Chapter Four #4
Bean’s Book was more trouble than it was worth.
Who cared if Lord Witsell liked to dress in a diaper while sucking on a prostitute’s breast?
Or that an earl liked to stroll about naked while a violin was played?
Those were the sort of secrets filed away in the book, a stick Mrs. Bean wielded when needed.
He’d watched her consult the book when times were tough, sending a messenger into some tony part of London who would return with a purse full of gold coin.
Blackmail.
Fletcher didn’t understand the abundance of caution or the secrecy surrounding the book. The things written inside were hardly worth dying for, just embarrassing to the parties involved and not worth much, though Lark obviously disagreed. Unless Fletcher was wrong.
“What is in the book that is of such import, Mrs. Bean?”
She looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. “You don’t need to know. Not yet. It is a weapon to be used when you must. To keep you safe.”
“I suppose I’ll have need of it one day.” Fletcher couldn’t imagine how. He wasn’t interested in blackmailing half of Parliament. Once he settled into his new life, after Mrs. Bean was gone, Lark could do whatever he liked with the damn book.
“You will need it, but not for the reasons you think,” she murmured. “I wrote it all down, as soon as I learned of it. Every terrible deed, of which there are many.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Murderous prick.” She paled dramatically, pulling at her chest. “I won’t let him have you.”
“Mrs. Bean—”
“I’m fine.” She pushed aside his concern.
“I need—I should have told you long ago. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Monsters are everywhere. Don’t forget it.
No matter how pretty.” Her eyes drooped.
The brandy had made her rambling and sleepy.
“I want you to stop this nonsense of…pretending to be Roxboro.” Her fingers, like withered claws, dug into his arm with surprising strength.
“The duke has an uncle who won’t take kindly,” she took a deep breath before a fit of coughing consumed her. “To you.”
Fletcher brought the handkerchief to her lips, wincing at the blood covering the linen.
She sat back, struggling to breathe, her chest heaving. “I should have sent you off with Louisa,” she nearly sobbed, suddenly agitated. “I was too selfish.”
“Who is Louisa?” Fletcher had never heard the name before. “Was she a friend?”
“No.” A ugly laugh came from her. “Stay away from…” Her head lolled back on the chair, mumbling to herself.
Fletcher stood and gently picked her up. She weighed nothing and he lifted her easily. “I’d best get you upstairs. I’ll have Mary come ready you for bed. You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“You don’t understand, Freckle.” A terrible sound came from her. “I should have told you. But—I didn’t want you to go. The murder—”
“I’m sure there’s quite a lot of murders in your little book, Mrs. Bean,” he laughed quietly. “Along with which lords like to be whipped or dress as ladies.”
“Lark,” she said into his shoulder as he carried her. “Cannot have the book. He’ll sell it.” A cry left her. “Give you up.”
She wasn’t making a bit of sense. Going on about people Fletcher had never met, including Roxboro’s uncle.
Worried over the blasted book and Lark having it.
Who cared? “Don’t get upset. I promise I’ll follow your wishes to the letter.
” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I love you, Mrs. Bean, though you don’t always deserve it. ”
“Freckle.” Her hands twisted in his shirt as Fletcher made his way up the crooked stairs to her bedroom, calling for Mary. As he laid his grandmother carefully on the bed, he thought over their conversation. Obviously, Mrs. Bean was not in a good way to agonize so much over Lark and the book.
“I promise when Lark comes for me, I won’t be here.”
A sigh left her, though whether she heard him or not was debatable.
Mr. Bly, in one of his more lucid moments, had mentioned a small village to Fletcher named St. Osyth. He’d once had an aunt who lived there, and Bly described the area as bucolic.
Fletcher had no idea what the word meant, but nodded all the same.
Nothing but acres of wildflowers until it ends in the sea.
Sounded like heaven to Fletcher. No soot. No stumbling over empty bottles of gin. No…fighting for your existence every day. The area was remote. Few people lived there. He could arrive, tell them all he was a prince from…well, somewhere and no one would know the difference.
He’d used some of his funds from impersonating Roxboro to purchase an abandoned manor house. The property came cheap because extensive renovations were required to make it habitable, but that didn’t bother Fletcher. He had the money to hire an entire fleet of tradesmen.
Closing the bedroom door behind him, Fletcher made his way back down the stairs to the door leading to The Dancing Swan. The music and laughter from the brothel bled through the thin walls making the plaster vibrate.
He threw the bolt, not trusting Ripps. He’d go around to the front entrance.