Chapter Nineteen
I deserve to have Lark slit my throat.
Of all the incredibly stupid things he’d done in his life, and there were many, spending the last few days following Helen Cosgrove about—what a lovely name—and then breaking into Galway’s garden by picking the gate lock was at the top of the list.
He’d gone to convince Helen to come away with him.
Confess every bloody sin. Fletcher wanted to tell her about the manor house requiring extensive renovation.
Paint for her a picture of the life they could have together once he got them out of London.
Then he’d lost his bloody mind, driven insane by the taste of her and put his mouth on Helen’s quim.
Fletcher was already half in love with Helen Cosgrove before he got to Galway’s garden, now well there wasn’t any question.
Hyde Park had been a risk. The timing of his visit to the modiste’s shop, more coincidence than anything else. But entering a lord’s garden and then pleasuring her behind a fountain had been the act of a complete imbecile.
I’m one of Mrs. Bean’s secrets.
Was he in that fucking book?
Fletcher hadn’t been to the boarding house in Cheapside for some time, explaining to Ripps off hand that he’d had a falling out with his ladybird.
Then, when the craving for Helen became too great, he made an excuse about “goin’ to snag a purse” so he could buy his non-existent ladybird a red petticoat, which allowed him to follow Helen about.
Fletcher did lift a couple purses, dutifully gave Lark his due and went to buy a red petticoat in the better part of London, hoping to allay suspicion.
He was still being watched.
Fletcher had done all of that, risked his life and that of Mrs. Bean, for a woman who meant to betray him. The thought felt like a punch to his stomach. The part where he’d fallen in love was bad enough.
Love wasn’t something you thought a great deal about in The Devil’s Acre, where there were no happy endings for anyone.
Growing up in a brothel, he’d watched men proclaim their love for one of Mrs. Bean’s girls while tossing Ripps a sack of coins.
But Helen? She made Fletcher the idea of his manor house was…
.real. Though he hadn’t yet seen the bloody house, he’d started to picture Helen there, amongst the wildflowers Fletcher imagined must grow everywhere in the country.
And because of Helen, of his affection for her, it had never once crossed his mind that she might seek out the duke over the bloody emerald pendant. The maid’s fault, though he did feel terrible she’d be accused. But Galway would only have her sacked.
Fletcher, however, would swing from a rope.
Talk to Roxboro? Was she insane? Helen was probably running to the duke this instant, breathless to tell him everything she’d learned about Fletcher Bean.
Making his way back to The Devil’s Acre, he deliberately took the longest possible route so that he had time to think. About Helen. Roxboro. Mrs. Bean.
Could he possibly be—No.
He grabbed at his chest because it stung so bad.
Slowing his steps, Fletcher tried to relax so he wouldn’t seem out of sorts when he reached The Dancing Swan. He was just out, drinking gin and picking a pocket or two. Nothing to rouse the least bit of suspicion in Lark that he was doing somethin’ else. He’d be dead soon if he didn’t leave London.
But he couldn’t let the book fall into the wrong hands without knowin’ what Mrs. Bean had done. Christ, he was sick of untrustworthy women.
He’d question Mrs. Bean until she told Fletcher the truth and not some made up tale of Hannah Bean.
His grandmam wasn’t long for this world and he couldn’t let her breath her last with only Ripps to hold her hand.
But once Mrs. Bean was gone, he’d retrieve the iron strongbox and the book.
Flee London as if his life depended on it, because it did.
This morning, before going on his incredibly stupid errand to see Helen, Fletcher had gone to check on Mrs. Bean.
In the last week, his grandmam hadn’t left her bed, not even to sit in the parlor.
Nor did she come down for breakfast which hadn’t happened in all the years he’d known her.
He’d opened her bedroom door, unsurprised to see Mary sitting beside her, spooning bits of broth between her bloodless lips.
Mary jumped at the sight of him. “Good day, Fletch.” She swallowed, looking down at Grandmam. “I was just seeing to Mrs. Bean.”
“And a poor job you’re doing of it. I need brandy. Piping hot tea. Not broth and damp bread.” The last dissolved into a fit of coughing. “Can you do that much?” Mrs. Bean snapped.
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Mary rushed past Fletcher.
Fletcher had approached his grandmam, noting the grayish cast to her features.
The skin sagging from her cheeks and the deep hollows beneath her eyes.
The handkerchief clutched in one hand was riddled with flecks of blood.
Save for the rise and fall of her chest, Fletcher might already think she was gone.
“You shouldn’t be so unkind to Mary. She does her best.”
