Not much time.
He wasn’t sure when Lark might return, only that he would, which left Fletcher only a small window of time. There was no saving Bean’s Book, and he silently begged Mrs. Bean for forgiveness. Whatever the book contained would remain a secret, at least for Fletcher. He’d never meant to use it, only keep it from Lark. ’Sides, Fletcher wanted out of it. London. The Swan. The Devil’s Acre. As soon as he returned Helen to Galway, Fletcher Bean would cease to exist. Lawrence Weathers was the name he’d chosen for the remainder of his days. Before all this, he’d hoped…Helen might want to—
Fletcher pushed that hope aside. There wasn’t any way Helen would forgive him.
Patting down Vulture’s pockets, Fletcher found the key to what he assumed was the room where Helen was being kept. Making his way up the stairs, Fletcher spared a pause at the tiny room he’d rented from Mrs. Baldwin. The door was open. Floor pried up. No sign of the iron strongbox. He’d expected as much.
The next door was open, the room empty, clothing strewn about and the bed unmade. But two more rooms down, the door was shut and locked. No one else was about. Lark had left only Blackbird and Vulture to greet Fletcher.
Good, he thinks you’re a dolt. Let him. Take every advantage.
Mrs. Bean’s voice whispered the words in his ear and a pang of grief struck him as he unlocked the door.
Helen sat trembling and pale, in the middle of the bed, a letter clutched in one hand.
“Fletcher,” she whispered. “You came.”
His gaze traveled over her, searching for any sign of injury, but there wasn’t so much as a bruise. “Yes,” he murmured.
The letter in her hand drifted to the floor. She clutched at her skirts, staring behind him, eyes darting back and forth, obviously concerned that someone might come upon them.
“Don’t worry I’ve…taken care of Vulture and Blackbird. They won’t be bothering us, but we need to leave.” He stretched out his hand, half afraid she wouldn’t take it. “Nothing to worry about. I need to get you out of here before Lark returns.”
“He—killed Mary.” Helen bit her lip. “Right in front of me.”
“I’m here now. No one will hurt you.” He took her hand which was icy to the touch. Poor ferocious little gnat. Helen had seen more terrible things in the last few days than she likely had in her entire life. Fletcher could never have taken her back with him to The Devil’s Acre. Helen was unlikely to consider going anywhere with him except out of this boarding house.
Helen blinked, as if she’d thought him a dream and only realized he was not. Her fingers closed around his. “Yes.” But after a step, she pulled back, reaching for the letter.
“Leave it.”
“No. It’s…important.” She looked in in the eye, studying him. “Absolutely not,” she said more firmly, averting her eyes from the bloody knife still in his hand. Taking the note, she placed it in her bodice and regarded him far more calmly than she had moments ago.
Fletcher pulled her close. “We have to get out of Cheapside. Right now, Helen before Lark returns. And he’s bound to be unpleasant considering what I’ve done to Blackbird and Vulture.” He led her down the stairs.
“What you did?” Helen glanced at the knife once more. “I didn’t care for Vulture. He was going to—” She stumbled on the stairs as she caught sight of Vulture’s body lying just inside the door.
He waited again for her to pull away and scream, but Helen straightened her spine and nodded.
“Well,” she continued in that prim, determined tone Fletcher had grown to adore. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now at any rate what he planned to do, does it?”
“No, my ferocious gnat, it does not.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“This do foryou?”
The tavern owner’s wife, a buxom woman with a wreath of bright red hair, opened the door on a small, tidy room. A fire was already lit. The curtains drawn. The boisterous crowd downstairs was loud, but the noise still failed to drown out the furious beat of her heart. The pounding, vibrating in her ears, hadn’t stopped since Fletcher had found her.
“Thanks Annie.” Fletcher pressed a handful of gold into her palm Far more than the room was worth. “Maybe something to eat as well? Whatever you have. And wine. Water for bathing?”
She raised a brow. “Picky ain’t you, Fletch, considering. I’ll have everything brought up. Can’t keep you more than the night. I know I owe you for—The Dancing Swan but—my husband don’t know about that. And well, there’s some worse than Lark—”
“I understand,” Fletcher interrupted and took her hand. “We’ll be gone as soon as the sun is up. But until then, no one knows we’re here. You haven’t seen me.”
“Already said you were my cousin.” Annie frowned. “Sorry about Mrs. Bean, Fletch. Truly. Supper will be up in a bit. Stew tonight.” Her eyes flicked over Helen. “Hope that’ll suit.”
“It will, Annie. Thank you.” Fletcher shut the door behind her.
