Pushing Mary aside, he stepped into the bedroom, the coppery stench of blood and sickness filling his nostrils. Mrs. Bean lay on the bed, hands clasped on her chest. A basin of water, stained pink, on the table beside her.
“I cleaned her up,” Mary sobbed. “As best I could. Called for Mews. Just like she told me.” She lifted her apron to dry her tears. “But I didn’t want to leave her up here alone. I couldn’t, Fletch.”
“It’s fine Mary. Truly.” His words were thick.
Fletcher approached the bed, knees collapsing as he sat beside the only parent he’d ever known. “Mrs. Bean,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You promised to wait until I got back. We were going to sup together.”
But she couldn’t hear him. Not anymore.
Now he could never ask her the truth. Who Fletcher Bean really was though—he suspected now given the resemblance to Roxboro they must be related. He was probably a by-blow of Roxboro’s father or uncle, got on one of Mrs. Bean’s girls. But he’d never know for sure.
Unless you read the book.
“Damn it, Mrs. Bean,” he whispered. “Why couldn’t you have told me?”
Ripps had most likely gone to inform Lark that Mrs. Bean, proprietress of The Dancing Swan, was dead. The two of them would come for Fletcher. Lark wanted the brothel. The book. And Fletcher’s head on a pike.
“Mary,” he said as gently as he could. “Can you…stay until Mews arrives?”
His life depended on getting to Cheapside as quickly as possible.
“I’m to pay Mews,” her voice broke. “She gave me the coin.”
“You’ll go directly after to Mrs. Baldwin.” Fletcher glanced at the maid’s face, blotchy with tears. Mrs. Bean had been a hardmistress, but a fair one. Mary would likely be gin-drunk in an alley if not for his grandmam. “Promise me.”
“Lark won’t bother me, Fletch. Nor Ripps. I’m just…the maid. But you—”
“Go pack your things, Mary. Then wait for Mews.” Fletcher drew in a slow breath; chest filled with grief. “I’d like a moment with Mrs. Bean before I go.”
“Yes, Fletch,” she whispered, head raised at hearing a knock at the door. Mews, probably. She rushed down the stairs.
Fletcher pressed his forehead to the dead woman’s clasped hands once he knew he was alone.
“Mrs. Bean,” he choked. “Grandmam. And you were. No matter who I am.” Laying his head on her chest, he wept softly for the woman who’d raised him. Protected him. Loved him. In the best way she could. He thought of that book, the one he didn’t want, the one listing all of Mrs. Bean’s secrets. And his. Lark must have an inkling of what was truly inside.
“Who were you afraid of?” he whispered to Mrs. Bean.
When he finally wiped his eyes and sat back, that’s when Fletcher noticed. His heart beat like a drum in his chest.
The key to the iron box was gone from around Mrs. Bean’s neck.
Chapter Twenty
“You asked tosee me, my lord?” Helen clasped her hands as she approached Lord Galway sitting behind his desk like some petty despot. Which he most certainly happened to be.
He didn’t bother to look up as she entered. “Parker, shut the door behind you.” Galway flicked his wrist. “Take care of the other matter now, if you please.”
Parker bowed and retreated.
Helen tried to gauge Galway’s mood, but he hadn’t yet addressed nor looked in her direction which, given he’d summoned her, seemed odd. But he liked to allow a person to stew, worrying over what he’d say. Glancing out the window, she was relieved to note that you could not see the fountain from Galway’s study. A relief that the reason for her summons was not because he’d seen her writhing in pleasure clasped in the arms of a common thief, who bore a striking resemblance to the Duke of Roxboro. Once Galway finished with her, Helen meant to send word to the duke and duchess, though she wasn’t sure what to say.
Fletcher may never seek her out again.
The name was all she could give Roxboro, because there was little else she knew about him. At least nothing that would help the duke find him. Helen could still feel the chafe of his night beard against her thighs and press of his fingers digging gently into her skin. Only a kiss, he’d said. A most marvelous one. Atleast she had experienced passion, finally felt the bliss of release. The memory might have to last her a lifetime.
A criminal. The duke will have him thrown in Newgate.
“Miss Cosgrove,” Galway finally said, leaning back in his leather chair, fingertips drumming lightly atop his desk. “I believe we have a problem.”
