“Good day to you, Miss Cosgrove.” The duchess nodded to her, as she approached Fletcher, peering at the freckle. “Lovelyto see you. Barstow was in the military and rarely caught off guard, but he was today. Goodness. I forgot how much you look like Roxboro.”
“I remember you, dove. You like champagne,” he said to the duchess, making her cheeks pink.
“Your Grace.” Helen lowered herself before the duchess, then the duke. “A pleasure to see you both again.”
“I’m not doing that,” Fletcher made a motion at Helen.
“I’m a duke,” Roxboro said.
“I’m aware.” Fletcher and Roxboro stared at each other, like two dogs deciding whether to fight over a bone or not.
“You pretended to be me,” the duke accused.
“I did. Great fun. Everyone thinks you’re a sot and depraved.”
Roxboro made a sound.
“How unnerving, isn’t it Miss Cosgrove?” The duchess began, taking ahold of Helen. “He looks just like my husband. Highly unusual.”
“Fletcher,” Helen said under her breath. “His name is Fletcher.”
“How is this possible?” The duke appeared utterly perplexed.
“Are you an idiot?” Fletcher rolled his eyes at the duke. “We’re twins.” He glanced at Helen. “Or…possibly triplets. Not completely sure.”
“Triplets,” the duchess gasped. “There’s another?”
“Mrs. Bean didn’t say where the third one went.” Fletcher’s voice, so like the duke’s but also not like the duke’s, informed her. “But Helen thinks so.”
“I’m sorry.” Roxboro lifted a brow. “Who is Mrs. Bean? Should I know her?”
“Bloody hell.” Fletcher lifted the same brow. “Are you always like this?” he waved a hand at the duke. “Snooty?”
“Oh, this is entirely entertaining. But also…off-putting,” the duchess mused. “I suspected twins. Or cousins, possibly. But now you say there could be another one?”
Helen nodded. “Mrs. Bean, in addition to being the owner of a brothel, was a midwife. She was present at the duke’s birth.” She held up Mrs. Bean’s letter. “You should read this.”
“Immediately.” The duchess snatched it from her fingers and went to the settee. “Barstow,” she said loudly. “I know you’re listening at the door. Have tea brought and,” she looked at Helen, who nodded. “A great many of those small sandwiches. No maids or footmen. You must bring the cart in and then shut the door.”
Footsteps sounded as the butler retreated.
“Barstow won’t breathe a word,” she said to Helen. “He’s overly protective of the duke. Where’s he been,” she nodded, taking in the stains on Fletcher’s clothing. “Fletcher.”
“The Devil’s Acre, Your Grace,” Helen said, watching Roxboro and Fletcher mimic each other’s movements, unintentionally. Where Roxboro was elegant, Fletcher was fluid, more athletic. But still, it must be like looking in a mirror for them both.
The duchess reached out and grabbed Helen’s knee, face pale. Mrs. Bean’s letter was open before her. “How can this be true?”
Helen regarded the two men. “How can it not be? There is more, Your Grace. Not nearly as welcome, I fear.” How do you explain to a duke that there was someone in London so full of malicious intent?
“Roxboro,” the duchess said, patting the place beside her. “You remind me of a rooster that suddenly finds itself with a competitor. He’ll never be the dandy you are, so cease your concern. Do you recall what happened to Philpott? Your father’s solicitor?”
“Philpott?” Roxboro’s brows furrowed. “Haven’t thought of him in years. Why?”
“I’m curious,” she spared a glance at Helen. “Indulge me.”
The duke came forward to sit next to his wife. “I was a child when Philpott died. Accidental drowning, I believe. Quite tragic. He stumbled while walking along the Thames with Mrs. Philpott after leaving a barge where they attended a party. At least, I think so. He drowned. She lingered but eventually perished from a broken heart. Honestly, I don’t recall Philpott all that well. Uncle Damon probably does.”
“We aren’t going to consult him just yet.” There was a worried look to the duchess. “You see, Miss Cosgrove, tragedy stalks the dukes of Roxboro. Not only the duke’s solicitor and parents, but also his grandfather. An accident at a mill.”
