Chapter Twenty-Three
How ironic.
Helen had lived in London nearly her entire life and never once even had her reticule stolen, let alone be abducted by a terrible smelling assailant. But yet, in the space of a week, she’d been imprisoned. Twice.
But the true oddity was that the worn quilt in this room in a nondescript boarding house located…
well, she wasn’t sure exactly where, so closely it resembled the one covering her bed at Galway’s home.
The furnishings, honestly, weren’t that much different, though the mattress she’d slept on for the last three years was far more comfortable.
No view to speak of except the brick side of another building.
Taking a deep breath, all things considered, Helen thought she was holding up rather well considering her circumstances.
Not so much as a tear or a trembling hand.
She was frightened, yes, but something had shifted inside her.
She supposed that’s what falling in love with a criminal will do for you.
Or maybe it was that Helen was a survivor and hadn’t realized it until now.
The thug who’d brought her here was filthy, foul-mouthed, and smelled like the Thames on a hot summer day mixed with cooked onions.
A truly horrifying scent. If he’d ever had a chance to bathe, he hadn’t taken it.
His sudden appearance, popping out of shrubs lining a residence in Grosvenor Square, told Helen all she needed to know.
He’d been watching Galway’s home for her, but why, she wasn’t sure.
Vagrants didn’t go about abducting chaperones or lady’s companions without good reason.
And her kidnapper hadn’t volunteered one.
The reason could only be Fletcher.
As soon as the man’s filthy hand left her mouth, Helen was immediately gagged for the duration of the journey to wherever this happened to be.
She’d been shoved inside a battered house that seemed uninhabited, been jerked up the stairs, then pushed unceremoniously inside this room.
Her kidnapper, utterly unpleasant, tossed a few withered apples in her direction, followed by a chamber pot.
He was nearly as pleasant as Parker. There was nothing else inside the room but an armoire listing to one side and the bed.
Feel free to scream if you like. No one will hear you. Her assailant had grunted before slamming shut the door. As far as her care was considered, this man and Galway’s butler had much in common.
Helen spent what remained of that first night, staring at the ceiling, hoping she might wake up in her bed at Galway’s home, even if she were still his prisoner.
Preferable to whatever this man had in mind for her.
Sunlight, streaming across the small window of the room, woke her.
She had just lifted her skirts to use the chamber pot when the door swung open.
She jumped, dropping her skirts.
A girl appeared in the doorway, a snarling grin on her lips.
“Sorry, princess. Guess I should ’ave knocked.
” She was a homely looking thing, with thin wrists and reddened fingers, all signs she was a scullery maid, or a servant of some kind.
Glaring at Helen, she tossed a small cloth bag on the bed.
Another withered apple rolled out, followed by a wedge of cheese and a moldy bit of bread.
“Good morning.” Helen said. “I’m—”
“Don’t care. You’re just some high-class trollop according to Vulture.” Her cheeks flushed, making the pimples on her skin stand out. “He watched the spectacle you made of yourself in the garden. Couldn’t wait to share the details. Nothing but a whore. Same as at The Swan.”
“I am a lady’s companion,” Helen replied stiffly, horrified that she and Fletcher had been watched.
Really, Helen. You are likely moments away from dying and that is what you’re most concerned about?
The girl’s face scrunched up, making her look like a confused rat. “Don’t know what that is and don’t care. Nor does it matter.” She lifted her shoulders. “He’s in charge of things and he’s got the book now. Lark means to kill you, but not until Fletch gets here.”
“Splendid.” Helen had no idea what “the book” happened to be and it didn’t seem of great importance under the circumstances. “I cannot wait to make his acquaintance.”
The girl scowled at her and walked back out of the room, slamming the door.
Helen sat on the bed, trying to find a spot that was somewhat comfortable and nibbled at the cheese, which wasn’t half bad. The bread was far too moldy to even attempt so she placed it back in the sack. The apple had a bit more promise though, so she set it aside for later.
So this did have to do with Fletcher. Not that she’d had any doubt.
A lady’s companion wasn’t a threat to anyone.
The most Helen could do was give one an incredible set-down and toss an embroidery hoop at their head.
Her life was boring. Bland. In the service of others.
And in the space of weeks, Helen became involved with a fake duke who was a thief, been pleasured within an inch of her life, might possibly have fallen for this villain—no I most definitely have—and now had been kidnapped because of their association.
