“Ah, Your Grace. A moment please.” A portly gentleman stepped before him with a bow which had his three chins jiggling.
A ducal nod and Fletcher sailed past him.
Usually, he took purses from the gentlemen. He’d linger outside the room the dandies played cards in, waited for a smug chap to exit and his deft fingers did the rest. He adored jewels since most were worth a great deal. He liked pretty little things.
Ah, Miss Cosgrove.
Fletcher had worked hard on affecting an upper crust accent, but it still slipped at times—and he also kept to dimly lit hallways and gardens, so no one noticed his formal wear was a bit patched and ill-fitted. The hardest part was not slouching against walls while looking down his nose at everyone as if they stank like the Thames in July.
He stepped onto the stones of the terrace, careful to keep clear of the direct light coming from the torches, nodding at various guests who kept bowing as he passed.
Great fun.
The gardens stretched out before him, appropriately dark for assignations with a great deal of whispers and giggles emanating from the depths. Every wealthy toff’s house in London had a garden, which Fletcher rather enjoyed given there was nothing but weeds in The Devil’s Acre. Gardens were incredibly useful for entering and exiting the fancy balls Fletcher found himself attending. He’d realized, at his first event playing duke, that each pampered lord and lady was announced as they entered, so he’d had to sprint away from that ball. There was also the matter of the carriages, a line of which stretched into the street from thehouse of the host. Not only did Fletcher not have a carriage, but he also didn’t even own a horse.
Much simpler to stroll onto the grounds through the gardens after climbing the wall, light a cheroot and simply…appear or disappear as the case may be.
He strolled nonchalantly to the edge of the garden wall before crawling over at the far corner, glancing about to make sure he wasn’t seen. He cursed softly as his coat caught on a sharp bit of stone, before dropping over on the other side. Secondhand or not, this coat had cost a small fortune and fit well enough. He couldn’t afford to buy another. Thankfully, the tear was small and not noticeable.
Whistling softly, Fletcher walked calmly down the narrow lane to a sack where he’d stashed his clothing. A coat that had seen better days along with a pair of trousers and scuffed boots with lose soles. Once his Roxboro clothing was tucked inside the sack and he’d transferred the jewels to the special inside pocket of his usual coat, Fletcher set out down the street. Pulling the brim of his hat low to hide his features, he walked a few more blocks and hailed a hack.
“Wood Street. Cheapside.” A better place to hide his stash than The Devil’s Acre.
Once in Cheapside, a much nicer neighborhood than the rookery he inhabited, Fletcher walked down a side street to a boarding house hidden tucked along a section of warehouses on Wood Street. If you didn’t know Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house was here, you might miss it.
Pulling out a key, Fletcher climbed the stairs to the second floor, opening the room he rented from Mrs. Baldwin. Paid her six months in advance for the space, which was no bigger than a closet, but she didn’t have many boarders and wasn’t likely to question the odd hours he came and went. Also, Mrs. Baldwin was elderly and likely needed the coin.
Besides, a rat should have more than one nest.
Once he’d hidden away his Roxboro clothing and the jewels, Fletcher hailed another hack, instructing the driver to leave him at St. Margaret Street. He’d come back in a day or two and retrieve the jewels. Hands in his pockets, whistling a bawdy tune, one of his favorites, he turned down Pye Street and straight into The Devil’s Acre.
Fletcher had always found it interesting that the seat of government, filled with all those fancy lords was only steps from one of the worst rookeries in London. Not that any of those toffs gave a pig’s ear for anyone living here, but you’d think they would have planned things better. A good pickpocket could make a fortune on his own when Parliament was in session.
He looked ahead at the warren of twisting streets. You could fairly smell the poverty and desperation in the air.
“Ah, home sweet home.”
Chapter Four
Scooting down analley on the way to The Dancing Swan, the pistol retrieved from Mrs. Baldwin’s at his back as well as the knives tucked in his boots, Fletcher sidestepped a pile of filthy clothes, unsurprised when the heap moved and spoke.
“Coin? Coin for gin?”
He ignored the drunken plea. If he stopped for every beggar whining for gin, he’d never make it out of this filthy warren of streets to the relative safety of the brothel he called home.
Charity wasn’t something those in The Devil’s Acre practiced.
Fletcher looked at the soot-stained buildings surrounding him, all in various stages of disrepair. Heard a baby crying. Nearly slipped in the contents of a chamber pot someone had tossed out the window, and whistled harder.
He detested every inch of this place.
Reaching the end of the alley, he approached a house in far better shape than most to be found here. The tinkling sound of a piano reached his ears leaking from somewhere inside. This residence had long ago been split in two, the half facing the street on the other side was The Dancing Swan. But in this alley, the entrance was for Mrs. Bean. The only connection between the two halves of the house was a door, hidden in the wall just down the hall from Mrs. Bean’s parlor.
Two half-dead peonies, struggling to stay alive in a red clay pot, graced the sagging stairs and chipped wood of the door. A useless exercise but at times, Mrs. Bean had flights of fancy.
Fletcher rapped sharply until a small peephole opened, revealing a bulbous nose.
“It’s me Ripps,” he said. “Open up.”
