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

by Cat Sebastian

There had been a time when Marian would have described herself as an intelligent woman, or at least not an idiot. Or, if an idiot, certainly not the most benighted fool in the kingdom. Now she was quite certain that even the greatest simpleton in all the world could not have bungled things to the extent that she had done. She was coming to believe that she had an unprecedented talent for catastrophe, a rare and legendary gift. When she and her daughter found themselves destitute and friendless, perhaps Marian could earn her living by penning her memoirs, a cautionary tale for young ladies who might think themselves clever enough to solve all their family’s problems through the simple expedient of marrying up in the world. Marriage: Far More Trouble Than You Might Think would be the title of her treatise. Although, even that probably wouldn’t be of much use to anybody, as she had to believe that marrying bigamous dukes was not a problem that afflicted too many women. At least, she hoped it wasn’t, because she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy. Not that she knew who her worst enemy was anymore—at this point one could people a village with contenders to that title. No, that was inaccurate, and even in desperate times one must resist the urge to resort to self-deception: her worst enemy was the duke, second was herself, and third was her blackmailer. Now, that was a fortifying thought, and one she would be sure to include in her next letter. “Dear Sir, Under ordinary circums...

There was also something else she had to do: she had left a man tied to a bed, and she needed to make sure he was . . . well might not be entirely accurate. But if Dinah had been called away or something had happened to prevent her from checking on him, then he might be left there indefinitely, and Marian wasn’t going to be responsible for a man starving to death. Being responsible for one death a day was quite sufficiently iniquitous. In breeches and sensible boots, it was a fifteen-minute walk to the room she had hired to keep the blackmailer. In a traveling gown and dainty ankle boots, it took far longer. She was out of breath, more from nerves than exertion, when she climbed the final set of stairs, but her hands were almost steady when she removed the key from above the door frame and turned it in the lock. The room was empty and dark and the window stood wide open. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the shadows and another moment still for her thoughts to catch up to her eyes. The bed was empty. The man was gone. Well, it hardly mattered now, did it. She had only wanted to ensure that he was out of the way and didn’t jeopardize the robbery, but the robbery had already gone about as badly as it could have done. Good riddance, then. One less thing to worry about. Marian tried to rummage through the buzzing chaos in her mind and figure out what to do. She was covered in blood, standing in a room she had hired for the express purpose of imprisoning a man, and she...

What a trick it was to be able to say I beg your pardon in a way that meant fuck off and die, and to look serene and saintly while saying it.

“What is wrong with you? What possessed you to travel on such a night?” “Wanted to see you, love. The roads are in a state, let me tell you.” His voice sounded ragged and his face was red with cold. He didn’t even have a muffler, the idiot. She wanted to kiss him—she wanted to check him for frostbite—she wanted to yell at him for traveling in dangerous weather and for all the other risks he had ever taken in his life. “Get in the kitchen so I can pour some brandy down your throat and then slap you.” “Promises.”

“There’s brandy in the cupboard on your left. Pour two glasses and tell me what news you brought.” Something occurred to her—something she ought to have realized the minute she saw him at such an hour, in such weather. “I suppose it can’t have been good news, if you were in such a hurry to—” He took hold of her hand with fingers that were icy cold. “It’s fine news, Marian. Eliza’s well. Percy’s well. The duke is dead, and nobody got a good look at the highwayman who shot him.” She went rigid. This was the best possible news, and she supposed she ought to be happy, but instead the relief hit her like a blow to the head. Everything was as well as it could be, which was far more than she deserved. For a week now, she had been doing whatever she could to ignore her worries and instead concentrate her efforts on doing what had to be done. And now that it was over, she felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The hand holding her own became an arm wrapped around her, a solid body holding her close. He didn’t say anything, which was good because there was probably nothing intelligent that could be said to a grown adult who was, it had to be admitted, sobbing on the kitchen floor. A glass of brandy somehow found its way into her hand and she drank half of it in one shaky gulp, spilling some onto her chin. Rob swiped it away with the cuff of his shirt, as if tidying up people in the throes of hysterics was all quite ordinary, nothing remarkable at all. To her side, the ca...