Page 1 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

ONE

A quaint cottage along Montpelier Row

Blackheath, England

19 April 1819—Nearly three in the afternoon

Four months…

Almost four months since Roxina had seen or heard from either Shelby Tellinger or her rapscallion brother, Mitchel. The former she could not help but worry about, even though she had treated him abominably for most of their acquaintance.

The latter?

Well, the years of deliberate and calculated cruelty and neglect Mitchel had inflicted upon her had long since destroyed any warmer sentiments she might once have felt for her elder half-brother.

Ruminating changes nothing, Roxina Veronica Jillian Danforth.

With firm determination, she shoved thoughts of Shelby and Mitchel aside as she carefully arranged the Shrewsbury and ginger biscuits on the geranium-green Spode china. Another plate held several small triangular sandwiches.

If not for Aubriella Matherfield allowing her to live rent-free in this cottage she had inherited from her aunt, Astrid Penford, Roxina did not know what would have become of her.

Familiar anxiety knotted her stomach and tensed her nerves.

Out of habit, she closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and then straightened. Gradually, she released the pent-up air as she mentally counted— one, two, three, four, five .

The childhood routine still calmed her, even though she had more security now than in over a decade—thanks to her benevolent friend and the regular income generated by banking the secret wagers placed by ladies of the haut ton and others.

And… the mysterious, anonymous envelopes with cash arriving at regular intervals.

So far, the funds totaled five and seventy pounds—not an immense sum, but enough to keep her in comfort should she choose to spend the money.

However, Roxina refused to do so.

At least, for now.

Instead, she slipped each pound note inside a gothic romance novel in the drawing room. Several romance volumes graced the bookshelf, revealing that, despite her spinster status, Miss Penford had possessed a romantic’s heart.

Roxina did not have time to ponder that irregularity at the moment, for it just might have had her considering her lonely future as a spinster with a more jaundiced eye than she would allow herself to.

Nevertheless, a tempting notion gnawed at her.

What if she wagered the funds?

A secret bet.

A scandalous stake.

A daring toss of the dice?

A wager might even yield enough to secure her independence.

At the naughty notion, a tiny thrill tripped across her shoulders.

But on what?

A horse race?

A high-stakes card game?

That a certain peer notorious for affairs with married ladies would be caught in a compromising position?

Lord Ashbourne immediately sprang to mind.

A reckless gamble could see the money gone in an instant, yet a well-placed bet…?

Could Roxina take that risk?

Should she take the risk?

If she wished to keep her stake a secret, she could not place such a bet with the Ladies of Opportunity . Not that she did not trust Aubriella, Claire, and Georgine, but the rules of their secret society forbade betting on the wagers they held the bank for.

The club existed to help women supplement their incomes by placing wagers. The Ladies of Opportunity kept five percent of each bet, allowing the founders—like the women they served—to set aside funds and avoid dependence on men for support. Every proposed wager required unanimous approval and, if deemed cruel or dishonorable, was rejected.

So how and where could Roxina place a bet?

She would need help— from a man .

A chill juddered down her spine.

Something she hesitated to do. No, something she loathed doing. Not a single man came to mind that she trusted wholeheartedly.

Shaking her head, she tucked the idea away to ponder later.

Instead, Roxina turned her musings to something more satisfying.

Smiling, she smoothed her hands down the front of the jonquil-yellow daygown she had finished sewing only this morning. The gown’s light, airy fabric skimmed her figure while the modest yet flattering neckline framed her collarbone, and the full skirt swayed with each step.

Yellow had always been her favorite color, although she had not possessed a frock in the cheerful shade for many years. This unembellished dress, free of frills, bows, or ribbons, reflected her simple taste in attire and marked the first new gown she had worn since her mother passed over a decade ago.

As much as Roxina detested admitting it—for she believed herself above the nonsensical twaddle of caring a jot about current fashion—she conceded that the new frock bolstered her confidence. Not that she gave a rat’s behind or two farthings for what anyone thought of her, other than the three friends who would soon join her for their weekly Ladies of Opportunity meeting.

