Chapter Twenty-Five
“This do for you?”
The tavern owner’s wife, a buxom woman with a wreath of bright red hair, opened the door on a small, tidy room.
A fire was already lit. The curtains drawn.
The boisterous crowd downstairs was loud, but the noise still failed to drown out the furious beat of her heart.
The pounding, vibrating in her ears, hadn’t stopped since Fletcher had found her.
“Thanks Annie.” Fletcher pressed a handful of gold into her palm Far more than the room was worth. “Maybe something to eat as well? Whatever you have. And wine. Water for bathing?”
She raised a brow. “Picky ain’t you, Fletch, considering. I’ll have everything brought up. Can’t keep you more than the night. I know I owe you for—The Dancing Swan but—my husband don’t know about that. And well, there’s some worse than Lark—”
“I understand,” Fletcher interrupted and took her hand. “We’ll be gone as soon as the sun is up. But until then, no one knows we’re here. You haven’t seen me.”
“Already said you were my cousin.” Annie frowned. “Sorry about Mrs. Bean, Fletch. Truly. Supper will be up in a bit. Stew tonight.” Her eyes flicked over Helen. “Hope that’ll suit.”
“It will, Annie. Thank you.” Fletcher shut the door behind her.
Exhausted and cold, Helen stumbled to one of the tattered overstuffed chairs by the fire. The chair had seen better days, the tapestry worn at the edges and a spring poking up, but after the last few days, the chair felt like heaven.
Fletcher strode over to the window and looked out as the sun dipped below a string of ramshackle buildings.
They had been on the run since leaving the boarding house, skipping in and out of rookeries and skirting the better parts of town.
Helen had been led down filthy streets she didn’t even know existed.
Her feet ached. Her poor muslin dress was now dripping filth from the hem and likely her hair which had long ago pulled free of pins.
She’d plaited the strands and tied the braid with a bit of leather Fletcher produced.
But her half-boots had held up surprisingly well, given how far they’d come.
“Where are we?” Helen said to Fletcher’s back.
“Seven Dials. The better part of it, at least. Which isn’t saying much.” Fletcher turned from the window. “But we’ll be safe here for the night. Annie owes me a favor.”
Fletcher’s treatment of Helen had been polite with very little of his usual teasing manner since fleeing the boarding house. They hadn’t spoken much, other than directions to run. Hide. Stay quiet. Perhaps killing two of Lark’s men without so much as blinking had something to do with it.
The letter she’d taken from Mary sat nestled in her bodice, the weight of it pressing against her heart.
Not only a thief. But a murderer. And something more.
Did he have any inkling? Would he believe Mrs. Bean’s words?
“Warm enough?” Fletcher asked. The beautiful eyes showed little emotion on a sort of brittle blandness that left Helen’s heart aching. He expected her to be repulsed by him, and she should be.
“Yes, thank you.”
The pull in his direction tugged at her skin. Helen’s feeling for Fletcher, had not faded at the knowledge he’d killed to save her. Nor at finding out he was the son of a brothel owner in The Devil’s Acre. Not even her subsequent kidnapping by Vulture had managed it.
But Helen didn’t know how to tell him so.
A knock sounded and Fletcher opened the door a crack, ushering Annie inside once more.
She carried a tray laden with two bowls of stew, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread.
She didn’t look at either of them, just set the tray down on a table before the window.
A girl of no more than ten followed behind, balancing a pitcher of warm water and towels in her hands.
Annie waited until the girl set down everything, then shooed her out, closing the door.
“She’s frightened,” Helen said quietly. “Your friend Annie.”
“Lark will eventually figure out where we are,” Fletcher grunted.
“But not for some time. Annie worries it will blow back on her, but it won’t.
Lark don’t rule here.” He gestured for Helen to eat and poured out two glasses of wine.
Tearing off a bit of bread, Fletcher tucked into the stew, attacking the meal like a starving animal.
I suppose we’ll have to work on his manners.
The note fairly pulsed where it sat against her skin.
Helen took a tentative sip of the wine, which was better than she’d anticipated.
The fruitiness filled her mouth, helping to soothe some of the sharp edges of the last few days.
Poking at the stew, which was mostly carrots and potatoes with a bit of unrecognizable meat, Helen decided to focus on the bread.
Besides Fletcher had already finished his bowl and was eyeing hers hungrily.
She pushed it in his direction. “I’ll trade you the rest of the bread for my stew,” she said. Helen had subsisted on cheese and apples, but Fletcher looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “When did Mrs. Bean die?”
