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‘Good.’
‘But are you absolutely--’
‘Do you have the money for my ticket with you? I will reimburse you as soon as I have money of my own.’
‘Abigail, there is no need for that. All I need is for you to be happy.’
Happy. She had felt happy over the previous days, hidden away in the cave with Marcus. Lying in his arms, talking to him. Abigail shivered; it was as if a possible future, an array of opportunities, had withered and died inside her.
‘I have to go, Mary. I have already given you and Winnie far too much trouble.’
‘Making sure that you are safe and not wedded to a man you loathe is no trouble at all to Winnie and I. You will be safe and capable of flourishing on the Continent, and we both know your family won’t go to the trouble and expense of either locating you or bringing you back.’ Mary paused. ‘But… but have you considered that you would be safe here, as well? With His Grace?’
Abigail bit her lip. The thought of considering it—considering it openly, not in the private world where her fantasies resided—made her heart constrict with longing and regret.
She hadn’t allowed herself to consider it fully. Even though she had taken steps to free herself from sadness, from a life guided by fear and duty, she was still behaving as if she was trapped in the carriage awaiting her wedding the next day. Losing herself in fantasies, in a shepherd’s hut with a man who didn’t exist rather than seizing the reality in front of her.
She had rejected Marcus due to fear. Fear that he would lie, that she wouldn’t be enough for him.
‘Think about it, Abigail. Please.’
‘I can’t. Too late.’ Her decisions up to this point had been a mixture of very good and very bad indeed. Best to draw a line under the whole mess and move onward, even if her heart was breaking. ‘I have no luggage, Mary. We can leave now.’
Mary looked at her for a long, fraught moment. Then, with a straightening of her shoulders and a slight shake of her head, her usual cool expression returned.
‘Well, then.’ She took Abigail’s hand, ushering her towards the carriage. ‘We will visit my preferred modiste to procure gowns—plain things—and then Winnie is ready to house you until the boat leaves. Almost there, dear. Almost there.’
Almost there. Almost free of the destiny placed upon her by her father, almost free of the life she had been desperate to escape. But as Abigail cast a brief, pained look back at Brookes Manor, at the honey-coloured stone and rose petals scattered on the gravelled path, she couldn’t help but feel that she was making a terrible mistake.
The Oak Tree, a shabby watering hole on an equally shabby street some yards away from one of London’s largest slaughterhouses, was almost completely anonymous. It’s name wasn’t spoken by anyone above a certain class—even the name of the street was unknown—and among the poor who did know of it, the men and women who worked hard in legitimate industries spoke of it with immense disdain. The Oak Tree, or the Oak to those who knew of its existence, was a place for criminals—people who courted trouble and liked doing so.
Marcus was very fond of the place. At least, he’d been fond of it back when he was capable of feeling fondness, an emotion that had vanished when he’d returned to the manor and found Abigail gone. Now that he was little more than a husk, a miserable bit of fluff left floating on the wind without purpose, he could only feel faint embers of the sentiment he’d once felt for the dirty, smoky little pub.
At least it was quiet. Everyone here was either drinking their way into stupor or drinking their way out of one, with the time in-between spent murmuring things not meant for the ears of any Bow Street Runner. And when it wasn’t quiet—when there was a brawl, or a raid, or any other number of things that could cause considerable embarrassment to an aristocrat found drinking inside it—Marcus found more salubrious places to be.
But he didn’t want to be anywhere salubrious now. He wanted to be exactly where he was; holed up in the darkest corner of the Oak, nursing a mug of cheap and powerful beer, and telling Adam Hart and Jim Brightman—two thoroughly disreputable criminals who also happened to be his most loyal friends—exactly what had happened with Abigail Weeks.
Adam and Jim listened with a gratifying amount of attentiveness. It was only as Marcus finished the sad tale, burying his face in his hands for a short but gratifying moment of pure misery, that Adam leaned forward and spoke.
‘Forgive me. I’m clearly not understanding something very important.’ Adam gave a small, martyred sigh. ‘You told her that you’re not, in fact, a heartless criminal like the rest of us… and she’s angry with you about that?’
‘Absolutely furious.’ Marcus took a melancholic sip of his beer. None of his usual pleasures held any joy whatsoever since Abigail had left. ‘More angry than I’ve ever seen anyone.’
‘And given you rob people for fun, I imagine you’ve seen a great deal of anger.’ Jim chuckled; Marcus glared at him, but the expression had no effect. ‘Miss Weeks must be quite a force.’
‘She’s wonderful.’
‘She did force you to kidnap her and then get angry about you being a wealthy, titled gentleman rather than a merciless thief.’ Adam shrugged. ‘Hardly the most reasonable of ladies.’
‘She’s very reasonable. Just along her own lines rather than everyone else’s.’ Marcus sighed. Adam and Jim were excellent gentlemen in their way, both masters of their admittedly illegal arts, but when it came to sentiment they were somewhat unpractised. ‘And without her reasoning, I… I’m bereft.’
Adam and Jim looked at one another. From the twin expressions of bewildered shock on their faces, Marcus knew that he was taking their formerly jocular friendship into murkier and more complex waters.
‘Look. You don’t have to help me. I’m not asking for help.’ He put down his mug of beer. ‘I have other people I can talk to about this.’
‘Oh, yes. Because rich bastards who’ve never had to solve a problem in their lives will manage an affair of the heart so much better than us.’ Jim snorted. ‘We’ve loved and lost, you know.’
‘You have?’
