The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(78)

Fanshawe hesitated, clearly deciding whether to call for help. In the end, the pistol Marian aimed at him was the more compelling argument. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he called. “My pistol went off unexpectedly.”

Marian waited while they listened to the sound of footsteps receding down the corridor. Fanshawe remained perfectly still. He was somewhere between thirty and forty, had hair the color of sawdust, and wore a coat so ugly it had to have cost a fortune. He looked like any other gentleman and probably acted like them, too. There was nothing especially villainous about his appearance, but then there hadn’t been anything about his actions that most people would count as villainy: he had simply raised the rent on someone who wasn’t in a position to refuse him and had taken some papers whose owner would never notice were missing.

“I had an entire speech planned,” Marian said.

“Oh did you,” Rob cut in. “Did you now.”

Rob thought he saw the corner of Marian’s mouth lift into a smile. “You can scold me later,” she said, never taking her eyes off Fanshawe. “But now I’ve been shot and nobody’s in the mood for speeches. So, listen here, Sir John. I simply don’t have any more patience left. Does anything you’ve seen tonight make you think that I’d hesitate to sneak into your bedroom and smother you in your sleep? Because you don’t look terribly bright but you also don’t seem an utter incompetent.”

“You’ll hang for this.”

“I really won’t, though. What will you say? That the Duchess of Clare broke into your house and threatened your life? Nobody would believe it. Besides, I came here to take exactly what you stole from my father, not a penny more, and you shot me for my trouble. I haven’t committed even the tiniest crime.”

That was true if one forgot about the breaking and entering as well as the pistol, but Rob wasn’t going to point that out.

Fanshawe sputtered. “That’s a gross—”

“Are you really going to argue with me at a time like this? Of all the foolish wastes of breath. If you need an added incentive to be a decent human being, understand that if you say a word about what happened here tonight, I’ll tell all your friends about that card game.”

“What do you—you can’t possibly—”

“Let’s take it as read that I do. Don’t be tedious. Now, we need to cut this short before I ruin your carpet with even more blood. Give me the papers you took from my father.”

Rob watched as Fanshawe opened a desk drawer and retrieved a sheaf of papers, then thumbed through until he found the ones Marian wanted. He reached out to offer them to her.

“Not to me, you buffoon. Do you think I want to get blood on four-hundred-year-old vellum? You may be willing to ruin your possessions,” she said, gesturing to the steadily growing puddle of blood on the carpet, “but some of us were raised better. Give it to him.” She gestured at Rob, who took the fragile manuscripts. “Now give me ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds!”

“That’s the amount you increased the rent, you great lummox.”

And that, Rob supposed, was true if Marian was collecting interest at a usurious rate, but he wasn’t going to point that out, either.

With a shaking hand, Fanshawe handed over a banknote.

“Well, I daresay we’re done here. I’d ask for your word that you aren’t going to increase rent on any of your tenants, but I doubt your word is worth much. Instead you may have my word that I’ll find out if you do. Now, you’ll stay put while we leave, just to let your temper cool,” Marian told Fanshawe and then finally, finally she was walking toward Rob.

“Don’t even think of exiting by the window,” Rob told her under his breath. “Not in your state.”

They left by the front door.



Rob held it together until they were outside.

“Let me look at it,” he urged her.

“It’s scarcely bleeding at all,” Marian said, not breaking stride. “I just couldn’t put pressure on it because then I would have had to let go of the pistol. It’s hardly even a graze.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it. There’s a public house around the corner. We can go there and see if they have—”

“I’m going home. It’s a five-minute walk.”

“What’s going on?” asked Kit, crossing the street from where he had been keeping watch on Fanshawe’s house.

“Marian’s been shot in the arm.”

“The merest scratch!” Marian called, continuing to stride away in the direction, Rob realized, of Clare House. She and Percy hadn’t yet decamped to the house next door to Kit’s.

“Percy’s going to kill me,” said Kit.

“He’s going to kill all of us,” called Marian over her shoulder.

Rob caught up with her. There was no way Kit could keep pace with them, not with his limp. He turned and saw that Kit was already making his way in the opposite direction, where he would presumably inform Percy of what had happened.

Rob took out his kerchief and wrapped it tightly around Marian’s arm. “Don’t even consider complaining,” he warned. “You had a speech ready? Exactly how much of our plan had you decided to ignore? And why didn’t you let me in on what you meant to do?”