Additional yards of material in seafoam green and mazarine blue lay neatly folded in her bedchamber, awaiting her skill with a needle to transform them into gowns. She felt positively indulged.

She sent a swift sideways glance at the mantel clock— nearly three . Aubriella, Georgine Thackerly, and Claire Granlund would arrive momentarily.

Roxina wrinkled her nose.

That annoying thirty-year-old clock.

She had half a mind to store it in a closet, wrapped in a quilt.

The elegantly painted Adam-style mantel clock, with its faded green scrollwork and delicate gold trim, still ticked away with the dignity of a dowager duchess. However, its wheezing chimes sounded suspiciously like an asthmatic goose.

The first time it had chimed, the godawful sound had nearly frightened the starch out of her.

She swept her gaze over the salon, assuring herself she had prepared everything for today’s visit.

A bright bouquet of sunny daffodils and jonquils, purple and pink hyacinths, and soft blue forget-me-nots, which she had picked an hour ago, lent a cheery air to the tea tray. The previous owner had once zealously tended flower, herb, and vegetable gardens at the sides and rear of the cozy cottage—though the small yard had become sorely overgrown.

As the weather permitted, Roxina had spent the past weeks restoring those gardens. Years of neglect had resulted in the once-immaculate flower beds becoming weed-choked, and she had taken great satisfaction in cutting them back and uncovering the lovely remnants of Astrid’s hard work.

The unusually warm April weather had made the task easier, coaxing new buds to bloom and bringing the scent of freshly turned earth and intrepid spring plants. Just yesterday, she had uncovered the first fragile shoots of what she suspected were peonies—though only time would tell and reveal their color.

Peonies, especially peach-toned and yellow, were her favorite flowers.

Tending the gardens and caring for the cottage gave her purpose.

Despite taking hour-long constitutional walks each day—to counter the weight she had gained from indulging in the baked goods she could now afford to make—and making the twenty-minute trek to St. Alfege Church in Greenwich for Sunday services, loneliness still plagued her.

As did boredom.

Knitting blankets, booties, and caps for Aubriella’s future child—though Aubriella was not expecting—filled an hour or two of Roxina’s day. Tedium pushed her to read Astrid’s gothic romances in bed each night.

Confessional of the Black Penitents by Ann Radcliffe sat on the nightstand, waiting for Roxina to resume the disturbing tale tonight. A self-proclaimed pragmatist, she doubted her friends would believe she secretly read romances.

This quiet, solitary life offered her a welcome escape from the relentless fretting and poverty she endured in London, where she battled daily to afford fuel, food, candles, and other necessities.

Though peaceful, her days sometimes seemed a touch too quiet. Perhaps she should make more of an effort to be neighborly. Mrs. Beale, though prickly, might appreciate a plate of biscuits or an invitation to tea.

Glancing around her new home, Roxina tipped her mouth upward.

Yes, this life suited her far better than London’s hubbub.

Sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows, their delicate panes framing the garden beyond. The lace curtains softened the glare, casting a gentle glow over the polished mahogany tea table’s old wood. Roxina welcomed the warmth and light, a far cry from the dim, cramped rooms she’d once known.

Outside, a pair of blackbirds flitted among the budding hawthorn branches, their cheerful trills filling the air as sunlight glinted off their ebony-purple feathers. A robin perched on the garden gatepost and pecked at the lichen-clad wood.

Living here made her far happier than life with Mitchel in London ever had.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and Roxina turned to see a scraggly dog skirting along the yard’s edge. The animal hesitated, sniffing at the ground, then slunk behind a fence as a cart rattled by. The pathetic thing’s ribs stuck out starkly beneath its dull, patchy fur.

The poor, emaciated beast had first appeared last week.

Something in Roxina’s heart clenched at the sight. No creature should have to endure hunger—not even a mangy stray. She snatched three sandwiches off the table and, after quickly opening the window, tossed the snack onto the ground.

“Here, boy. It is all right. I shan’t hurt you.”

