Page 10 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

TEN

Mrs. Beale’s kitchen

A few seconds later

“A bit late for that concern.” Mrs. Beale inspected his disheveled garb with a critical eye. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the docks and back, lad.”

“Aye, well, we have been.” Unfazed at her censure, Shelby inclined his head.

“At least you’re honest.” Mrs. Beale’s lips twitched. “Come in, then, before you let all the warm air out.” Or someone spotted him . “I’m sure the two of you have quite the tale to tell.”

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him as he gave Roxina a questioning glance.

“Mrs. Beale, may I present Mr. Shelby Tellinger?” Roxina said, skipping formality. “Mr. Tellinger, this is Mrs. Eunice Beale.”

“Mrs. Beale. It is a pleasure.” Shelby bowed. “Roxina has told me of your kindness to her.”

Beaming, Mrs. Beale trundled to her sideboard. “Sit down while I prepare something for you to eat. You both look done in.”

“Mrs. Beale, I’m grateful, but we do not have time to eat,” Shelby said, his quiet earnestness stalling Mrs. Beale in her tracks.

With plates dangling from her hands, Mrs. Beale glanced between them. “I presume this is the fellow who is sending you anonymous letters?”

Good Lord .

“Oh, heaven’s no,” Roxina rushed to reassure her, appalled at the suggestion.

Shelby quickly intervened, handily changing the subject. “I fear we must impose upon your benevolence further.”

Ever perceptive, Mrs. Beale narrowed her gaze. “I think you need to explain to me just exactly what goes on here.”

Roxina swiftly recounted what had occurred—their abductions, their unexpected reunion, and how those brutal men believed she knew where her brother had taken refuge.

The older woman pressed her thin lips into a disapproving ribbon.

“Scoundrels, the lot of them,” she muttered. “And what do they want with you, dear girl?”

“I do not know where Mitchel is, but they won’t care. Mr. Tellinger and I must reach London to seek refuge at a friend’s house.” She brushed wind-blown hair off her face.

She was indeed a wreck.

Shelby nodded. “We need a distraction so Roxina can collect a few belongings from her cottage.”

“I cannot imagine how I can help you.” Mrs. Beale sank heavily into a chair, her face puckering in puzzlement.

“We need something to draw our pursuers’ attention while I slip into my cottage unseen.” Roxina placed her palm over the woman’s frail, arthritic fingers, hoping to steady her frayed nerves as much as offer reassurance. She curved her mouth into a humorless smile. “I don’t suppose you have a herd of stampeding cattle ready to charge through the village? A hungry dragon?”

A weak half-smile curving her mouth, Mrs. Beale shook her head, causing her nightcap to slip farther onto her forehead. Shoving it back into place, she said, “No, but I have a fat cat known to trip unsuspecting visitors and send them sprawling.”

A surprised laugh bubbled from Roxina’s throat, easing the tightness in her chest for a brief moment. “Well, if we were resorting to feline conspirators, that plan might work.”

But even as she forced levity into her voice, her mind remained fixed on the shadows lurking outside, the unknown menace awaiting them should they fail.

They could not fail.

“You once told me you liked a bit of mystery and intrigue.” Roxina leaned forward. “Could you cause a commotion—something that would draw people out of their cottages, just for a few minutes? Just enough time for Mr. Tellinger and me to slip in and out of my cottage unnoticed?”

A delighted gleam entered Mrs. Beale’s faded blue eyes. A sparkle that suggested she had been waiting for just such an opportunity to cause mischief her whole life. She stared into the kitchen for a moment, as if rifling through an invisible cabinet of schemes, then returned her gaze to Roxina and formed a slow, rather devious smile.

“I have just the thing.” She placed both palms on the table and pushed to her feet, joints cracking in protest. “I shall run from my garden into the street toward the center of town, screaming, ‘Help, help! Thieves! Robbers!’”

Roxina’s mouth sagged. “That’s… rather dramatic.”

“Precisely the point,” Mrs. Beale replied with a pleased nod. “If you’re going to cause a ruckus, best do it properly.”

“It’s brilliant,” Shelby assured her. “Just the thing.”

With little moonlight, no one could see which direction the imaginary thieves had run. Regardless, hesitation gripped Roxina.

Could they truly pull this caper off?

Should they be caught…

No . Stop.

She could not allow the thought to form fully.

“Yes… that very well might work.” She gave a tentative nod. “But what happens when it is discovered there are no thieves?”

“You leave that to me.” Mrs. Beale chuckled, her shoulders shaking with mirth. She threw a hand across her ample bosom.

“Why, I might have woken from a dream and thought I saw a shadow in the kitchen.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m a widow, and at my age, people expect a touch of confusion. I might as well use it to my advantage.”

Shelby chuckled. “Very clever.”

She eyed him before veering her gaze to Roxina. “Wait here. I have a few things to help disguise you.”

After Mrs. Beale lumbered from the room, Roxina attempted a brave smile. “She’s quite a sweet lady.”

A few minutes later, Mrs. Beale reappeared, her arms laden.