“Bah. I treat her better than most. Girl’s not got a lick of sense. They’ll eat her alive without me around. ’Sides, I wanted a word with you in private.” Her lips had pressed together. “I want you to make sure Mary is taken care of.” Her eyes softened a bit. “After.”
“I’ve already thought as much.” Mrs. Baldwin, the owner of the boarding house had already agreed to take Mary. “I’ve found her a position elsewhere.”
“Good. Good.” The words came out in a wet gurgle as another cough wracked Mrs. Bean’s frail body. “I hope you won’t linger either.”
“Rest, Mrs. Bean. You taught me well.” Taking her hand, he had pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve got to go out for a bit, but I’ll be back in time to handle matters next door. Have dinner with you.”
“Visiting your skirt?” A snort left her.
“We had a bit of a fallin’ out.”
“There’s no skirt, my boy. At least not in Cheapside.” An ugly laugh came from her. “If I know as much, so does Lark. Best you leave and not come back.”
“And no Hannah Bean either.” Fletcher had picked up a clean cloth, dabbing at the bit of blood staining the corner of her mouth.
“Fair enough.” Her pain-filled gaze met his.
“Was she one of your girls, Mrs. Bean?”
Mrs. Bean had shut her eyes, knuckles going white as she twisted the quilt tucked around her.
“Darling Freckle. Don’t judge me too harshly when I’m gone.
I did the best I could, which isn’t sayin’ much, is it?
But I kept you from him. You’re smart. Know how to kill a man.
Taught you my poisons. The Devil’s Acre did you some good. ”
Fletcher paused as he reached the bridge at St. Margaret’s, replaying the earlier conversation with Mrs. Bean.
“I want to make sure,” she’d said. “The book is safe.”
“It is.”
“Don’t trust Ripps much these days, as you know.” Her bony shoulders wiggled in the imitation of a shrug. “I expect everyone will be pickin’ over my corpse. I’ve spoken to Mews, so you don’t need to bother with that.”
Mews was a gravedigger, of sorts. He buried bodies. Lots of them.
“I don’t mind if you kill him. Ripps,” she said lightly. “Deserves it for riffling through my underthings. As if he’d think I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ll take care of everything, Mrs. Bean,” Fletcher had said, holding onto her hand.
Her face pinched together and then Grandmam had….sobbed. A sound Fletcher had never once heard in his entire life.
“My Freckle. Forgive me. I—should have told you sooner about it, but—I was afraid. So afraid. Not for me, but for you. There’s nothing more dangerous than an ambitious man.
His,” she had choked out, blood spilling over her lips.
“Secret is in the book. All of it. Terrible business. I needed an advantage. In case,” but another round of coughing left her gasping for breath and washed out against the pillows.
Fletcher thought about those words now as he walked towards Pye Street. This morning, he’d merely thought Mrs. Bean out of her mind with pain, remindin’ him for the dozenth time about Lark and that fuckin’ book.
Before he could question her further, the floor had creaked announcing Mary’s return and effectively ending the conversation. The maid stood in the doorway with a tray, a pot of steaming tea, and a bottle of brandy.
“Mrs. Bean I’ve brought your tea.”
“Took you long enough,” Grandmam snapped as she’d taken Fletcher’s hand once more.
Surprisingly strong, given her illness, she had pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“I love you, my Freckle. Not good at sayin’ I know,” she whispered in his ear.
“I’ll drag things out here as long as I can.
Now, off with you,” she had said louder, pushing him aside.
“See if the apothecary can make me more of that syrup for my cough. Be quick about it.”
Eyes flinty, with a hardness Fletcher hadn’t seen in Delores Bean since before she fell ill. Not to mention there wasn’t an apothecary in The Devil’s Acre. She was giving him a reason to be gone, one Lark wouldn’t question, nor anyone else.
Mary had rushed over with the tea tray. “Don’t worry Fletch. I’ll tend to Mrs. Bean. You go to the apothecary.”
“A word, Mary, if you will.”
He’d taken the girl aside and explained that Mrs. Bean wanted to make sure she was cared for and gone from The Swan.
“Fletch.” Mary had brushed away a tear.
“I’ve a friend in Cheapside,” Fletcher had told her. “Mrs. Baldwin. She runs a boarding house on Wood Street and is in need of an extra hand. The position is yours if you want it. Or you can take your chances here.”
A hurt look had crossed the maid’s homely features. “But won’t you need me, Fletch?” At the shake of his head she let out a small sound. “You’re leavin’.”
Fletcher hadn’t answered her, just hurried out of The Devil’s Acre, already thinking of Helen and whether she would leave with him. He’d planned to sup with Mrs. Bean tonight and possibly get a confession.
