The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(72)

Scarlett made a disapproving sound. “I did not expect him to blackmail you. That was badly done.”

“It worked out well enough, I suppose,” Marian said, a little stunned. “Except for the duke dying, I mean.”

“That is the very definition of well,” Scarlett said firmly. “Not that I have any idea who pulled the trigger.”

“Such a mystery,” Dinah agreed blandly, dropping a lump of sugar into her tea.

Marian supposed that she could choose to be upset that all along, Rob’s mother had been manipulating circumstances to her own ends. But that, she decided, would be a waste of emotion. And besides, it was oddly comforting to know that there had been a plan, even if it hadn’t been hers.

“Before I leave,” Marian said, “You may be aware that I plan to retrieve a few of my father’s belongings from Sir John Fanshawe’s house.”

“Is that all?” murmured Rob’s mother.

“I’ll also help myself to some trifles in order to repay the amount he took from my father unfairly.” Marian reasoned that there was no point in attempting to conceal anything from Rob’s mother; she already seemed to know everything that happened in this town. “Rob mentioned that you were going to give him some information to help with this plan.”

Mistress Scarlett regarded Marian for a moment, then exchanged a glance with Dinah. “That does tend to be my role in the operation.”

From this, Marian gathered that Rob’s mother played a regular part in Rob and Mr. Webb’s criminal enterprises, along with Betty the fence and heaven knew who else. Interesting. “Well, I wonder if you have any information that Sir John Fanshawe might find embarrassing to have revealed to his friends.”

“Are you going to blackmail him?”

“Nothing so vulgar,” Marian said. “The secret is only a small incentive for him to behave himself.”

Scarlett looked thoughtful, then went to her writing desk. A moment later she returned, handing a piece of paper to Marian. “I wonder if giving people incentives to behave themselves is something you’d be interested in doing on a more regular basis?” she asked. When Marian didn’t respond, she went on. “Never mind. You can get back to me later.”

Her next stop was Mr. Webb’s coffeehouse. It was high time for her to meet this man Rob loved as a brother and for whom Percy had rearranged his life. She looked to either side of the coffeehouse in an attempt to guess which house Percy had purchased. One wasn’t a house at all, but a greengrocer with a few rooms on top; Marian doubted that Percy would consider that in any way suitable. On the other side was a neat brick building, three windows across and four stories high, although that final story was an attic. It was probably only a little larger than Little Hinton, but with the space arranged vertically rather than horizontally. It would do for Percy, Eliza, and herself quite well, although Marian could see that it was really meant for Percy and Mr. Webb. That didn’t mean that she’d be unwelcome there, but it did give her pause.

It would not, however, accommodate Marian’s father and his household, and indeed the idea of cramming an elderly earl, a highwayman, a baby, the bigamous wife of a duke, and whatever on earth Percy considered himself these days under one roof was too farcical for Marian to take seriously. She would still need to somehow hire a house for her father. Somewhere near enough at hand for Marian to keep an eye on him, fine enough that she wouldn’t be ashamed to house her father there, and not ruinously expensive. This seemed fantastical, but fantastical things were happening every day.

Before she could think better of it, she opened the door to the coffeehouse. She was immediately assailed by the smell of tobacco and coffee. The pipe smoke was so thick that she could hardly see clear to the back wall of the place. A glance around the room confirmed that all the patrons were men.

There were two people who stood out as distinct from the customers. One was a dark-skinned woman slightly younger than Marian who wore a cap and apron that were both immaculate and highly starched; this had to be Betty. The other stood near the hearth, gazing at a pot in a way that was somehow both proprietary and menacing, as if the contents of that pot had better start cooperating or else. He was broad shouldered and tall, with dark hair that looked like it had never known what it was to be tidy. Even if he hadn’t been leaning heavily on a walking stick, Marian would have known that this was Mr. Webb.

Having never been inside a coffeehouse, she wasn’t sure about the etiquette. Did one simply take any seat one wished, cramming oneself between strangers? Where did one pay? How much did one pay? Pondering these questions, she dithered too long in the doorway and was nearly run down by a group of rowdy young gentlemen entering from the street. To avoid getting trampled, she pressed her back against the wall.

When she looked up, Mr. Webb was staring at her even more menacingly than he had looked at the coffeepot. But when his eyes flickered to the raucous gentlemen, she realized his baleful gaze had been directed at them all along. This made her feel in perfect sympathy with the man. She, too, wished to direct her most malign of stares at men who jostled past strangers in places of public accommodation. This gave her the courage to cross the room.

“I beg your pardon. You are Mr. Webb, are you not?”

He gave her a quick up-and-down look. “Depends who’s asking,” he grumbled. Good heavens, was this how he treated all prospective customers? She very much feared that it was.