Chapter Twenty-Eight
Helen walked across the floor of the room she’d been given, trying not to trip over the skirts of her borrowed gown.
Roxboro’s duchess was slightly taller and rounder than Helen, and the dress ill-fitting, but she was grateful to have anything clean to wear.
The events of the day had been exhausting, enlightening and disturbing, to say the least. She’d only just come up the stairs after a lengthy discussion with the duchess. Sophia.
The four of them had eaten supper together, in the enormous dining room. The duke didn’t bother to hide his disgust as Fletcher attacked his food. He had manners. Some. But not of the same caliber as Roxboro. He was deliberately attempting to annoy his older…brother.
Freeman, the duke’s solicitor, had been summoned to attend the duke the following day, but given no other information.
The presence of Roxboro and Fletcher, seated side by side, would speak volumes.
The duke had wanted to send word to his uncle immediately, but the duchess disagreed.
There was no point in informing the rest of the family until Fletcher became more settled and they had consulted Freeman.
After the meal, which was frankly the best roast Helen had in ages, Fletcher and Roxboro disappeared into the duke’s study.
“They’ll probably arm wrestle each other to the ground,” Sophia, as she asked to be addressed, claimed. “I’ll have Barstow check on them in a bit. Come, let us enjoy a sherry. Or whatever you prefer.”
The former Lady Sophia Simmons was highly intelligent, bold in a way that Helen could only hope to be one day and deeply protective of Roxboro. She briefly alluded to an accident after her marriage to the duke in which Roxboro had nearly died, the only time Helen saw her careful facade crack a bit.
The assailants were never caught.
“That is why we must proceed with caution, Helen. There are far too many coincidences. Accidents. Tragedies and such. And while it is unfortunate that this Mr. Lark has the book, I believe I know where it can be found. I doubt Mr. Lark will survive his attempt at blackmail, if I’m correct.”
Bean’s Book had been discussed while they supped, with Fletcher regrettably having to inform Roxboro that it was missing.
He glossed over the events leading up the book’s disappearance, mentioning Lark and his goal of blackmailing the perpetrator, briefly touching on Helen’s abduction.
Thankfully he left out the more…bloody parts of the story.
“You know, don’t you?” Helen asked.
Sophia had looked away. “I have my suspicions, but they are at present, without merit. The proof we need is in the book. I am considering how best to retrieve it, but I wish to speak to Freeman first. Don’t ask me anything more.
I’ll…tell you when I am able.” There was a stark, washed-out look to the duchess.
Worry. Fear. “We must move forward with every caution.”
Helen considered that for a moment. “I wish no harm to come to Fletcher. Or the duke, for that matter.”
“On that, we are in agreement.” She took Helen’s hand. “You and I are to be allies, I think. Which is good. We’ll both need one.”
That wasn’t the least unsettling.
“Where do you think the third is?” Sophia had finally asked while sipping on a glass of madeira, which they both agreed was preferable to sherry.
“I’ve no idea,” Helen had answered. “Mrs. Bean either didn’t know, or didn’t want to know.”
“I think the latter,” Sophia replied.
“I agree. Twins would be remarked upon. Triplets, even more so.”
Sophia set down her wine. “I’m sure you noticed at dinner that the duke does not indulge in spirits.
He was a sot, but isn’t any longer, though it is not common knowledge.
No one is aware other than Barstow and now you.
Fletcher as well. Alexander carries about a well-watered glass of wine in his hand so none one suspects.
It is of the utmost importance no one else know. ”
“Why keep up the illusion?”
“It is better to be underestimated, Helen. I think you realize as much. If you were a duke whose entire family and friends keep tragically leaving this earth too early, wouldn’t you want every advantage?”
“What about Lord Damon. Surely, Roxboro’s uncle is aware.”
“He is not and we don’t dare destroy his assumptions. Besides, Damon is about to propose to a lovely young woman. He’s been widowed a long time. I do wonder about his timing.” There was something else hovering in Sophia’s words.