Quickening his steps, Fletcher turned off Pye Street towards the alley where The Swan sat. Fletcher struggled to keep his steps even, but the sense of impending doom, the dread that he’d failed Mrs. Bean grew stronger the closer he came to the brothel.
There were eyes on him, but none more than usual which Fletcher took as a good sign no matter how his stomach twisted about.
He entered The Dancing Swan walking into the main parlor so Mary wouldn’t have to run down from tending Grandmam to answer the door. It was early, and most of the girls would still be upstairs. But oddly, there was no sign of Ripps, which put Fletcher instantly on edge.
Because if the big man wasn’t here, where was he?
He pulled one of the knives from his boot and slid it up into his sleeve.
Opening the door in the wall, Fletcher entered his side of the house and peeked in the kitchen.
A half-chopped cabbage sat on the worktable, along with a pair of withered carrots.
But no Mary. Could the maid have decided to cut her losses and already left for Wood Street?
Fletcher silently made his way across the floor to the stairs, making sure not to put his weight on the ones that creaked. Wailing floated down from above.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, grabbing at the wall as he raced up the stairs, already knowing, deep inside, what he would find. She’d tried to tell him earlier, hadn’t she?
Running up the rest of the stairs, Mary suddenly bolted out of Grandmam’s room, weeping hysterically and ran right into Fletcher, nearly knocking him over. He grabbed her around the arms. “Mary?”
“Oh, Fletch,” Mary sobbed. “Where have you been?”
Out chasing a foolish, stupid dream.
“The apothecary, remember?” he lied. “Took longer than I thought. The syrup—”
“It don’t matter, now.” Mary burst into a fresh wave of tears. “Mrs. Bean—she’s gone, Fletch. I stayed with her the whole time. So did Ripps. He left to find you.” Another wail.
I’ll bet he did.
Pushing Mary aside, he stepped into the bedroom, the coppery stench of blood and sickness filling his nostrils. Mrs. Bean lay on the bed, hands clasped on her chest. A basin of water, stained pink, on the table beside her.
“I cleaned her up,” Mary sobbed. “As best I could. Called for Mews. Just like she told me.” She lifted her apron to dry her tears. “But I didn’t want to leave her up here alone. I couldn’t, Fletch.”
“It’s fine Mary. Truly.” His words were thick.
Fletcher approached the bed, knees collapsing as he sat beside the only parent he’d ever known. “Mrs. Bean,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You promised to wait until I got back. We were going to sup together.”
But she couldn’t hear him. Not anymore.
Now he could never ask her the truth. Who Fletcher Bean really was though—he suspected now given the resemblance to Roxboro they must be related. He was probably a by-blow of Roxboro’s father or uncle, got on one of Mrs. Bean’s girls. But he’d never know for sure.
Unless you read the book.
“Damn it, Mrs. Bean,” he whispered. “Why couldn’t you have told me?”
Ripps had most likely gone to inform Lark that Mrs. Bean, proprietress of The Dancing Swan, was dead. The two of them would come for Fletcher. Lark wanted the brothel. The book. And Fletcher’s head on a pike.
“Mary,” he said as gently as he could. “Can you…stay until Mews arrives?”
His life depended on getting to Cheapside as quickly as possible.
“I’m to pay Mews,” her voice broke. “She gave me the coin.”
“You’ll go directly after to Mrs. Baldwin.” Fletcher glanced at the maid’s face, blotchy with tears. Mrs. Bean had been a hard mistress, but a fair one. Mary would likely be gin-drunk in an alley if not for his grandmam. “Promise me.”
“Lark won’t bother me, Fletch. Nor Ripps. I’m just…the maid. But you—”
“Go pack your things, Mary. Then wait for Mews.” Fletcher drew in a slow breath; chest filled with grief. “I’d like a moment with Mrs. Bean before I go.”
“Yes, Fletch,” she whispered, head raised at hearing a knock at the door. Mews, probably. She rushed down the stairs.
Fletcher pressed his forehead to the dead woman’s clasped hands once he knew he was alone.
“Mrs. Bean,” he choked. “Grandmam. And you were. No matter who I am.” Laying his head on her chest, he wept softly for the woman who’d raised him.
Protected him. Loved him. In the best way she could.
He thought of that book, the one he didn’t want, the one listing all of Mrs. Bean’s secrets.
And his. Lark must have an inkling of what was truly inside.
“Who were you afraid of?” he whispered to Mrs. Bean.
When he finally wiped his eyes and sat back, that’s when Fletcher noticed. His heart beat like a drum in his chest.
The key to the iron box was gone from around Mrs. Bean’s neck.