Prologue #2
“Please,” Marianne whispered. “I will pay you whatever you wish. I—” A moan of pain escaped her lips.
“A fortune. No amount is too large.” Inhaling at another wave of pain, she said, “send word to my husband’s brother, I beg you.
He will pay whatever sum you require for offering aid.
Lord Damon Viceroy. Mayfair. Number fourteen, Brook Street.
Gray brick house. The door is green with a large, golden knocker of a bull’s head—
“I don’t know a Lord Damon,” Mrs. Bean interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “Is he your protector?”
“No, he’s my brother-in-law,” Marianne choked.
“You’re a harlot who’s lost her protector, I’ll warrant.” Mrs. Bean pushed with one foot, trying to dislodge her from the doorway before inhaling sharply at the sight of Marianne’s bloodied skirts and writhing mound of stomach. “And now you’re bleeding all over my rug.”
“I,” Marianne snarled in a coldly patrician tone, “Am the Duchess of Roxboro. Most definitely not a trollop. Nor do I resemble one.”
The serving girl’s eyes widened.
“Well, I suppose not,” Mrs. Bean raised a brow at Marianne’s tone. “Not in that gown at least. Nor with those earbobs.”
“They are yours if you help me. And whatever gold you ask for,” Marianne panted as black spots appeared in her vision. “Send for Lord Damon, I beg you. He’ll reward you handsomely.” Marianne struggled to her knees, fingers digging into the rug as another pang struck. “I give you my word.”
“We’ve not been formally introduced, Your Grace, but as you’ve overheard, I am Mrs. Bean.
” She waved a hand at the young girl. “This is Louisa. And you’ll forgive me for being cautious but most of the girls who roam these streets come to me for aid at such times.
Though, much sooner.” She pointedly looked at the mound of Marianne’s stomach, lips drawing back at the blood soaking her rug.
“And they use the entrance to my establishment.”
“I am not a trollop.”
“Don’t suppose you are. But I don’t know this Lord Damon or any Duchess of Roxboro,” she said. “But I will take those fancy diamonds,” she flicked at the diamond hanging from Marianne’s left ear. “And the gown, if I can get the blood out. Possibly your slippers.”
“You can have all of it.” Mrs. Bean could strip Marianne naked for all she cared, as long as the woman helped her.
“A new rug as well, Your Grace.”
“I can have one sent from Axminster. The same that graces the home of the Prince Regent,” Marianne sputtered. Axminster made the finest rugs in all of England and any one of them was likely worth more than this woman’s house.
Mrs. Bean nodded. “I suppose that will suffice.” Snapping her fingers, she said, “Wilkes.”
A massive form appeared from shadows, looming over Marianne and the two other women. “Yes, Mrs. Bean?”
“I need you to lift the duchess,” Mrs. Bean ordered, with some mockery, clearly not truly believing Marianne.
“Gently. Place her in the spare room, the one my sister uses when she visits. Louisa,” she said to the girl, who hadn’t stopped staring at Marianne.
“I need linens. Clean ones. Hot water. Soap.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.”
“And send Matty to find—this Lord Damon.” She leaned over Marianne. “I do hope you aren’t making this up or things will go poorly for you, duchess.”
“Lord Damon Viceroy.” Marianne managed to get out. “If he is not at home, his servants will know where to find him.” More black spots crowded her vision. Mrs. Bean, grimace still on her lips, grew blurry.
I’m dying.
Marianne grew more certain of that by the moment. But with her last breath, she would save her child. Even now, he was moving about inside her, begging to be free. The heir she and Charles had so dearly wanted. Prayed for. Finally. And he wasn’t here to see it.
A sob left her as strong arms lifted her, carefully cupping her head.
“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Bean said, placing her palm over Marianne’s massive stomach. “How far along are you?” Concern flashed in her pale eyes, there and gone in an instant.
“Nearly seven months,” Marianne whispered.
Mrs. Bean clucked her tongue. “Too soon and…either the babe is quite large or…” she shook her head. “Hurry, Louisa. Now.”
The girl jumped and rushed off to do her bidding.
“The babe,” Mariane struggled to say as she was carried away. “Save it. No matter what.”
The older woman gazed down at Marianne with something that resembled pity before it was gone.
“You believe me.”
Mrs. Bean didn’t answer. “I’ll do what I can. I promise.”
*
Three. Three damned babies.
Delores Bean, proprietor of a small brothel which catered to gentlemen with unusual tastes, looked at the poor dead woman lying on the bed before her.
She’d done all she could, but Delores knew, since she’d once been a midwife before coming to London, that there had been too much blood for the mother’s survival.
Even had she lived, the duchess, as Delores was now fairly certain the woman happened to be, would likely have died of fever.
Not hardy in the least. Few fine ladies were.
Childbirth, Delores mused, was a great equalizer.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the woman’s story that she and the duke had been set upon by unknown assailants, but Delores supposed it was none of her business.
Bad things happen when you stick your nose into things that you shouldn’t.
She’d lived in The Devil’s Acre a long time.
And in that time, Delores had helped to birth dozens of children or prevented them from coming into the world at all.
But never, in all her sixty years, had she witnessed the birth of more than one child save a pair of twins two decades ago.
Certainly not…. three. All boys. All identical. Mostly.
The first boy born, was, as expected, the strongest of the three. He’d come out squalling; face wrinkled in consternation at having to face the world. And though he was small, he seemed sturdy enough.
