Roaring with pain, Ripps came out of the chair. He tossed the glass of brandy at Fletcher’s head, which thankfully missed, and threw a haphazard punch.
“Where is it?” Fletcher danced easily out of his way. “The key? The one you stole from Mrs. Bean.”
“Don’t matter.” Ripps had grinned. “Dead men can’t use keys. Which you’ll soon be, Fletch.” One fist caught Fletcher in the side, breaking a rib. He felt that crack over the entire length of his body. But he’d had a broken rib before. It would heal.
When he swung again, Fletcher tripped him, meaning to pounce on his back and slit his throat, but Ripps, damn him, knocked the knife away. He grabbed Fletcher just beneath the chin, fingers big as sausages, meaning to choke the life out of him.
He went limp, gasping for air, knowing his only chance was to reach the other knife tucked in his boot. Fingers stretching, Fletcher grabbed the hilt, slashing the blade across Ripps’ throat so quickly the other man was still grinning as he fell to the floor. Blood spilled from the wound, staining the rug.
“Real shame about that rug. Sorry, Mrs. Bean. But I can’t take it with me. ’Specially not now.”
Fletcher kneeled, holding a hand to his ribs and ran the other over Ripps, searching for any sign of the key. He rifled through the man’s coat, his trousers, even took off his boots.
“Christ, Ripps,” he hissed, looking at the filthy socks. “Bathe now and again.” Fletcher laughed. “Oh, right. Never mind.” He stood and went to the room Ripps slept in, right next to Mary’s on the other side of the kitchen. Nothing at all, just a small bag of gold coins, which Fletcher pocketed, and a woman’s scarf.
“Goddam,” he cursed. “Lark has the key.”
Fletcher returned to the parlor, grabbed the bottle of brandy by the neck and took a swig, staring at Ripps. He went over every conversation he’d had with the man since impersonating Roxboro and outside of the general mention of a widow in Cheapside, Fletcher hadn’t given him, or anyone else, a location. There were dozens of warehouses, businesses,andboarding houses plus the market, along with a great many widows. Fletcher had not been followed to Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house because he’d stopped visiting once Lark had him followed. It might take Lark weeks to find out Fletcher had been frequenting one particular spot…
Unless somehow, Lark knew about Wood Street and Mrs. Baldwin.
“Fuck.”
Staring down at Ripps, Fletcher’s fingers tightened on the bottle of brandy. He could almost feel the cuff of Mrs. Bean’s fist against his head, telling him,The soft spot you have for the ladies will get you in trouble one day, lad.
It hadn’t been Ripps, though he’d certainly been working for Lark and knew about Cheapside, but so did Mary. Poor, frail Mary, who’d tried to garner Fletcher’s attention and who’d tended Mrs. Bean in her final days. The girl he’d wanted to save from Lark.
An ugly laugh came from him.
As Mrs. Bean would say,There’s no charity in The Devil’s Acre.
“I don’t generally consider killin’ a woman, Mary,” Fletcher whispered, taking another swallow of brandy. “But I may make an exception for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
How ironic.
Helen had lived in London nearly her entire life and never once even had her reticule stolen, let alone be abducted by a terrible smelling assailant. But yet, in the space of a week, she’d been imprisoned. Twice.
But the true oddity was that the worn quilt in this room in a nondescript boarding house located…well, she wasn’t sure exactly where, so closely it resembled the one covering her bed at Galway’s home. The furnishings, honestly, weren’t that much different, though the mattress she’d slept on for the last three years was far more comfortable. No view to speak of except the brick side of another building.
Taking a deep breath, all things considered, Helen thought she was holding up rather well considering her circumstances. Not so much as a tear or a trembling hand. She was frightened, yes, but something had shifted inside her. She supposed that’s what falling in love with a criminal will do for you. Or maybe it was that Helen was a survivor and hadn’t realized it until now.
The thug who’d brought her here was filthy, foul-mouthed, and smelled like the Thames on a hot summer day mixed with cooked onions. A truly horrifying scent. If he’d ever had a chance to bathe, he hadn’t taken it. His sudden appearance, popping out of shrubs lining a residence in Grosvenor Square, told Helen all she needed to know. He’d been watching Galway’s home forher,but why, she wasn’t sure. Vagrants didn’t go about abducting chaperones or lady’s companions without good reason. And her kidnapper hadn’t volunteered one.
The reason could only be Fletcher.
As soon as the man’s filthy hand left her mouth, Helen was immediately gagged for the duration of the journey to wherever this happened to be. She’d been shoved inside a battered house that seemed uninhabited, been jerked up the stairs, then pushed unceremoniously inside this room. Her kidnapper, utterly unpleasant, tossed a few withered apples in her direction, followed by a chamber pot. He was nearly as pleasant as Parker. There was nothing else inside the room but an armoire listing to one side and the bed.
Feel free to scream if you like. No one will hear you.Her assailant had grunted before slamming shut the door. As far as her care was considered, this man and Galway’s butler had much in common.
Helen spent what remained of that first night, staring at the ceiling, hoping she might wake up in her bed at Galway’s home, even if she were still his prisoner. Preferable to whatever this man had in mind for her. Sunlight, streaming across the small window of the room, woke her. She had just lifted her skirts to use the chamber pot when the door swung open.
She jumped, dropping her skirts.
A girl appeared in the doorway, a snarling grin on her lips. “Sorry, princess. Guess I should ’ave knocked.” She was a homely looking thing, with thin wrists and reddened fingers, all signs she was a scullery maid, or a servant of some kind. Glaring at Helen, she tossed a small cloth bag on the bed. Another withered apple rolled out, followed by a wedge of cheese and a moldy bit of bread.
“Good morning.” Helen said. “I’m—”
