“Don’t care. You’re just some high-class trollop according to Vulture.” Her cheeks flushed, making the pimples on her skin stand out. “He watched the spectacle you made of yourself in the garden. Couldn’t wait to share the details. Nothing but a whore. Same as at The Swan.”
“I am a lady’s companion,” Helen replied stiffly, horrified that she and Fletcher had been watched.
Really, Helen. You are likely moments away from dying and that is what you’re most concerned about?
The girl’s face scrunched up, making her look like a confused rat. “Don’t know what that is and don’t care. Nor does it matter.” She lifted her shoulders. “He’s in charge of things and he’s got the book now. Lark means to kill you, but not until Fletch gets here.”
“Splendid.” Helen had no idea what “the book” happened to be and it didn’t seem of great importance under the circumstances. “I cannot wait to make his acquaintance.”
The girl scowled at her and walked back out of the room, slamming the door.
Helen sat on the bed, trying to find a spot that was somewhat comfortable and nibbled at the cheese, which wasn’t half bad. The bread was far too moldy to even attempt so she placed it back in the sack. The apple had a bit more promise though, so she set it aside for later.
So thisdidhave to do with Fletcher. Not that she’d had any doubt. A lady’s companion wasn’t a threat to anyone. The most Helen could do was give one an incredible set-down and toss an embroidery hoop at their head. Her life was boring. Bland. In the service of others. And in the space of weeks, Helen became involved with a fake duke who was a thief, been pleasured within an inch of her life, might possibly have fallen for this villain—no I most definitely have—and now had been kidnapped because of their association.
Her former, invisible, dull life had never been more appealing.
She spent the remainder of the day peering out through the small window, which was much too small to do her any good, just like the one at Galway’s. She stared at the brick of the building beside her, so close had she been able to open the window, Helen might have touched the mortar. Instead, she amused herself by counting the number of bricks. She pressed her ear to the door, determined to glean any information about her whereabouts or who was keeping her, but only made out muffled voices and general stomping about. The man who’d brought her here—Vulture?—and the girl who’d visited earlier seemed to be the only other people in the house. She paced back and forth across the room, examined the armoire. The bed. But there was nothing.
Finally, as twilight lengthened outside the window, the door opened once more and a man strolled in, along with her kidnapper and the girl she’d met earlier, at his back. Helen’s first thought was…if this was Lark, he was misnamed. Bantam Rooster would have been more appropriate if this group were going for an avian theme. He was not tall, but broad with red hair that was thinning on the sides, leaving a sparse patch at the top. There was such a murderous, brutal look to him, that even Helen, who hadn’t been exposed to such seediness until now, could see it.
“I’m Lark,” he stated without preamble.
“A pleasure.” Helen replied.
He eyed her with his head cocked to one side. “So you’re Fletch’s ladybird. Never would have thought he’d enjoy something so dainty. You’re a wee little thing.”
“Trollop,” the girl said under her breath.
“I suppose there isn’t any accounting for taste is there, Mr. Lark?” Helen replied tartly.
He burst into laughter, showing a row of rotted teeth. “Ah, don’t mind Mary,” he jerked a thumb at the girl. “She’s only sore that Fletch likes you and not her. Thought he’d stoop to dip his cock in her out of all the lasses at The Dancing Swan. Stupid chit. Uglier than a post.” He shrugged at Mary, who lowered her head. “But you, well, I can see why Fletch put his head between your pretty legs.”
Helen swallowed. At least Mary’s hostility towards her made sense.
“Man don’t do that unless he’s…” Lark snapped his fingers. “Enamored. Yeah, I think that’s the word.”
“And The Dancing Swan is…” Helen raised a brow, choosing to ignore his remark about Fletch pleasuring her in Galway’s garden.
“Finest brothel in all The Devil’s Acre. Belonged to Delores Bean along with the book. But both are mine now. I’ve one last chore, to rid the world of Fletcher Bean. Never cared for him, overmuch. At any rate, he’s seen the book. Knows what’s in it, I ’spect. Too much knowledge isn’t a good thing, not for him. That’s where you’ll come in handy. Had Vulture snatch you for just that purpose.”
“I see.”
Fletcherhadwarned her. Helen just hadn’t thought these were the sort of circumstances he’d been referring to. Also, he was not just a thief but also was associated with a brothel. Helen could not possibly have worse taste.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lark.” Helen cleared her throat. “But does Fletcher know I’m here?”
“Not yet.” He reached into his pocket to pull out a small, leather book tied with a red ribbon. “He’ll come for this. Bean’s Book. You’re just here to make him behave. Or suffer. Not really sure. Given what happened in that lord’s garden, I think he’ll do whatever I want. Vulture says he was mooning over you.” Larkwiggled his brows. “He’s probably figured out I’ve got the book, or at least the key to the strongbox. Probably knows you played him false, Mary.”
“Don’t care,” the girl hissed.
“Took it right off Mrs. Bean’s neck as soon as she gasped her last.”
Fletcher’s…mother?
“But poor lamb,” he jerked his chin at Mary. “He never gave her a second thought. Made her right mad to know he had a woman on the side.”
“Don’t talk about me like that, Lark. Not after what I done for you. And I’ve got somethin’.”
