Chapter Twenty-Seven
Helen took Fletcher’s hand and leapt out of the hack. Smoothing down her filthy skirts, she hoped Roxboro’s servants didn’t chase them off. There was still blood on Fletcher’s shirt though his coat hid most of it.
“I don’t want to do this, Helen,” he said, eyes narrowing as he took in the enormous residence looming before them.
“You must do this.” She squeezed his fingers. “Roxboro is your brother. Separated through no fault of your own. And even if he wasn’t, if you were the duke, wouldn’t you want to know who was impersonating you? Stealing jewels and such?”
Fletcher merely grunted and turned away.
They’d quietly left the tavern without breakfast, too worried that Lark might appear before they could get to Roxboro.
News traveled fast in the rookeries according to Fletcher and he hadn’t wanted to put Annie or her husband in danger for helping him.
Lark, it seemed, could be every bit as petty as Lord Galway.
So they’d walked away from the tavern, keeping to the still semi-dark streets until arriving at Hyde Park.
Hailing a hack, which was difficult given their appearance, she and Fletcher were deposited before the duke’s door.
“Mrs. Bean could have been daft.”
“She wasn’t. I’ve seen Roxboro. And you.
Besides, you told me she used to be a midwife before running a brothel.
Mrs. Bean witnessed your birth. Gave the duchess sanctuary as she ran for her life.
” Helen cringed inside thinking of the poor duchess, trapped in The Devil’s Acre while her husband was murdered.
“Not to mention, there is apparently a third sibling running about somewhere.” Mrs. Bean hadn’t been clear on what happened to the third child, or if it had been another boy.
“And even if Mrs. Bean was foxed on a bottle of gin, she couldn’t have made up this story. ”
“I don’t think this wise.”
“That is unfortunate because we are here and will see this through.” Helen pulled him up the steps to the duke’s door and raised the knocker.
A burly gentleman, who Helen assumed was the butler, opened the door, shrewd eyes lingering over their torn and dirty clothing. He opened his mouth to dismiss them but stopped. Stared at Fletcher, because even with the filth of the rookeries on him, he was the spitting image of Roxboro.
“Good lord,” the butler muttered to himself as at least a dozen emotions rippled across his features. “I’m—well I’m Barstow. The duke’s butler.”
“Good day, Barstow,” Helen returned politely. “I am Miss Helen Cosgrove.” She didn’t bother to introduce Fletcher considering it was rather obvious. “I realize this might be somewhat irregular.”
“No, no.” Barstow shook his head, waving them inside. “The duchess warned me of what I might expect. My lord,” he bowed to Fletcher.
“I’m not a bloody lord.” Fletcher snapped.
“Of course, my lord.” Barstow agreed.
“Stop that.”
“Oh, don’t mind him, Barstow.” Helen placed a hand on Fletcher’s arm. “This is all rather unexpected.”
Barstow guided them to the drawing room before rushing off. Helen could hear him instructing no one to go near the door he’d just shut.
“This is a poor idea, Helen. I want to leave. Look at me.” Fletcher waved a hand down all the dark stains dotting his shirt. “That Barstow person probably went to rouse the authorities.”
“I assume he went to summon the duke and duchess.”
“We should leave before they arrive. Head for the country.”
“Lark and Gallway would both find us before we reached the outskirts of London.” The duke’s drawing room was nothing short of extravagant and littered with comfortable chairs and settees. One long table held a collection of figurines and snuffboxes.
Fletcher strolled over and immediately tried to put one in his pocket.
Helen slapped his hand. “Put it back. You promised.”
“He won’t notice,” Fletcher whispered just as the door was flung open. “He has dozens.”
“Oh, I assure you I would,” came the arrogant, ducal reply from the doorway. “Don’t touch that,” the Duke of Roxboro strolled into the room, bumped the edge of a chair, cursed softly, and finally pointed to a figurine of a dog. “The duchess adores that one.”
“I don’t like that one at all, Your Grace. I once wanted to toss it at your—oh, dear god,” the duchess exclaimed as Fletcher turned to face them both.
Had the circumstances been different, Helen might have laughed at the identical looks of shock, then horror, crossing the duke’s and Fletcher’s faces.
“Damn,” the duke said.
“Fuck,” Fletcher spit out.
“Good day to you, Miss Cosgrove.” The duchess nodded to her, as she approached Fletcher, peering at the freckle. “Lovely to see you. Barstow was in the military and rarely caught off guard, but he was today. Goodness. I forgot how much you look like Roxboro.”
