The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(71)

At the bottom of the pile was a letter addressed in a too-familiar hand. She broke the seal in such haste that she tore the flimsy paper, then smoothed it out on the table as if that would repair the tear.

It was indeed a love letter; however inexpert Rob believed it to be, it was precisely the sort of love letter she would have hoped to receive, if she had ever dreamed of receiving such a thing. He missed her, he thought of her, he asked after the things that mattered to her. He had evidently had a civil conversation with Percy, of all things.

She had once jested that she would press love letters between the pages of the Aeneid. She doubted there was a copy of that volume in this house, and even if there were, she didn’t want it. Instead she folded the letter into a neat square and tucked it into her bodice.

But after visiting Eliza, she was faced with an entire day and nothing to do. She certainly wasn’t going to spend a single unnecessary minute in Clare House, so she dressed for the day in her most somber gown and had the carriage bring her to a house near Covent Garden.

“Are you quite certain, Your Grace?” the coachman asked when Marian gave him the address.

“I’m starting a charitable home for fallen women,” Marian said, not particularly caring whether the lie sounded plausible.

The door was opened by a woman carrying a mop and a bucket. She wore a cap and an apron and had to be at least fifty. She reminded Marian of nobody so much as Hester.

“I’m here to see Mistress Scarlett,” Marian said, feeling ridiculous about using the lady’s sobriquet. “It’s about her son.”

The woman gave her an appraising glance and wordlessly ushered her in. The house was quiet, and Marian realized belatedly that at ten in the morning most women of this profession were likely still asleep.

The parlor that Marian was shown into was furnished in much the same way as Marian’s own private sitting room at Clare House: pale silks, delicately tinted landscape paintings, a plush settee with gilt legs. On the settee sat a plump, red-headed woman of indeterminate age and Dinah.

Well. For a few days, Marian had surmised that Dinah and Rob’s mother were friends. That explained how Dinah was able to supply Mr. Webb’s name when Marian had asked for a highwayman and also how Rob’s mother had learned the details of Marian’s illness. It also might explain why Dinah had, now that Marian thought back on it, perhaps recognized Rob after Marian tied him to the bed.

What she hadn’t known was that the two women were the kind of friends who sat around in peignoirs with their hair still obviously disheveled from sleep.

“I’m so glad you called,” said Rob’s mother, rising to her feet, for all the world as if Marian were an expected visitor. Marian remembered Rob saying that his mother knew everything.

“I wanted to make your acquaintance,” Marian said, trying to sound warm and interested in the way Rob did when meeting people. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Do take a seat, Your Grace.”

“Marian,” Marian said, sitting in a chair by the fire. “I’m not a duchess, and all the world will know that in less than a week. I’m not certain what to call you. I don’t think you go by Elsie Terry any longer.”

“Scarlett will do just fine, my dear,” said Rob’s mother, not betraying any surprise that Marian knew the name she had used when she married the duke. “And what is it that my son said to make you wish to see me?”

“He said you were a good parent.”

Both the women on the settee went still, as if they had been prepared to hear anything but that.

“He told me that you paid for his education, and that can’t have been a small expense, considering how well educated he is. And he told me that when he was in trouble, he went to you.”

“These are trifles,” Scarlett said, and Marian knew that tone, knew that way of brushing off accusations of kindness. She hadn’t previously noted more than a superficial resemblance between mother and son, but there it was.

“Why did you tell him about the duke?” This had troubled Marian since Percy told her about Rob’s parentage. Surely Rob’s mother knew how her son would react to such a thing, and if she had kept it a secret for over twenty years, why not continue to keep it a secret? “Why not let him remain blissfully ignorant?”

“Because the truth has a way of making itself known, whether we like it or not.”

“You might have told him at any time. But you waited until last year.”

“Because,” Scarlett said slowly, “of you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The duke married you. It was one thing when he married Holland’s mother. She was the duke’s equal. And I don’t entirely mean that as praise, however much I admired that lady. She had her own reasons for putting up with his ways. But you obviously didn’t know what you were getting yourself into. Sometimes, if I get wind of an inadvisable marriage, I try to make sure the lady gets warned off. Not that she always listens, mind you, but I can try. In this case, however, he went off to the country and came back a month later with you. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a courtship.”

“But,” Marian said, her mind reeling, “how did telling Rob about the duke help me?”

“Because, dear, she knew Rob would go to you with the information. He can’t resist helping people,” said Dinah, speaking for the first time since Marian entered the room. “And then you could choose whether to do something about it.”