“I’m having tea,” she protested.
“I can smell the brandy, Mrs. Bean and the bottle’s at your elbow. No sense in pretending. I’m not objecting, by the way.” Enough brandy allowed her to sleep and calmed the cough, though he didn’t want her getting foxed with only Ripps and Mary to depend on. But Mrs. Bean had survived a long time in The Devil’s Acre. And as Lark had reminded Fletcher on more than one occasion, there wasn’t any reason to kill a dying woman.
But we’ll have a bit to discuss, boy-o, when Mrs. Bean has departed.
“Fine.” Her fingers lifted, trembling and unsteady. “Then I want you next door at The Swan. Keep an eye on Ripps.”
“I always do.” Fletcher considered what he might have missed while playing Roxboro. Something that had her questioning Ripps and his loyalty, though Fletcher didn’t think the big man would harm a hair on Mrs. Bean’s head. As Lark said, no sense in killing a dying woman.
“Put a wee bit more in the pot then, if you will.” Her wrinkled face was stern but softened as Fletcher came closer. “Darling Freckle.”
His hand paused pouring the brandy. She hadn’t called him Freckle since he was a child and even then, the endearment had been rare. Affection was not Delores Bean’s strong suit. A beating with a switch had been far more common than a hug.
“I haven’t heard you say that in years, Mrs. Bean.”
“That freckle.” A finger lifted to his nose, ignoring his words. “Struck me, you see. All those years ago.” She slurred just a bit as she spoke, which had Fletcher wondering how much of the brandy she’d had. “I couldn’t help myself.” The finger retreated back to her lap, grabbing at the handkerchief.
“Did my mother have one? A freckle?” Fletcher asked, knowing damn well there had been no Hannah, though Mrs. Bean had never admitted as much.
“I don’t recall.” Her eye slid away from his. “It’s been a long time since I’ve—seen your mother.”
What was the name of the village where Hannah lived?
I don’t recall. Name escapes me.
What was my father’s name?
Hannah never said.
Mrs. Bean remained so elusive in her answers, that eventually, Fletcher stopped asking. At times, he wondered if he were the by-blow of one of the girls at The Dancing Swan, but why would Mrs. Bean have taken a liking to him? Because of the freckle? He’d seen dozens of whores come and go over the years, but not one claimed to have been here when Mrs. Bean brought him home from her mysterious trip to the countryside. He knew there had been a handful of maids before Mary, just as The Swan had other doormen before Ripps.
No one lingered for long in The Devil’s Acre.
“Lark paid me a visit,” she said, voice creaking nearly worse than the stairs leading up to the front door. “Poking about. Asking after you.” She sighed. “Whatever you’ve involved yourself in, best tell him before he’s got a knife pressed to your ribs. Are you running a card game? There’s a rumor going around about a receiving house on Rosemary Lane. Someone says you’ve been there.”
Fletcher wasn’t stupid enough to use a common fence for the gems he stole. He’d been to Rosemary Lane, but never to sell anything. There was an antiquities dealer with a tiny shop near Grosvenor Square; a place Lark didn’t know existed. Fletcher took the gems there, but only after he’d pried the stones from their settings. The gentleman who ran the establishment, Mr. Jims, was discreet given he dealt exclusively in luxuries thesoon-to-be impoverished upper class sold to him. Fletcher never received payment directly, instead the proceeds were deposited in an account at the Bank of England under one of his aliases. Jims didn’t know Fletcher’s real name and thought him only a messenger of sorts, acting on behalf of his employer.
Fletcher did not dissuade him.
“I’m not runnin’ a card game. I’ve a ladybird in Cheapside who I visit most nights, of which you are well aware. She’s a widow and likes a bit of silk and such. I’ve been to Rosemary Lane once or twice to get her somethin’ pretty.”
“He’ll kill you,” Mrs. Bean whispered. “’Specially if he knows you—resemble the Duke of Roxboro and haven’t let him in on your scheme.”
Fletcher took a seat in the chair beside her. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
She coughed softly, pressing against her chest until speaking again. “I overheard Charlotte that day. Be glad I was the only one. Lucky the parlor was empty, else you’d be dead already. I know what you’re up to. Don’t think I don’t.”
“I’m touched, Mrs. Bean, by your concern.” Fletcher hadn’t any intention of admitting to anything.
“It’s far more dangerous,” her voice cracked. “Than you think.”
Charlotte had been one of the girls brought in to work at The Dancing Swan last year. Upon seeing Fletcher, walking across the main parlor of The Dancing Swan at midday, before the first of the brothel’s patrons arrived, Charlotte had stopped dead in her tracks. She’d stared at him in awe before immediately lowering into a strange bow, limbs folding awkwardly about her.
Your Grace, she’d whispered, not daring to raise her gaze to his.
Apparently, in The Devil’s Acre, even a trollop knew how to address a duke properly. He’d found out later that strange bending Charlotte had done was a curtsey.
Fletcher had been highly amused and assured Charlotte he wasn’t a duke, but the grandson of Mrs. Bean. Sitting before him, she’d tilted her head, taking him in from head to toe.
