Helen took Fletcher’shand and leapt out of the hack. Smoothing down her filthy skirts, she hoped Roxboro’s servants didn’t chase them off. There was still blood on Fletcher’s shirt though his coat hid most of it.
“I don’t want to do this, Helen,” he said, eyes narrowing as he took in the enormous residence looming before them.
“You must do this.” She squeezed his fingers. “Roxboro is your brother. Separated through no fault of your own. And even if he wasn’t, if you were the duke, wouldn’t you want to know who was impersonating you? Stealing jewels and such?”
Fletcher merely grunted and turned away.
They’d quietly left the tavern without breakfast, too worried that Lark might appear before they could get to Roxboro. News traveled fast in the rookeries according to Fletcher and he hadn’t wanted to put Annie or her husband in danger for helping him. Lark, it seemed, could be every bit as petty as Lord Galway. So they’d walked away from the tavern, keeping to the still semi-dark streets until arriving at Hyde Park. Hailing a hack, which was difficult given their appearance, she and Fletcher were deposited before the duke’s door.
“Mrs. Bean could have been daft.”
“She wasn’t. I’ve seen Roxboro. And you. Besides, you told me she used to be a midwife before running a brothel. Mrs. Bean witnessed your birth. Gave the duchess sanctuary as sheran for her life.” Helen cringed inside thinking of the poor duchess, trapped in The Devil’s Acre while her husband was murdered. “Not to mention, there is apparently a third sibling running about somewhere.” Mrs. Bean hadn’t been clear on what happened to the third child, or if it had been another boy. “And even if Mrs. Bean was foxed on a bottle of gin, she couldn’t have made up this story.”
“I don’t think this wise.”
“That is unfortunate because we are here and will see this through.” Helen pulled him up the steps to the duke’s door and raised the knocker.
A burly gentleman, who Helen assumed was the butler, opened the door, shrewd eyes lingering over their torn and dirty clothing. He opened his mouth to dismiss them but stopped. Stared at Fletcher, because even with the filth of the rookeries on him, he was the spitting image of Roxboro.
“Good lord,” the butler muttered to himself as at least a dozen emotions rippled across his features. “I’m—well I’m Barstow. The duke’s butler.”
“Good day, Barstow,” Helen returned politely. “I am Miss Helen Cosgrove.” She didn’t bother to introduce Fletcher considering it was rather obvious. “I realize this might be somewhat irregular.”
“No, no.” Barstow shook his head, waving them inside. “The duchess warned me of what I might expect. My lord,” he bowed to Fletcher.
“I’m not a bloody lord.” Fletcher snapped.
“Of course, my lord.” Barstow agreed.
“Stop that.”
“Oh, don’t mind him, Barstow.” Helen placed a hand on Fletcher’s arm. “This is all rather unexpected.”
Barstow guided them to the drawing room before rushing off. Helen could hear him instructing no one to go near the door he’d just shut.
“This is a poor idea, Helen. I want to leave. Look at me.” Fletcher waved a hand down all the dark stains dotting his shirt. “That Barstow person probably went to rouse the authorities.”
“I assume he went to summon the duke and duchess.”
“We should leave before they arrive. Head for the country.”
“Lark and Gallway would both find us before we reached the outskirts of London.” The duke’s drawing room was nothing short of extravagant and littered with comfortable chairs and settees. One long table held a collection of figurines and snuffboxes.
Fletcher strolled over and immediately tried to put one in his pocket.
Helen slapped his hand. “Put it back. You promised.”
“He won’t notice,” Fletcher whispered just as the door was flung open. “He has dozens.”
“Oh, I assure you I would,” came the arrogant, ducal reply from the doorway. “Don’t touch that,” the Duke of Roxboro strolled into the room, bumped the edge of a chair, cursed softly, and finally pointed to a figurine of a dog. “The duchess adores that one.”
“I don’t like that one at all, Your Grace. I once wanted to toss it at your—oh, dear god,” the duchess exclaimed as Fletcher turned to face them both.
Had the circumstances been different, Helen might have laughed at the identical looks of shock, then horror, crossing the duke’s and Fletcher’s faces.
“Damn,” the duke said.
“Fuck,” Fletcher spit out.
