Fletcher looked up the stairs. Ripps wasn’t known for his skills at weaving a tale, nor could he read. He’d likely been waiting for an excuse to take himself up the stairs so he could poke around for Lark.
Fucking Ripps. I might kill him myself.
“I’ll go up and check on her.” Fletcher made a show of sniffing the air. “I’m looking forward to supper.”
Mary smiled, making her look like a greasy-haired chipmunk. “Made an apple pie too.”
“I’ll be down in a bit,” Fletcher said, patting her shoulder. “Going up to check on Mrs. Bean.”
He walked up the stairs, no longer pretending to be foxed on gin since Ripps wasn’t here to see it and made his way to Mrs. Bean’s room. Cracking the door, he glimpsed her limp form on the bed, covered with a quilt. The slow rhythm of her breathing raspy and shuddering with thickness, told Fletcher she was asleep.
No sign of Ripps.
He came forward and pressed a kiss to his grandmam’s forehead, but she didn’t stir. The thin chain around her neck was still there, the key to the strongbox with the book still tucked inside her bodice. Mrs. Bean had been wise enough to give Mary a key that looked similar and claimed both were to the cellar, a dark, cramped place where gin, brandy and sometimes winewas stored. Ripps was unlikely to figure out the key around Grandmam’s neck opened the box containing Bean’s Book.
And he wouldn’t dare place his hand on her bosom to check.
Fletcher scanned the room, noting that a painting on the wall was slightly askew and the bottom drawer of Mrs. Bean’s dresser was open. Brandy perfumed the air, but that was coming from her. She’d been given quite a bit to make her nod off in the middle of the day. Ripps had likely wanted her to sleep through the search he’d conducted.
The door to the guest room, so called because Mrs. Bean once had a sister who had stayed when she visited, was ajar. Fletch peeked inside but there wasn’t much to see. A faded stain on the floor which always reminded him of blood, though Mrs. Bean always said it was nothing more than a water stain. A bedframe and a small table holding a chipped ewer and basin. There were some odds and ends scattered about, but nothing else. Mary and Ripps both had beds downstairs.
Fletcher shut the door and moved a few paces down to his room.
He always kept his room locked, not that it would do much good. Any child over the age of four in The Devil’s Acre could pick a lock. But Fletcher liked to give the illusion he kept something valuable inside, though he’d never be so stupid to do so. But Lark didn’t know that. He thought Fletcher to be an absolute imbecile, exactly as Mrs. Bean wished. Lark must have guessed about him playing Roxboro, he’d want his cut and sent Ripps to get it.
Stepping into his room, Fletcher knew immediately Ripps had been here. First, there was the impression of a large backside on the threadbare quilt covering the bed. The idiot had probably sat there, deciding where to look first. Nothing was strewn about or seemingly out of place, but Fletcher was willing to bet that the false bottom in the armoire had been breached.
He got down on his knees feeling around until the bottom of the armoire gave way with a soft click. The stash was just as Fletcher had left it, yet he knew for a fact Ripps had searched the room. Why would he leave the earbobs and rings?
Because he only cares about the book.
He sat back on the heels, realizing that if Lark knew he’d been impersonating a duke, he didn’t care. If he had, Ripps would have taken the earbobs and rings. It was the book Ripps had been after. And if Lark had grown so bold as to search Mrs. Bean’s home before she was even dead, he was growing impatient.
Time was running out.
Fletcher weighed his options. He considered loading Mrs. Bean into a wagon or a carriage and fleeing The Dancing Swan, but he doubted they’d make it out of The Devil’s Acre without Lark or Ripps stopping them. He didn’t dare go to the boarding house. Yes, Lark and everyone else assumed he had a ladybird in Cheapside, which made it exactly the place to hide the book. Far too obvious.
And Lark must agree because he was still having Ripps searchhere.
The lockbox, even if Lark found it, was sound. He would need a locksmith. Or the key, which was still around the neck of Delores Bean. If Lark had either, Fletcher would already be dead, having outlived his usefulness.
Which meant Lark didn’t know where the book was hidden.
Yet.
He stared up at the crack in the ceiling, listening to Delores Bean struggle to breathe, wondering what was in Bean’s Book that was worth his life.
Chapter Nine
Helen stayed silentas the carriage left Hyde Park, only half listening as Cerise gave a detailed accounting of the stupid boat race. When she was done describing how chivalrous Lowell happened to be, she launched into the topic of the Duke Roxboro.
Helen wasn’t overly fond of that subject either given her most recent interaction with the duke. She clasped her hands tighter and feigned interest. Cerise enjoyed hearing herself speak, at any rate.
“Had you not scared him off with your ridiculous behavior, I’m certain Roxboro would have gone directly to my father and declared for me,” Cerise insisted.
“I was performing my duties as chaperone,” Helen responded dully. “He’s a known libertine, my lady. And betrothed.”
“He’ll break the betrothal to wed me. Lady Sophia is a cow with abysmal manners. Barely passing pretty. Everyone knows he is being forced to wed.”