Her former, invisible, dull life had never been more appealing.
She spent the remainder of the day peering out through the small window, which was much too small to do her any good, just like the one at Galway’s.
She stared at the brick of the building beside her, so close had she been able to open the window, Helen might have touched the mortar.
Instead, she amused herself by counting the number of bricks.
She pressed her ear to the door, determined to glean any information about her whereabouts or who was keeping her, but only made out muffled voices and general stomping about.
The man who’d brought her here—Vulture?—and the girl who’d visited earlier seemed to be the only other people in the house.
She paced back and forth across the room, examined the armoire. The bed. But there was nothing.
Finally, as twilight lengthened outside the window, the door opened once more and a man strolled in, along with her kidnapper and the girl she’d met earlier, at his back.
Helen’s first thought was…if this was Lark, he was misnamed.
Bantam Rooster would have been more appropriate if this group were going for an avian theme.
He was not tall, but broad with red hair that was thinning on the sides, leaving a sparse patch at the top.
There was such a murderous, brutal look to him, that even Helen, who hadn’t been exposed to such seediness until now, could see it.
“I’m Lark,” he stated without preamble.
“A pleasure.” Helen replied.
He eyed her with his head cocked to one side. “So you’re Fletch’s ladybird. Never would have thought he’d enjoy something so dainty. You’re a wee little thing.”
“Trollop,” the girl said under her breath.
“I suppose there isn’t any accounting for taste is there, Mr. Lark?” Helen replied tartly.
He burst into laughter, showing a row of rotted teeth.
“Ah, don’t mind Mary,” he jerked a thumb at the girl.
“She’s only sore that Fletch likes you and not her.
Thought he’d stoop to dip his cock in her out of all the lasses at The Dancing Swan.
Stupid chit. Uglier than a post.” He shrugged at Mary, who lowered her head.
“But you, well, I can see why Fletch put his head between your pretty legs.”
Helen swallowed. At least Mary’s hostility towards her made sense.
“Man don’t do that unless he’s…” Lark snapped his fingers. “Enamored. Yeah, I think that’s the word.”
“And The Dancing Swan is…” Helen raised a brow, choosing to ignore his remark about Fletch pleasuring her in Galway’s garden.
“Finest brothel in all The Devil’s Acre.
Belonged to Delores Bean along with the book.
But both are mine now. I’ve one last chore, to rid the world of Fletcher Bean.
Never cared for him, overmuch. At any rate, he’s seen the book.
Knows what’s in it, I ’spect. Too much knowledge isn’t a good thing, not for him.
That’s where you’ll come in handy. Had Vulture snatch you for just that purpose. ”
“I see.”
Fletcher had warned her. Helen just hadn’t thought these were the sort of circumstances he’d been referring to. Also, he was not just a thief but also was associated with a brothel. Helen could not possibly have worse taste.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lark.” Helen cleared her throat. “But does Fletcher know I’m here?”
“Not yet.” He reached into his pocket to pull out a small, leather book tied with a red ribbon.
“He’ll come for this. Bean’s Book. You’re just here to make him behave.
Or suffer. Not really sure. Given what happened in that lord’s garden, I think he’ll do whatever I want.
Vulture says he was mooning over you.” Lark wiggled his brows.
“He’s probably figured out I’ve got the book, or at least the key to the strongbox.
Probably knows you played him false, Mary. ”
“Don’t care,” the girl hissed.
“Took it right off Mrs. Bean’s neck as soon as she gasped her last.”
Fletcher’s…mother?
“But poor lamb,” he jerked his chin at Mary. “He never gave her a second thought. Made her right mad to know he had a woman on the side.”
“Don’t talk about me like that, Lark. Not after what I done for you. And I’ve got somethin’.”
“You watch that mouth, Mary.” Lark curled his hand into a fist, striking the girl so hard she fell to the floor, with a cry.
Helen made to get up and go to her aid.
“She wouldn’t do the same for you,” Lark said, gesturing for Helen to sit back down. “Not only that, but Mary here wants to carve up your face a bit.”
The bed creaked as Helen sat back down.
“You got Ripps killed,” Lark said to Mary. “Nursed Mrs. Bean, who by all accounts was good to you, then you stole from her. You think Fletch will appreciate it?”
“I don’t care,” Mary wailed.