“I remember you, dove. You like champagne,” he said to the duchess, making her cheeks pink.
“Your Grace.” Helen lowered herself before the duchess, then the duke. “A pleasure to see you both again.”
“I’m not doing that,” Fletcher made a motion at Helen.
“I’m a duke,” Roxboro said.
“I’m aware.” Fletcher and Roxboro stared at each other, like two dogs deciding whether to fight over a bone or not.
“You pretended to be me,” the duke accused.
“I did. Great fun. Everyone thinks you’re a sot and depraved.”
Roxboro made a sound.
“How unnerving, isn’t it Miss Cosgrove?” The duchess began, taking ahold of Helen. “He looks just like my husband. Highly unusual.”
“Fletcher,” Helen said under her breath. “His name is Fletcher.”
“How is this possible?” The duke appeared utterly perplexed.
“Are you an idiot?” Fletcher rolled his eyes at the duke. “We’re twins.” He glanced at Helen. “Or…possibly triplets. Not completely sure.”
“Triplets,” the duchess gasped. “There’s another?”
“Mrs. Bean didn’t say where the third one went.” Fletcher’s voice, so like the duke’s but also not like the duke’s, informed her. “But Helen thinks so.”
“I’m sorry.” Roxboro lifted a brow. “Who is Mrs. Bean? Should I know her?”
“Bloody hell.” Fletcher lifted the same brow. “Are you always like this?” he waved a hand at the duke. “Snooty?”
“Oh, this is entirely entertaining. But also…off-putting,” the duchess mused. “I suspected twins. Or cousins, possibly. But now you say there could be another one?”
Helen nodded. “Mrs. Bean, in addition to being the owner of a brothel, was a midwife. She was present at the duke’s birth.” She held up Mrs. Bean’s letter. “You should read this.”
“Immediately.” The duchess snatched it from her fingers and went to the settee.
“Barstow,” she said loudly. “I know you’re listening at the door.
Have tea brought and,” she looked at Helen, who nodded.
“A great many of those small sandwiches. No maids or footmen. You must bring the cart in and then shut the door.”
Footsteps sounded as the butler retreated.
“Barstow won’t breathe a word,” she said to Helen. “He’s overly protective of the duke. Where’s he been,” she nodded, taking in the stains on Fletcher’s clothing. “Fletcher.”
“The Devil’s Acre, Your Grace,” Helen said, watching Roxboro and Fletcher mimic each other’s movements, unintentionally. Where Roxboro was elegant, Fletcher was fluid, more athletic. But still, it must be like looking in a mirror for them both.
The duchess reached out and grabbed Helen’s knee, face pale. Mrs. Bean’s letter was open before her. “How can this be true?”
Helen regarded the two men. “How can it not be? There is more, Your Grace. Not nearly as welcome, I fear.” How do you explain to a duke that there was someone in London so full of malicious intent?
“Roxboro,” the duchess said, patting the place beside her. “You remind me of a rooster that suddenly finds itself with a competitor. He’ll never be the dandy you are, so cease your concern. Do you recall what happened to Philpott? Your father’s solicitor?”
“Philpott?” Roxboro’s brows furrowed. “Haven’t thought of him in years. Why?”
“I’m curious,” she spared a glance at Helen. “Indulge me.”
The duke came forward to sit next to his wife.
“I was a child when Philpott died. Accidental drowning, I believe. Quite tragic. He stumbled while walking along the Thames with Mrs. Philpott after leaving a barge where they attended a party. At least, I think so. He drowned. She lingered but eventually perished from a broken heart. Honestly, I don’t recall Philpott all that well. Uncle Damon probably does.”
“We aren’t going to consult him just yet.” There was a worried look to the duchess. “You see, Miss Cosgrove, tragedy stalks the dukes of Roxboro. Not only the duke’s solicitor and parents, but also his grandfather. An accident at a mill.”
Lark had alluded to as much.
“Don’t forget Oakhurst,” the duke chimed in. “But that was his own doing.” He jumped up and stalked across the room. “Stop touching everything,” he said to Fletcher.
“Yes, an accident.” The edges of her mouth tightened. “I think there’s more,” she said quietly to Helen, so that the two men couldn’t overhear.
“Mrs. Bean,” Helen lowered her voice. “Raised Fletcher. She kept a book where she wrote down the various foibles of the titled gentlemen who visited her brothel after a session of Parliament. According to this note, Mrs. Bean rescued the Duchess of Roxboro the night of the duke’s murder.
