“I know you didn’t take the pendant, Miss Cosgrove. Nor try to blame me. Cook and I agreed.”
“I would never. Please thank Cook for me.”
A door slammed shut somewhere in the house.
“Hurry now, Miss Cosgrove. That’ll be Parker coming back inside. I’ve got to get to the kitchens and have some pie. He won’t notice you’re gone until tomorrow. Nor will Galway. Godspeed.” Kate spun about and hurried back inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Helen pressed a hand to her heart, so grateful she had at least two friends in the world, Kate and Cook. And as far as Parker, he deserved Galway’s wrath. Her only regret was that she wouldn’t be here to see him dismissed.
Gathering her skirts in one hand, Helen started off, unsure as to what direction she should take to avoid detection. The Duchess of Roxboro was the only person who would offer her sanctuary. She knew Helen wasn’t guilty of theft. Cerise had pointed out Roxboro’s enormous mansion weeks ago, after the Stout ball, declaring how grand a home she would one day preside over.
Idiot.
Helen had barely listened at the time, not willing to be party to Cerise’s delusions, nor did she want to hear any more about Roxboro. But Cerise had pointed out the duke’s residence often enough that Helen knew the street and the general direction.
“Thank goodness Cerise enjoys repeating herself,” she murmured, turning left towards Curzon Street, careful to stay in the shadows. The sound of a carriage approaching had Helen darting in between two large shrubs in front of another home. Ducking her head, she waited, counting her breaths until the carriage passed.
What would she say to the duke and duchess? More importantly, what if they were out for the night? She must find a way to convince their staff to let her in to wait.
Once she was certain no one else was about, Helen took a step out of the safety of the shrubs, only to gasp in shock as an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. The smell of cooked onions met her nose as a dirty palm pressed to her mouth to keep her silent. Helen thrashed, kicking and slapping her assailant, but to no avail. He dragged her in the opposite direction to the other side of the street, where a hack waited.
“Well, what have we here?” A nasty voice whispered around her ear. “A pretty little ladybird, out for an evenin’ stroll.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Taking a keyoff a dead woman, ’specially one that cared for you is wrong, Ripps.”
Fletcher stared down at the large body of Mrs. Bean’s former doorman. “And now you’re bleeding all over her favorite rug. She wouldn’t be pleased with you at all.”
Knife still in his hand dripping blood, Fletcher winced at the pain in his ribs and made his way to the sideboard. “You helped yourself to her brandy too, you pig.” He picked up the bottle and swallowed, relishing the burn. “Don’t feel bad about killin’ you at all.”
Ripps didn’t answer given his throat was slit. His eyes, wide and unseeing, followed Fletcher as he made his way around the parlor. There was no one else in the house. The music at The Dancing Swan had drowned out the sounds of Fletcher killing Ripps and Mary was already gone, hopefully safe at Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house in Cheapside.
Mews had arrived earlier to fetch the body of Mrs. Bean, promising Fletcher he’d bury her in a spot beneath a flowering crabapple.
“Best make sure of it,” Fletcher had warned him. “I’ll be checkin’.”
After Mews left with Mrs. Bean’s body wrapped in a sheet, Fletcher had bolted the heavy oak door that served as the privateentrance to Mrs. Bean’s home, leaving only the door in the wall open. Ripps would have to come through that way. And he had.
Fletcher heard Ripps yelling at the girls to get to work, stomping about The Swan as if he owned it, and he likely thought he did. Lark must have promised him something to betray Mrs. Bean. Ripps stomped through the door in the wall, hollered for Mary and when he didn’t get an answer, moved into Mrs. Bean’s private parlor.
Fletcher had stepped out of the shadows, quietly securing the door between the house and The Swan to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupted.
He’d peered into the parlor, watching as Ripps poured himself a healthy glass of Mrs. Bean’s private brandy. Expensive stuff. Grandmam hadn’t cared for gin. The doorman hadn’t even bothered to shut the parlor door, that’s how safe he felt struttin’ about.
Bastard.
Ripps didn’t go up the stairs or yell for Mary again, which Fletcher thought odd, but he didn’t care enough to examine it. All his attention was focused on Ripps and how best to kill him. He’d taken the key off Mrs. Bean’s dead body, the prick. Probably in his pocket. Now he was going to drink her brandy and likely wait for Lark.
Ripps settled in Mrs. Bean’s favorite chair by the fire, uncaring that the filth of The Devil’s Acre was stuck to his boots and tracking dirt over her favorite rug.
All of which had incensed Fletcher.
He’d killed plenty of men before, mostly to keep from getting stabbed himself. Ripps, however, presented a challenge given his size. Ripps and Lark both considered Fletcher inept at not only thievery but knives, so he’d be underestimated.
“Didn’t expect me at all, did you?” he said to the body bleeding all over the floor. “Big body, but a tiny brain. Believedeverythin’ I ever told you. Did you really think I survived this long without knowin’ how to fight properly? Or slice a throat?” Fletcher winced from the pain in his side. Ripps might not have been smart, but the man had fists like a bloody ham. “You got a punch in though, didn’t you? Arse.”
Fletcher had stood directly behind Ripps while the bastard sipped on the brandy, meaning to plunge the knife into his throat, which was wide and thick like a bull’s. But Ripps must have sensed him a fraction of a second before Fletcher slashed, downward, missing the throat entirely. He did manage to open up Ripps’ cheek, the flesh of which flapped with a wet sound as the big doorman turned his head.
