Love wasn’t something you thought a great deal about in The Devil’s Acre, where there were no happy endings for anyone. Growing up in a brothel, he’d watched men proclaim their love for one of Mrs. Bean’s girls while tossing Ripps a sack of coins. But Helen? She made Fletcher the idea of his manor house was….real. Though he hadn’t yet seen the bloody house, he’d started to picture Helen there, amongst the wildflowers Fletcher imagined must grow everywhere in the country.
And because of Helen, of his affection for her, it had never once crossed his mind that she might seek out the duke over the bloody emerald pendant. The maid’s fault, though he did feel terrible she’d be accused. But Galway would only have her sacked.
Fletcher, however, would swing from a rope.
Talk to Roxboro? Was she insane? Helen was probably running to the duke this instant, breathless to tell him everything she’d learned about Fletcher Bean.
Making his way back to The Devil’s Acre, he deliberately took the longest possible route so that he had time to think. About Helen. Roxboro. Mrs. Bean.
Could he possibly be—No.
He grabbed at his chest because it stung so bad.
Slowing his steps, Fletcher tried to relax so he wouldn’t seem out of sorts when he reached The Dancing Swan. He was justout, drinking gin and picking a pocket or two. Nothing to rouse the least bit of suspicion in Lark that he was doing somethin’ else. He’d be dead soon if he didn’t leave London.
But he couldn’t let the book fall into the wrong hands without knowin’ what Mrs. Bean had done. Christ, he was sick of untrustworthy women.
He’d question Mrs. Bean until she told Fletcher the truth and not some made up tale of Hannah Bean. His grandmam wasn’t long for this world and he couldn’t let her breath her last with only Ripps to hold her hand. But once Mrs. Bean was gone, he’d retrieve the iron strongbox and the book. Flee London as if his life depended on it, because it did.
This morning, before going on his incredibly stupid errand to see Helen, Fletcher had gone to check on Mrs. Bean. In the last week, his grandmam hadn’t left her bed, not even to sit in the parlor. Nor did she come down for breakfast which hadn’t happened in all the years he’d known her. He’d opened her bedroom door, unsurprised to see Mary sitting beside her, spooning bits of broth between her bloodless lips.
Mary jumped at the sight of him. “Good day, Fletch.” She swallowed, looking down at Grandmam. “I was just seeing to Mrs. Bean.”
“And a poor job you’re doing of it. I need brandy. Piping hot tea. Not broth and damp bread.” The last dissolved into a fit of coughing. “Can you do that much?” Mrs. Bean snapped.
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Mary rushed past Fletcher.
Fletcher had approached his grandmam, noting the grayish cast to her features. The skin sagging from her cheeks and the deep hollows beneath her eyes. The handkerchief clutched in one hand was riddled with flecks of blood. Save for the rise and fall of her chest, Fletcher might already think she was gone. “You shouldn’t be so unkind to Mary. She does her best.”
“Bah. I treat her better than most. Girl’s not got a lick of sense. They’ll eat her alive without me around. ’Sides, I wanted a word with you in private.” Her lips had pressed together. “I want you to make sure Mary is taken care of.” Her eyes softened a bit. “After.”
“I’ve already thought as much.” Mrs. Baldwin, the owner of the boarding house had already agreed to take Mary. “I’ve found her a position elsewhere.”
“Good. Good.” The words came out in a wet gurgle as another cough wracked Mrs. Bean’s frail body. “I hope you won’t linger either.”
“Rest, Mrs. Bean. You taught me well.” Taking her hand, he had pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve got to go out for a bit, but I’ll be back in time to handle matters next door. Have dinner with you.”
“Visiting your skirt?” A snort left her.
“We had a bit of a fallin’ out.”
“There’s no skirt, my boy. At least not in Cheapside.” An ugly laugh came from her. “If I know as much, so does Lark. Best you leave and not come back.”
“And no Hannah Bean either.” Fletcher had picked up a clean cloth, dabbing at the bit of blood staining the corner of her mouth.
“Fair enough.” Her pain-filled gaze met his.
“Was she one of your girls, Mrs. Bean?”
Mrs. Bean had shut her eyes, knuckles going white as she twisted the quilt tucked around her. “Darling Freckle. Don’t judge me too harshly when I’m gone. I did the best I could, which isn’t sayin’ much, is it? But I kept you from him. You’re smart. Know how to kill a man. Taught you my poisons. The Devil’s Acre did you some good.”
Fletcher paused as he reached the bridge at St. Margaret’s, replaying the earlier conversation with Mrs. Bean.
“I want to make sure,” she’d said. “The book is safe.”
“It is.”
“Don’t trust Ripps much these days, as you know.” Her bony shoulders wiggled in the imitation of a shrug. “I expect everyone will be pickin’ over my corpse. I’ve spoken to Mews, so you don’t need to bother with that.”
