The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(70)

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because this afternoon, when Marian was telling me about all the horrible things that befell her in the past two weeks, she never stopped smiling. Not once. Most disconcerting. She referred to you as ‘kindness itself,’ which, I will tell you, nearly made me quite sick. And evidently you traipsed up and down the Canterbury road simply to do her bidding. Very gallant. Now, onto less pleasant matters. Do you have a trade? A source of income? Some kind of profession?”

Rob stared for a moment. Was Holland sizing him up as a candidate for Marian’s hand? No, the thought was too absurd. “Are you mad? Of course I don’t. I’m a thief.”

“Oh good. That is a relief. I couldn’t bear to see Marian settle down with someone who was in trade.”

“For Christ’s sake, Holland. She’s not settling down with anyone! And neither am I, for that matter.”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether you call it marriage or settling down or whether the two of you start a traveling circus. I will point out, though, that most people wouldn’t consider falling in love and inheriting a dukedom to be bad things, per se.”

“Dukedom,” Rob spat.

“There’s no law saying that you have to touch the money or use the title. Give the money away. Refuse to use the title. Turn Clare House into a foundling home and Cheveril Castle into a leper colony.”

Holland had gone pale as he spoke and there was a forced lightness to his voice. The title and legacy meant something to Holland, but he had decided not to fight for it—partly on principle, but partly, Rob guessed, for Kit. Holland had made a choice he didn’t entirely like. So had Kit, who couldn’t have been delighted about falling for an aristocrat, no matter what he said.

Rob didn’t know how to explain that the money and the title—both of which were despicable, obviously—weren’t even the crux of the problem. “I don’t want anything that was his,” he said from between gritted teeth.

“Ah. Well. You already have plenty that was his, if you’ll forgive my saying so. Your nose and your cheekbones, notably. Your height. Your ability to look well in even the most appalling of garments.”

“Enough.” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “I understand your point. I just—it’s going to take a while to get used to it.” He had spent a year fiercely denying it to himself.

“Excellent. You’re not an idiot, even if you do wear your hair like that,” Holland said earnestly. He drained his pint and got to his feet. “Start with what matters. Everything else is mere trifles, Rob. You have until the first of January to get used to calling me Percy, because after that I won’t answer to anything else.” And with that, he left.

Rob, thinking he had better sober up, waved over the innkeeper and ordered supper, and then, remembering his promise to Marian, asked for paper, pen, and ink.





Interstitial




Dearest Marian,

I had grand plans to write you something witty and entertaining, something to amuse you while you do whatever it is you ordinarily do all day when you aren’t with me, but all I can think of is that I miss you. It’s hardly a surprise; I’ve been dreading missing you for days now, but the reality exceeds the anticipation.

I hope you’re not too miserable. I know you weren’t pleased about going back. Is the baby well? Has the cat engaged in any witchcraft? I saw your Percy this evening and he told me a story that began with horse theft and ended with assault and battery, and all I can say is that you clearly had a life of crime and adventure long before meeting me.

Tonight—your tonight, the day you read this—I’ll be at the Royal Oak near Charing Cross. I likely shouldn’t ask you to meet me, so I won’t; instead know that I’d be pleased so see you (trust that this is an understatement). I’d also understand if you can’t get away from whatever it is that people like you do—and I don’t even mean that in an insulting way, only that it kills me not to be able to picture you, not to know what you’re about, after having been in your pocket for so long.

I want nothing more than to be in your pocket, Marian. I would alter my life in any way you required and that thought terrifies me. There are things I ought to tell you, secrets you’ll have every reason to be cross with me for keeping. I’ll come clean when I see you.

This letter is an exercise in why one shouldn’t write when one’s been drinking. It’s a poor excuse for a love letter and there’s no style to it at all.

Entirely yours,

Rob





Chapter 33




Marian didn’t dare hope that there would be a letter from Rob so soon, so she didn’t shuffle through the stack of correspondence looking for a boldly scrawled address as she had so many times back in the autumn.

There were five condolence letters, each using a rote formula Marian had herself employed many times. There was a letter from Richard, which Marian threw directly into the fire. There was also a letter from Richard’s wife, encouraging Marian to make her home with them, and if Marian had needed a vision of a life that could be more oppressive than remaining at Clare House, it was living as a dowager aunt with Richard and his family. Marian had met her sister-in-law exactly three times, and each time that lady expressed a fervent desire to change everything about Marian’s manners, morals, dress, conversation, and habits—and still, Marian vastly preferred her to Richard.