She was trained as a midwife and delivered the…
three…boys. At least, I assume the last one to be male.
She doesn’t say. Mrs. Bean was curious after the duke’s murder.
And it happened in The Devil’s Acre, or close enough.
A great deal of information, including, I believe, the name of the party responsible, is in this book.
She thought Fletcher would need the information one day. ”
“Impossible,” Roxboro had returned to read over his wife’s shoulder. “This can’t possibly be true.”
“Those are the dying words of the woman who raised me,” Fletcher snapped. “She had no reason to lie anymore. And just look at us. Even I can see how alike we are, though it pains me to see you prancin’ about with my face. Are you blind?”
“Prancing about?”
“I believe every word,” the duchess said calmly, silencing her husband and Fletcher. There was something in her eyes. A calculation mixed with unwavering resolve. “It is clear she loved you, Fletcher. She hid you for a reason.”
“My uncle always thought there was more to the death of my father,” Roxboro said. “Sit down,” he ordered Fletcher.
Fletcher rolled his eyes until Helen gave him a look and he took a seat.
“I’m not sure how to proceed, exactly, though I suppose we should summon Freeman and Uncle Damon,” Roxboro said. “Documents will have to be prepared. Your…parentage attested to. Mrs. Bean’s letter might be contested but—”
“There isn’t in doubt, Alexander,” the duchess interrupted softly.
“I suppose not. You have two cousins, Rose and Violet. They’ll be overjoyed to meet you, as they are somewhat exhausted with me.”
“I can imagine,” Fletcher growled. “It’s been only minutes and I—”
“Fletcher.” Helen cautioned him. “We are all…trying to come to terms with this news.”
“I thank you, Miss Cosgrove, for helping us solve the mystery of the man impersonating me. I would like to ask for your discretion in the matter of my…brother, until matters can be seen to. This will create quite an uproar.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Helen demurred.
“I’ll have my carriage return you to Lord Galway. I’m sure you’re anxious to return home.”
“You will not,” Fletcher snarled, taking Helen’s hand. “She stays with me. Besides, Galway has accused her of theft of a pendant. Which I stole. So she cannot return.” He took a seat across from the duke. “I feel as if I’m lookin’ in a mirror. Makes my head hurt.”
“I’m not enjoying myself either,” the duke retorted. “Ah, the pendant you accused me of taking at the theater, Miss Cosgrove. Well, obviously you didn’t take it. I’ll explain it to Galway.”
“No. She’ll come to harm with Galway.”
“I’m a bloody duke. He wouldn’t dare. I’ll place her under my protection.”
Helen shut her eyes, only opening them when she felt the duchess take her fingers. “You will stay as long as you wish, Miss Cosgrove.”
Barstow arrived wheeling in an enormous tray filled with fruit, biscuits, scones, and sandwiches, and tried not to stare at Fletcher.
The duchess waved him over, whispered instructions, and the butler retreated with a bow.
“Barstow will have rooms readied for you both. And baths, which I daresay you need. I do not believe it safe, my lord,” she said to Fletcher. “For you to be out. Either of you. Not until we consult Freeman.”
The duchess wasn’t speaking of Lord Galway, nor Lark. Which worried Helen a great deal more.
She suspects someone.
“And I’ve no intention of calling the authorities, which would be ridiculous under the circumstances, don’t you think?” she smiled at Fletcher. “So please, toss that notion aside, my lord.”
“Stop saying that,” he whispered. “Please.”
“But it is the truth. Easy to mistake a resemblance across a dark room or in the shadows of a garden. But I think we can all agree that Mrs. Bean’s words must be true.
There is no other explanation. Your distinctive eye color alone is enough to put that question to rest. You sound alike, save for the accent.
The shape of your hands, your nose, the color of your hair.
All identical. Alexander, we must concoct a story of how Lord Fletcher came to be.
We cannot simply say he was raised in The Devil’s Acre. ”
“No,” the duke mused. “But possibly we don’t veer from the truth too much. The duchess, in running from her life, gave birth to us both in The Devil’s Acre. The location of my birth is no great secret. We’ll say…he was my twin, thought to have died.” He looked at his wife. “Sophie?”
“I think that might work. I’ll think on it later.”
“Pardon me,” Helen interrupted. “But you are a triplet, Your Grace. We simply don’t know where the third babe is.”