“You don’t like him, Damon Viceroy.” Helen could read it in every line of Sophia’s body.
“The feeling is mutual, I assure you. I imagine his dislike will extend to you as well, Helen.”
“Why? I’ve never even met Lord Damon.”
“Because, unless I’m entirely incorrect, you will soon be a member of this family.” She tilted her head. “Damon won’t like that. Waters things down, you see, much like Alexander’s wine.”
“We haven’t discussed the future.” Helen clasped her hands. The duke might even now be advising his brother on how he must go forward now that Fletcher was a lord.
A quarter of an hour later, Sophia bid her to sleep well, and Helen was now ensconced in this lovely room full of pale creams and yellow. She wasn’t to return to Galway, which was assuring, but neither did Helen know what would become of her.
The door was suddenly flung open and she shrieked.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Fletcher?” Helen laughed and came closer. “I thought for just a moment…you were Roxboro, but you’ve this lovely freckle.” She gently thumped the edge of his nose, pleased he’d come to her.
“He’s a prick. I’m not. Has good taste in clothes but a bit somber for my tastes.” He held out his arms. “Not a perfect fit, a little tight in the shoulders. Barstow said he’d have some things altered. Grand of him. I could make a small fortune just selling this coat.”
“You look like…a lord.” Had Roxboro spoken to his brother about taking up with a lady’s companion? The duchess didn’t seem appalled at the idea, but—
“What’s bothering you, my little gnat?” Fletcher pressed a kiss to her cheek. Then her neck. “You smell wonderful. I admired you more than the roast while we supped.”
Helen swatted at his arm playfully. “Your face never looked up from your plate.”
“Can you blame me? Quite delicious. I’ve only had roast one other time in my life.
” He cupped her face and brushed her mouth with his.
“What worries you? You’re chewin’ at your lip.
” Cocking his head, he pressed his forehead to hers.
“You think Roxboro, the big ducal prick, told me to toss you out.”
“He’s well within his rights.”
“Well, he didn’t. Especially after I told him I intended to wed you. Which I do.” He watched her. “Have you nothin’ to say to that, Helen?”
“You are the son of a duke.”
Fletcher shrugged. “I was raised by a brothel owner. What of it? I love you.” He held her close. “You love me. Why would I want to wed some cabbage head instead of Helen Cosgrove?”
Helen made a happy sound.
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded and wrapped her arms about him, too happy for words.
“Good, that’s settled. I’m glad you said yes ’cause I wasn’t going to allow you to refuse.
Now, I know this is all…” he waved a hand.
“A bit much. We were going to have a quiet life in the country, and we still mean to. But first, we’ll wed.
Galway won’t dare touch you once we’re married, or I’ll take off a finger.
” He frowned slightly. “There’s also the matter of the culprit.
The murderer of my parents. Roxboro’s parents.
We cannot allow it to go unanswered. The duke and I agree on that much. ”
Helen tried to push aside the foreboding his words caused. “The duchess has a theory, though she didn’t share it with me.”
“Clever. That woman is insanely clever. Would have all The Devil’s Acre under her thumb in a heartbeat if she weren’t a duchess.”
“I’m sure she’d be flattered to know.” Helen curled into him, feeling something hard in his trousers. “Fletcher. What is in your pocket?”
“Naughty thing.”
“No.” She pulled away and pointed at the rectangular shape protruding from his waistband. “Hand it over. All of this is yours anyway. You’re attempting to steal from yourself.”
Reluctantly he pulled out the snuffbox he’d been eyeing earlier in the drawing room. “Fine. I only wanted to see Roxboro’s face when he noticed it missing.” He tossed it aside and picked up Helen, tossing her on the bed.
She looked into those glorious eyes and whispered, “Are you sure?”
“I am. You’re my home, Helen Cosgrove. Where I go, you go. We will get through this together.”