As the dog hesitated, Roxina caught sight of a man loitering across the street. Dressed in an unremarkable dark gray greatcoat, he leaned his tall frame against a lamppost, arms crossed over his chest. A wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, but she glimpsed dark, longish hair and the sharp glint of watchful eyes.

She had spotted him in nearly the same spot for the third time this week.

Coincidence?

Or did he wait for someone?

Watching something?

Watching her?

Do not be a goose. Why would he?

Feigning indifference, Roxina forced herself to avert her attention, though unease prickled up her spine.

He made the second strange man she had noticed in Blackheath, although the other, a scruffy sailor with a patch over his eye, seldom appeared and usually disappeared soon after she spotted him.

He never approached or spoke to her. She believed the sightings a mere coincidence. After all, Blackheath hardly qualified as a large village. Naturally, she would see the same people from time to time.

Hesitant at first, the starving dog crept closer, never taking his wary but gentle gaze off her.

“Yes, they are for you,” she crooned softly. “I’ll get you something more substantial later on. We’ll get you cleaned up too.”

The dog snatched the sandwiches and gulped them down without chewing.

He tentatively wagged his scruffy tail.

Something about this pitiful creature pulled at her heartstrings. For the first time in her life, she could afford a pet. The linen closet upstairs contained several older blankets that could be used for a bed. The animal might not wish to become domesticated, so choosing a name would have to wait.

When exactly, in the past few minutes, had she made him hers?

He would help ease her loneliness and provide protection too—not that she needed protecting in the small village.

Once her friends left, she would try to coax the dog inside.

He lay down near a birdbath, resting his muzzle on his paws.

“I shall be back. Wait there.” After closing the window, Roxina faced the room again.

Though the Georgian furnishings were outdated and excessive gewgaws had cluttered every surface until Roxina packed them away, she found the small house charming. Miss Penford had left the cottage to her niece, believing Aubriella, with her keen intelligence and obsessive interest in science, would also remain a spinster.

How wrong Astrid Penford had been on that account.

Bully for Aubriella for cocking a snook at Society and getting her happily ever after.

Chuckling, Roxina shook her head as she turned a daffodil so its vibrant orange center faced outward. How wrong everyone had been about Aubriella. Roxina’s best friend had wed Jackson Matherfield and set High Society on its ear by snaring one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

As much as Roxina rejoiced for Aubriella, she had no desire to marry and planned to remain a spinster for the rest of her life. Besides, at nearly six-and-twenty, without a dowry and never having had a suitor, she refused to entertain fanciful notions about marriage.

In truth, she never had.

The violent verbal abuse her mother had suffered as Richard Danforth’s second wife, as well as the cruel, rebellious shouts, insults, and jeers Mitchel had directed toward Mama, had left lasting marks on Roxina. To this day, she cringed when someone raised their voice.

Although, if Roxina were wholly honest—and she always strove to be, at least with herself—it bothered her conscience mightily that she depended upon Aubriella’s benevolence.

How long could Roxina take advantage of her friend?

Again, the notion of placing a secret bet teased.

She took pride in her independence in an era when men controlled nearly every aspect of women’s lives, leaving them reliant on male mercy and munificence—or, more often, the absence of it. For that very reason, she and her friends had devised the scheme to operate a betting book similar to White’s but exclusively for women.

Their little venture had proved far more successful than they had ever anticipated.

Pride at their accomplishment thrummed through her.

They made a difference in women’s lives—enabling those who trusted them with their secret wagers to have opportunities they might never otherwise have had.

Other than the four women, only Jackson Matherfield knew of their secret venture, and he wouldn’t breathe a word.

Imagine the scandal… the gossip.

She and the others were not averse to having other women join their little entourage, but newcomers must be carefully screened.

Another smile curved Roxina’s mouth.

She rather enjoyed upsetting Society’s snobs.

Those elites always looked down their aristocratic noses at anyone less fortunate than themselves. Except Shelby Tellinger had not, despite his paternal great-uncle holding the title of viscount.

Where was Shelby, anyway?

Her rotten-to-the-core brother had stolen Shelby’s identity, then had the ballocks to borrow money from a profoundly dangerous moneylender in Shelby’s name. That reckless act forced Shelby into hiding until he could either repay the loan or track down that miserable wastrel, Mitchel, and make him face the consequences of his perfidy.