But the other two?
Tiny. Far too small to survive. One nearly blue before she smacked his back. That one had a freckle on the end of his nose. Barely a sound came from the other boy, only tiny mewls, like a kitten. He had a birthmark on his shoulder that reminded Delores of a heart.
Again, it didn’t matter. Neither was likely to survive.
She’d ordered Louisa to take them from the room and out of sight of the dying duchess lying in a pool of her own blood.
A small kindness. There was no sense in her seeing the other two boys since both would likely soon be joining her in death.
The duchess should be allowed to pass in peace without a heart laden with grief.
Delores knew that sort of grief well. She’d lost three of her own children.
A squall met her ears, coming from the basket at the foot of the bed.
Alexander, the duchess had whispered, touching his cheek, a smile of pure happiness pulling at her lips before her eyes closed. Barely conscious.
A blessing. Delores thought it unlikely the duchess ever felt the birth of the other two infants.
Poor lamb.
Charitable isn’t how most in Devil’s Acre would describe Delores Bean. Life was hard. Cruel. She knew firsthand. But—she smoothed down the duchess’s matted hair before taking the diamond earbobs from her ears—every now and again she allowed herself a moment of weakness. As she had tonight.
“Mrs. Bean.” Louisa ran into the room, averting her eyes from the bed, pursing her thin lips at the scent of all that blood.
“Has Lord Damon arrived?”
“No.” Louisa shook her head. “Another gentleman. Mr. Philpot. He was at Lord Damon’s home, awaiting his arrival to inform him…of the duke’s…demise,” she sputtered. “He’s a solicitor.”
Another wave of pity struck Delores for the duchess. The woman had been screaming for Charles, half out of her mind with pain. Muttering about being chased. Something about knives.
Not my business.
Louisa looked at the infant in the basket, before turning to the sound of whimpering coming from the room just across the hall. “Should I—bathe them and—”
“No.” Delores took a deep breath, tasting the tang of blood on her tongue.
“Let us not burden Mr. Philpot or Lord Damon with any more terrible news. The two babes,” she sighed.
“Will likely not live the night. Far too small. I would imagine the death of the duke and duchess is tragedy enough for this Mr. Philpot and Lord Damon. Try to comfort the babes, Louisa. A bit of sugared water in a napkin should quiet them. Hold and rock them, if you choose. Say a prayer for the duchess.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Louisa nodded and rushed from the room, likely surprised to find that her employer had a heart.
Bothersome, having a heart.
Mrs. Bean tucked the blanket more fully around little Alexander who waved his fists at her. Hungry, no doubt, though there wasn’t any way for her to feed him. Mr. Philpot, as the duke’s man, would see to it.
“I’m sorry about your mum,” she whispered. “Truly. But she was going to die no matter what I did. Lost too much blood. But I saved you. A future duke.”
“The Duke of Roxboro. Address him properly, if you please, Mrs. Bean.”
A spare gentleman with narrow shoulders, appeared at the bedroom door, looking out of place in his rich garments.
He spared a glance at the dead woman in the bed, closed his eyes for a moment, whispering something mournful under his breath.
“I am Mr. Philpot.” Two flat, black eyes snapped open to appraise her.
“The Duke of Roxboro’s solicitor.” He nodded to the basket. “His solicitor.”
“Mr. Philpot.” Delores inclined her head. “I did what I could to save her. The duchess promised—”
“You will be amply rewarded for your efforts.” Philpot’s eyes pierced her with a grief-filled stare. “Lord Damon is not in London at present but has been sent word of the death of the duke and duchess,” the words trembled from him. “I was awaiting his return when the lad in your employ found me.”
“Lucky.”
“If you say so, Mrs. Bean. I will take possession of His Grace.” His voice cracked just slightly before glancing over his shoulder at two burly footmen in livery, followed by a somber gentleman garbed in black.
“My wife will care for the duke until his uncle’s return.
” He waved the other gentleman forward. “Mr. Switch will…take Her Grace.” His throat bobbed once more, obviously distressed.
The duchess had been loved, that much was clear from Philpott’s reaction. One of the footmen wiped tears from his eyes. The other stared at the floor.
Delores handed the basket containing the tiny duke to Philpot. Given their reaction, it was a good thing she’d done, keeping the news of the other two infants from the solicitor. The man was so stricken. “He’s small, but healthy. Hungry. You’ll need a wet nurse.”
“Mrs. Philpot will make arrangements,” the solicitor assured her.
She nodded, hating that she cared for the little duke, though he was assuredly no longer her problem.
“She named him Alexander,” Delores thought to add.
“After the duchess’s father, Lord Manville,” Philpot murmured, fingers curling around the handle of the basket. “A good name. Lord Damon will be pleased.”
Sticking out her palm, Delores raised a brow. “My payment for services rendered. And Her Grace insisted I have a new rug. From Axminster.”
Disdain colored Philpot’s features, but he reached into his coat, producing a heavy bag of coins. “For your trouble, Mrs. Bean. And your care of the duchess. The rug will be delivered within the week.” He looked towards the bed, his eyes watery with emotion.
“Mr. Philpott,” she inclined her head as the footmen and Mr. Switch prepared the body of the duchess. “I bid you good evening.”
“Mrs. Bean.” He gave a short bow. “I thank you on behalf of the Duke of Roxboro.”