Fletcher Bean turnedhis back on Miss Cosgrove, ferocious chaperone, annoying gnat and lady’s companion, wanting to be as far away from her as possible. There had been a moment, one that stretched between them, in which he’d nearly done something stupid.
In Fletcher’s world, one inhabited by those that would slit your throat for a bottle of gin, you didn’t take chances. Instead of disappearing when his fingers wrapped around the emerald pendant, he’d stuck around to…
A lady’s companion.
He wasn’t even sure what one did. There weren’t any in The Devil’s Acre. Nor chaperones. While Fletcher had learned to sound like a duke fairly well, his knowledge was limited in regard to titles and manners. What hedidknow was Roxboro was bowed to and fawned over at every turn, which Fletcher found to be highly entertaining. He didn’t usually speak so much at affairs such as these or to his marks at all given the patrician accent he struggled with might slip and be noticed.
As it had briefly this evening with Miss Cosgrove. He’d been studying her mouth and not paying attention to matters at hand.
Thatbit was worrisome. She wasn’t a cabbage head like the chit she’d been defending. Miss Cosgrove had kicked Fletcher hard enough in the shin to leave a bruise.
Delicious little thing.
He did not give that opinion lightly. Fletcher had grown up surrounded by lovely, half-naked women who, when he turned all of fifteen, offered to relieve him of his virginity with a wink and a grab. Of his cock. As the grandson of a brothel owner, it was taken for granted that he could dip his prick whenever he wanted, though Fletcher abstained. Every woman in The Devil’s Acre, and most outside of it, were only too happy to bed him. Barmaids. The baker’s daughter. Married women. Widows. That isn’t to say he was arrogant about his appearance, he was not. Only that Fletcher was aware of the effect his handsome face had on the fairer sex. And having grown up around women, he was likely more attuned to them than most men, which made him sympathetic to their needs. Most females liked him a great deal.
Not so Miss Cosgrove.
“Bothersome little gnat.”
The weight of the diamond earbobs, ruby stickpin and the emerald pendant all unknowingly whisked off necks, ears and cravats during this ball of Lady Whatever’s—he never bothered to learn the name of the host because what did it matter—sat heavy in his coat. Not even Fletcher would dare to walk into The Devil’s Acre with a small fortune in jewels stuck in the hidden pocket of his second-hand formal wear. He’d have to make his way to Cheapside before heading back to The Dancing Swan.
Summer grass. That’s what she’d smelled like.
Or the wildflowers in Hyde Park, just beginning to burst from the ground in spring. The aroma still lingered in his nostrils, mixing with the smell of pomade as he passed an older gent, who bowed at Fletcher as he passed. Annoying to say the least. Staid, prim women, which Miss Cosgrove most certainly happened to be, didn’t appeal to him. Though that might be because Fletcher didn’t actually know any. Not a lot of prim in The Devil’s Acre. Even so, he’d never once attempted liberties with any of thenitwits he stole from, nor did he even so much as considered stealing a kiss.
Ah, no. That’s not right.
There had been that one chit, a month or so ago. The one with the sapphire bracelet. There had been desire involved that night, but his had been for the jewels and not the girl herself. But Fletcher had needed a distraction to slip the bracelet off her wrist, which should have been far easier given she’d been swilling champagne like some sot when he found her. Overly chatty. A trifle plump.
Fletcher paused as the crowd parted around him.
Hmm.
Miss Cosgrove kept insisting Roxboro was nearly wed. Was it to that talkative, champagne swilling girl with the sapphire bracelet? He belatedly recalled the older gentleman who’d rushed into the garden after he kissed her and slipped the bracelet into his pocket. He’d fled immediately, of course. Wouldn’t do to be caught with a small fortune on his person, all of it stolen. The older gent had been thundering over though Fletcher had only pecked the chit on the lips. He wouldn’t even call it a proper kiss. The upper classes placed far too much value on a woman’s virtue, in Fletcher’s opinion. Forcing a man to wed some skirt because he’d kissed her.
A derisive snort came from him.Ridiculous.
“Your Grace.”
An older woman suddenly appeared before him, dripping with diamonds which had Fletcher salivating, though he hadn’t the time to steal them tonight. He’d already been at this particular event far too long. A shame because very little flattery was required with the more aged ladies of theton.
The lady dropped into a small curtsey, something Fletcher had become used to as a greeting for Roxboro. All that bending and such couldn’t be good for this woman’s brittle bones. Henearly helped her straighten but thought better of it. A duke probably wouldn’t.
“I wish to introduce you to—” she started to say.
Fletcher gave her his “ducal nod,” something he’d practiced to great effect in a mirror and strode away, mentally calculating the value of that stunning choker circling her throat. His fingers twitched at the thought of all those jewels. Christ, the sum they’d fetch. But he’d outstayed his welcome. One of his marks might notice they were missing their necklace. Or earbobs. Though it was unlikely they’d connect the loss to having been in the duke’s company. Or accuse Roxboro of theft. Even Fletcher knew such a thing wasn’t done.
Still, best not to take chances.
He did enjoy playing duke. Nothing could match the thrill of lifting a stickpin or bracelet right out from under the noses of these toffs. There was also the matter of outsmarting Lark, who claimed Fletcher incapable of picking a pocket properly, was a terrible thief and patently useless.
A ruse. One Fletcher had been taught to play.
If Lark had any inkling that not only was Fletcher a more than decent pickpocket, could wield a knife expertly or, God forbid, knew Fletcher resembled a bloody duke, things would become…difficult. Mrs. Bean encouraged him to hone his skills, reminding him that it was always best to be underestimated, but even she didn’t know Fletcher was going about pretending to be a duke. Doing so had only solidified his determination to not spend his life wallowing in the sewer that was The Devil’s Acre. He planned to leave one day.
And that day was coming soon. But for now? He’d be Roxboro as long as he could and amass a fortune.
Little pigeons, like that cabbage Cerise, always behaved in the same stunned fashion when the Duke of Roxboro’s gaze landed on them. Just claiming to have seen a young lady walkingin the park was usually enough to let down their guard. He rarely asked for their names nor did they offer one…because they assumed that the Duke of Roxboro knew who they were. And Fletcher pretended he did.