Roxina knew her brother.

A beggar had a better chance of receiving an invitation to dine at Buckingham Palace than Shelby had of recovering the funds.

Mitchel would have wasted the funds on cards, harlots, and other scandalous activities.

That left Shelby in a precarious position at best.

And at worst…?

Despite her perpetual annoyance with Shelby, that irrefutable fact worried her.

What would happen to him if he could not clear his name?

Would he be forced to leave England?

She tightened her jaw, a sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

Four months ago, she would not have spared the man she had believed to be her brother’s closest friend a thought. Except in December, she learned Shelby had fabricated his relationship with Mitchel. He had only pretended to be Mitchel’s friend to monitor her wayward brother.

More to the point, he had also done so to protect and provide for her.

Tears stung Roxina’s eyes, and she swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat.

She had resented Shelby for over six years, and that resentment had flared into loathing when he told her. Because of Mitchel’s actions, he’d been forced to put her home up as collateral for the moneylender.

In truth, she never owned the house. It had been Mitchel’s, but the bounder had mortgaged it to the rafters and then defaulted on the payments—not caring a jot that, in doing so, he left her vulnerable.

Shelby, not a man of means to Roxina’s knowledge, had purchased the mortgage so she would have a place to live.

Guilt scraped her sharp talons across Roxina’s conscience.

She owed Shelby much.

Believing him a blackguard and co-conspirator of the same ilk as her knave of a brother, she had judged him without knowing his true character. And when she learned how much he had done for her—secretly, without expecting recognition or thanks—her regret had nearly eviscerated her.

Worse, she had never thanked Shelby.

He had gone into hiding straightaway, and in these past months, she had not heard a word from him.

Sometimes at night, when she lay on the soft mattress upstairs and stared at the rafters, she feared he might be dead. Then an inexplicable sadness gripped her, leaving her unable to sleep and despondent the next day.

The hand-shaped brass knocker echoed sharply against the stout, arched walnut door, jerking her back to the present.

Ah, right on time .

Probably not Aubriella, though.

She gained a reputation for being late, and marriage had done little to improve that tendency.

If anything, being in love had made her more distracted than usual.

Roxina wended around the outdated but still serviceable walnut and deep green worsted wool pieces.

Astrid Penford had possessed an extreme penchant for green.

Every room in the cottage boasted verdant hues—the wallcoverings, furnishings, draperies, carpets, and the décor. Even the dishes and tea set bore the color scheme.

Roxina sneezed as she made her way to the entrance.

After four months and much diligent cleaning, a vague mustiness still lingered in the air. The cottage had been closed for several years after Miss Penford’s death, patiently awaiting a new resident.

What would Astrid Penford think of Roxina living in her cottage?

She hoped the independent spinster would approve.

Roxina glanced at the gilded Louis XVI mirror on the corridor wall. A striking piece, delicate acanthus leaves and floral motifs adorned its oval frame. She caught sight of herself—her brown eyes dark and contemplative, her simple chignon a stark contrast to the elaborate styles many fashionable ladies preferred.

Only her hair and eyes resembled Mitchel's. Her mouth curved softer, and her chin lacked his sharp angles. Just yesterday, she plucked two gray hairs from her right temple. Though vanity did not drive her, she refused to accept gray hair just yet.

The knocker clapped again.

“Coming,” she called, hurrying toward the foyer.

A happy smile of anticipation arching her mouth at seeing one of her dearest friends, Roxina swiftly opened the door. Her gaze immediately dropped to the young boy standing there.

The lad, barely ten years old, grinned up at her with an impish gleam in his eye, his expression alight with mischief. Tilted at a cocky angle, his hat cast a shadow over his freckled face. His nut-brown, moth-eaten wool coat sagged on his narrow frame, the sleeves swallowing his thin wrists. Scuffed and battered, his boots had endured too many miles and too little care.

“Good afternoon, Miss Danforth.” He extended a crumpled envelope toward her. “You have another letter.”