Exhausted and cold, Helen stumbled to one of the tattered overstuffed chairs by the fire. The chair had seen better days, the tapestry worn at the edges and a spring poking up, but after the last few days, the chair felt like heaven.
Fletcher strode over to the window and looked out as the sun dipped below a string of ramshackle buildings.
They had been on the run since leaving the boarding house, skipping in and out of rookeries and skirting the better parts of town. Helen had been led down filthy streets she didn’t even know existed. Her feet ached. Her poor muslin dress was now dripping filth from the hem and likely her hair which had long ago pulled free of pins. She’d plaited the strands and tied the braid with a bit of leather Fletcher produced. But her half-boots had held up surprisingly well, given how far they’d come.
“Where are we?” Helen said to Fletcher’s back.
“Seven Dials. The better part of it, at least. Which isn’t saying much.” Fletcher turned from the window. “But we’ll be safe here for the night. Annie owes me a favor.”
Fletcher’s treatment of Helen had been polite with very little of his usual teasing manner since fleeing the boarding house. They hadn’t spoken much, other than directions to run. Hide. Stay quiet. Perhaps killing two of Lark’s men without so much as blinking had something to do with it.
The letter she’d taken from Mary sat nestled in her bodice, the weight of it pressing against her heart.
Not only a thief. But a murderer. And something more.
Did he have any inkling? Would he believe Mrs. Bean’s words?
“Warm enough?” Fletcher asked. The beautiful eyes showed little emotion on a sort of brittle blandness that left Helen’s heart aching. He expected her to be repulsed by him, and sheshouldbe.
“Yes, thank you.”
The pull in his direction tugged at her skin. Helen’s feeling for Fletcher, had not faded at the knowledge he’d killed to save her. Nor at finding out he was the son of a brothel owner in The Devil’s Acre. Not even her subsequent kidnapping by Vulture had managed it.
But Helen didn’t know how to tell him so.
A knock sounded and Fletcher opened the door a crack, ushering Annie inside once more. She carried a tray laden with two bowls of stew, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread. She didn’t look at either of them, just set the tray down on a table before the window. A girl of no more than ten followed behind, balancing a pitcher of warm water and towels in her hands.
Annie waited until the girl set down everything, then shooed her out, closing the door.
“She’s frightened,” Helen said quietly. “Your friend Annie.”
“Lark will eventually figure out where we are,” Fletcher grunted. “But not for some time. Annie worries it will blow back on her, but it won’t. Lark don’t rule here.” He gestured for Helen to eat and poured out two glasses of wine. Tearing off a bit of bread, Fletcher tucked into the stew, attacking the meal like a starving animal.
I suppose we’ll have to work on his manners.
The note fairly pulsed where it sat against her skin.
Helen took a tentative sip of the wine, which was better than she’d anticipated. The fruitiness filled her mouth, helping to soothe some of the sharp edges of the last few days. Poking at the stew, which was mostly carrots and potatoes with a bit of unrecognizable meat, Helen decided to focus on the bread. Besides Fletcher had already finished his bowl and was eyeing hers hungrily.
She pushed it in his direction. “I’ll trade you the rest of the bread for my stew,” she said. Helen had subsisted on cheese andapples, but Fletcher looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “When did Mrs. Bean die?”
Fletcher stopped chewing, the green of his eyes dull, the silver lacking sparkle. A hint of pain hovered at the corners of his mouth. No matter that they’d both washed, there was still blood at the edges of one finger. He pushed the remainder of the bread in her direction.
“The same day I saw you in Galway’s garden. After I took care of Ripps—”
“Ripps?” She understood him to mean he’d…disposed of this Ripps as well.
“Doorman at The Swan. I went to Cheapside. I kept a room at the boarding house. A place to keep my Roxboro clothes and change into the duke,” he informed her dispassionately. “And where I hid the book. I never thought he’d find the book. Or you.” He took another bite of the stew, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, if it matters.”
“It always matters. You did tell me once there were circumstances of which I needed to remain blissfully unaware. I suppose this is what you meant. I’m sorry about the death of your… mother.”
“Grandmam.” He gave a tiny shake of his head as if trying to dispel a thought. “Mrs. Bean. She owned The Dancing Swan, a brothel where I grew up. I’m also a thief and a killer.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’ll return you to Lord Galway tomorrow. You’ll be safe. I promise.”
“Actually, I won’t be.” She buttered a bit of bread. “Safe with Galway. I’d prefer not to return there, if you don’t mind.”
