“Evenin’ Fletch.” Ripps, a big brutish lout of indeterminate age, opened the door waving him inside. “Wondering when you’d get back. That skirt in Cheapside keeping you busy?” His brows, like two overgrown caterpillars, wiggled suggestively.
“Rare form tonight, Ripps. Damn near took my cock off,” he answered, as the larger man shut and locked the door behind him.
Ripps thought Fletcher had a woman as did everyone else. A widow whose husband sadly died a year ago. Safer that way. If he was seen headed in the direction of Cheapside, no one would question visiting a skirt, not even Lark. So far, no one had seemed too interested in his widow, nor in Fletcher going off to Cheapside.
Not even Mrs. Bean.
Ripps howled with laughter. “Aye. Them widows are wild. I warned you.”
“You did, Ripps,” he agreed with a smile.
Fletcher didn’t trust Ripps. Not the bigger man’s fault of course. He had as much faith in Ripps as he did anyone else in The Devil’s Acre, which was to say, not enough to divulge any real secrets. Ripps had worked for Mrs. Bean at least five years, just after the last doorman for The Dancing Swan died during a brawl. He was likely in Lark’s pocket. Nearly everyone was.
“How’s The Swan tonight?” Fletcher asked, though he didn’t care. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Any trouble?”
“Nah.” Ripps winked at him. “The usual crowd. Had to throw one little lordling out after he thought it’d be great fun to carveup Martha.” Ripps’ ugly face turned murderous. “Won’t be doing that again. Broke his hand.”
“Good man, Ripps. And Martha?”
“A bit banged up but otherwise no worse for the wear. Mrs. Bean gave her the night off.” He smiled, showing off the place where his front teeth had once been. “Patched her up and such.”
“If she’s poorly tomorrow, have her stay in bed,” Fletcher said, irritated he even had to advise the doorman of a brothel that a prostitute might not be well enough to work.
“Mrs. Bean—” The big man gave him a look.
“I’ll speak to her Ripps.”
Unless one of her girls was bleeding excessively, bones had been broken, or a face badly bruised, Mrs. Bean usually dabbed a cloth over the worst of it and sent the girl back to the parlor for the next patron to enjoy.
Mrs. Bean wasn’t known for her compassion. Never had been.
“Lark was here earlier. Asked after you.” Ripps’ eyes shifted to the right. “Told ’im you were off with your ladybird.”
Fletcher regarded the other man calmly with a wink. “Sorry to have missed him but I’m sure he understood. Widows tend to be insatiable.”
“Yeah, he said you were likely gin-drunk too. Said you probably stumbled right between her thighs.” Ripps roared with laughter again. “I say we should all be so lucky, Fletch.”
“Only a little gin-drunk.” Fletcher grinned back.
Lark assumed Fletcher to be an inept, skirt-chasing wastrel, dependent on Mrs. Bean for everything and good for nothing else but managing the ledgers of a brothel, which she claimed he did a poor job of, but she had to give him something to do.
Lord of Pye Street for nearly three decades, Lark commanded a ring of footpads, cutpurses and pickpockets, most of them orphaned children who swarmed around Parliament. He dealtin gin, favors, and dubious protection. Whether you needed his services or not wasn’t the point. When Fletcher had been a child, Lark had encouraged him, in a fatherly way, to steal a purse without the mark knowing it. The man was drunk. The filching easy. Fletcher had bragged to Mrs. Bean about his sticky fingers, how Lark wanted him to come stay in the shanty with the other pickpockets. He’d been proud at the time.
Until Mrs. Bean had cuffed Fletcher so hard in the ear, he’d fallen to the ground.
You listen to me. The next time, fumble the mark. When he teaches you to shoot with a pistol, pretend you can’t see the target. Let him cut you with a knife when you’re practicin’ so’s he thinks you can’t handle a blade. If Lark finds you useful, you’ll never leave here.
Fletcher thought Mrs. Bean was only being cruel, but over the years he’d realized she washidinghim. Going out of her way to make Fletcher seem soft. Never a threat. No one at all of importance.
So he managed the accounts of The Dancing Swan, the crates of gin, the payments owed by various patrons. That sort of thing. Skills Lark didn’t consider to be anything special at all. Useless, he was often called, which was both good and bad.
“Where’s Mrs. Bean?” Fletcher asked.
“Front parlor havin’ tea. Made if for ’er myself.” Ripps nodded with a worried frown. “Put brandy in the pot. Had to. The cough is a bit worse tonight, Fletch. Must be the damp air.”
“Must be. Good man, Ripps.”
Ripps was the farthest thing from a good man as there weren’t any in the rookery. Mrs. Bean didn’t trust Ripps much either, but if she had him making tea it was a testament to how poorly she must feel. She didn’t like to show weakness, especially to one of Lark’s lackeys.
