern Hall?” Percy looked baffled.

“No. My father is in Kent. He’s been there for over a year. He’s not well, Percy. His mind wanders.” She could get into the details of her brother’s threats later on; for now she had more pressing matters to discuss. “Mr. Brooks was kind enough to take me to Kent. I wasn’t thinking clearly after the incident, and he was kindness itself.”

Percy looked faintly stunned. “And here I thought you had kidnapped him.”

“Oh, I did,” Marian said, abashed, “or at least I meant to, but we’ve made up. He told me that you’re acting as the Duke of Clare.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees and then immediately snatched her hands away, annoyed with herself to have resorted to nervous fidgeting while talking to Percy, of all people. “I suppose that means you’ve reconsidered your plan?” Her heart was pounding beneath the heavy wool of her gown and she hoped her anxiety didn’t show. “Because if you are, I’m happy for you, Percy, but I need to get out of here. This”—she gestured around them—“isn’t what I want and I don’t think I can stand it for another minute.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Percy said, a strange look on his face. “I’m arranging things so the estate’s assets are all being used in a way that’s less horrible than before. On the first of January, I’ll publicize my father’s first marriage, precisely as we planned, but by then I ought to have the estate in enough of a tangle that whoever inherits won’t be able to undo any of the changes I’ve made.”

“I see.” She was almost lightheaded with relief. The first of January was only a few days away. She could wait that long. “Good.”

“Marian, I would have checked with you if I had known where to find you. But even so, I’ve never known you to waver, and so I didn’t think you would this time.”

“I haven’t. I don’t want to go back to this. I don’t know what I’ll do instead, or where Eliza and I will live, but I’ll think of something.”

“About that. I bought a house. It’s on the small side but it’ll do for the two of us, Eliza, and a handful of servants.”

Marian tried to imagine living in a house with only Percy and Eliza. It seemed almost heavenly, too good to be true. “Where?”

“Covent Garden. Well . . . you see, it’s next door to Kit’s coffeehouse.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it, now?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Percy, sounding all of six years old.

“Rob told me that the two of you were quite disgusting together.”

“He’s Rob, now, is he?” Percy raised an eyebrow, then suddenly adopted an earnest mien. “Marian, you need to know that Mr. Brooks is—confound it, there’s no delicate way to put this—but I believe he’s the duke’s only legitimate son.”

That, Marian supposed, was the secret Rob had been keeping from her. She didn’t know why she wasn’t more surprised. It added up: his foster parents had lived on the duke’s estate; he looked like Percy; he was the right age. His mother could certainly be Elsie Terry. Most of all, he seemed to have a personal vendetta against the duke.

“That does complicate things,” she said. He should have told her. Why on earth hadn’t he? She supposed it was for the same reason he hadn’t wanted to tell Mr. Webb and Betty. He wanted people to look at him and see Rob, not a title and station he found hateful. She was aware that perhaps another person would have been annoyed or even hurt that Rob hadn’t confided in her, but when she thought of Rob believing he had to keep this secret to himself all she felt was an ache in her heart and a furious urge to protect him.