Fletcher stopped chewing, the green of his eyes dull, the silver lacking sparkle. A hint of pain hovered at the corners of his mouth. No matter that they’d both washed, there was still blood at the edges of one finger. He pushed the remainder of the bread in her direction.
“The same day I saw you in Galway’s garden. After I took care of Ripps—”
“Ripps?” She understood him to mean he’d…disposed of this Ripps as well.
“Doorman at The Swan. I went to Cheapside. I kept a room at the boarding house. A place to keep my Roxboro clothes and change into the duke,” he informed her dispassionately.
“And where I hid the book. I never thought he’d find the book.
Or you.” He took another bite of the stew, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, if it matters.”
“It always matters. You did tell me once there were circumstances of which I needed to remain blissfully unaware. I suppose this is what you meant. I’m sorry about the death of your… mother.”
“Grandmam.” He gave a tiny shake of his head as if trying to dispel a thought. “Mrs. Bean. She owned The Dancing Swan, a brothel where I grew up. I’m also a thief and a killer.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’ll return you to Lord Galway tomorrow. You’ll be safe. I promise.”
“Actually, I won’t be.” She buttered a bit of bread. “Safe with Galway. I’d prefer not to return there, if you don’t mind.”
A question lit Fletcher’s handsome features.
“Lord Galway accused me of stealing Cerise’s emerald pendant. After offering to allow me to work off the debt in his bed, which I declined, he locked me in my room. He was going to turn me over to the authorities and have me imprisoned.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she informed him. There would be other ways he could punish Galway if he chose. Later. “Kate, that’s Cerise’s maid, the one who I thought might be dismissed for theft, helped me escape. And while I was running from Galway, Vulture found me.
He’d been following you and saw us together in the garden.”
Pain filled his gaze, forcing him to look away.
“My fault, isn’t it? Everything.” Fletcher swallowed down the rest of his wine and refilled his glass.
“This isn’t at all terrible.” He held up his wine.
“While prancing about pretending to be Roxboro, I learned to appreciate the taste of wine. I never drank enough to become foxed. Far too dangerous. But I enjoyed the flavor all the same.” He set down his glass.
“You should hate me. For what I’ve done. What I am.”
“I do not,” Helen said lightly. “Quite the opposite.”
“You should,” he snapped back. “You must.”
“Well, I simply don’t,” Helen retorted. “I’ve tried.
Especially when you were Roxboro and I thought you a morally corrupt duke.
Not even when I knew you weren’t Roxboro—well, I still let you pleasure me,” she stumbled over the words.
“I didn’t even hate you when Lark killed Mary right in front of me.
” A tiny sound came from the back of her throat.
“Which was honestly so terrible, I cast up my accounts. But you aren’t Lark or Vulture. ” She lifted her chin to take him in.
“Don’t try to convince yourself I’m not as terrible as they are, because I am. I have slit throats, stolen a great deal of jewelry and in general done indecent and horrific things.”
“You aren’t Lark.”
Fletcher stood, a hard predatory glint to his eyes. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he whispered. “I am. Far worse than you can imagine.”
Helen’s entire being vibrated at his touch, the longing for Fletcher warming her far more than the fire. “Not so terrible, Fletcher Bean. You’ve barely laid a hand on me,” she goaded. “Lark would have—”
The light touch of his lips as his mouth ghosted along the edge of her neck, silenced Helen. Tongue tracing along the line of her collarbone, he said, “But.”
“But what?” Taking his hand Helen placed his palm over the mound of her breast. “I don’t care who or what you are, Fletcher. I still want you.” Helen’s lips trembled, remembering how frightened she’d been of Vulture and Lark. “You came for me, as I knew you would.”
Tonight might be all Helen would ever have of Fletcher, and she wanted all of him.
“I always will,” the words were thick. He pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling Helen though they were both dirty and likely smelled worse than the streets outside no matter that they’d cleaned up as best they could.
“So all things bein’ equal,” he purred in a dangerous tone.
“You’d gladly come back to The Devil’s Acre with me.
Live in that slum. Watch me run a brothel.
Slit the occasional throat here and there. ”
“I wasn’t aware Lark would allow you to return.”
“Oh, he’ll try to kill me on sight. But let’s pretend he won’t.”
If Helen took wagers, which she did not, hers would be that Lark wasn’t destined to survive terribly long, with or without a knife in Fletcher’s hand.