She plopped the pile onto the table and then began sorting through the garments. She pulled out a man’s black single-breasted greatcoat and a broad-brimmed beaver hat and thrust them at Shelby. “These were my late husband’s.”

“Just the thing.” Shelby’s eyes lit with surprise and gratitude. “I appreciate it.”

She raised a rather hideous black poke bonnet from the table for Roxina’s inspection. “I wore this for my husband’s funeral. It will completely hide your face.”

Without hesitation, Roxina removed her bonnet and donned Mrs. Beale's. She also removed Shelby’s jacket as Mrs. Beale handed her a long black cloak. “Your gown is a dead giveaway, Miss Danforth. This will hide it well.”

Tears stung Roxina’s eyes.

Not so long ago, she believed Mrs. Beale to be a mean-spirited gossip.

How wrong she had been.

Not just about her, but about Shelby.

However, Roxina had no time to dwell on that unexpected and soul-shaking revelation.

To her surprise, the elderly woman suddenly embraced her. “Be safe, my dear. And if you have the chance, please write to me. Let me know you are well.”

A lump formed in Roxina’s throat.

A request from a lonely old woman to correspond with her, wrapped in genuine concern.

She had been prepared for secrecy, for the risks, even rejection and exposure, but not for this warmth, this unexpected kindheartedness. Blinking quickly, she whispered in her ear, “I shall. I promise.”

Mrs. Beale pulled away and patted Roxina’s cheek with the same gentle fondness a mother might give a daughter before turning to Shelby.

“Mr. Tellinger, I trust you can keep Miss Danforth safe? She’s a rare one, she is.”

He flexed his jaw but replied with calm self-assurance.

“I shall certainly endeavor to.” Then, softer, almost reverently, “She is more than rare. There is no one like her.”

Roxina gaped for a moment, heat skimming up her cheeks.

It almost sounded as if Shelby cared for her… really cared for her?

Mrs. Beale harrumphed , her keen regard swinging back and forth between Roxina and Shelby as if she had uncovered a great secret.

To ease the tension, Roxina blurted, “Oh, Mrs. Beale, I shall hide the key to my cottage beneath a round stone near the birdbath in the herb garden. Help yourself to any foodstuffs you wish, and also, borrow any books you fancy.”

“Pish posh. No need for any of that talk.” Mrs. Beale flapped her hand. “You shall return in a snap.”

“I hope so.” And Roxina did, but she doubted it. “Still, I would be grateful if you would keep an eye on the cottage.”

Mrs. Beale kept a sharp eye on all of Montpelier Row.

“Of course, I shall,” she said briskly. “Now, go blow out the lamps in the drawing room so it appears I’ve gone to bed. When I run outside, screeching, you two escape.”

Roxina hesitated, reluctant to leave this little haven of unexpected refuge. Sentimentality would have to wait. She gave a quick nod before turning and following Shelby into the sitting room, where he snuffed out each lamp until the house lay in utter darkness.

“Are you ready?” Shelby whispered near her ear.

Heart in her throat, Roxina nodded, then realized he could not see her. “Yes.”

Pulse pounding, she waited for Mrs. Beale’s shouts, announcing her exit from her garden.

Then—

“THIEVES! ROBBERS! Oh, heavens! I’m afraid they took everything! Even my mother’s silver teapot. Oh, no!” she wailed.

The caterwauling that followed could have raised the dead.

Shelby peeked out of the curtain and, satisfied, eased the door open a few inches. The faintest creak broke the penetrating silence. Shadows swallowed the village, the weak glow of a distant lantern barely piercing the swirling mist from the River Thames. A damp chill slipped through the gap, carrying the scent of earth and coal smoke.

The rain that had threatened all afternoon and evening seemed imminent now.

A door creaked open across the lane.

A man muttered something, his words slurred and unintelligible.

A woman gasped, her alarm slicing through the quiet.

A shadow flickered in the gloom.

Mrs. Beale shrieked like a banshee loosed from hell itself. Her wails rose, raw and piercing, unnatural enough to send shivers racing down Roxina’s spine.

Doors flew open.

Lanterns flared.

Voices crashed together in a chaotic swell—men shouting questions, women shrieking in alarm, their cries blending into Mrs. Beale’s unholy racket. Heavy footfalls struck the ground as villagers rushed from their cottages, their figures shifting like specters in the flickering glow.

The perfect diversion.

“Now!” Shelby hissed and gave Roxina a light shove forward.

Inhaling sharply, she bolted. Her skirts and borrowed cloak whipped around her legs as she sprinted into the night.

Her heart pounded.

Brisk air burned her throat.

Dash raced beside her, his sleek body a silent blur in the darkness, his paws whispering against the ground.

She didn’t look back.

Mrs. Beale’s shrieks soared into an ear-splitting crescendo.

A crash rang through the night, followed by another shout—this one sharper, angrier.

A chill slithered up Roxina’s spine.

Had anyone spotted them?

She pushed harder, breath burning, fear making her gait awkward and ungainly. The short distance to her cottage seemed so far away.

Shelby ran beside her, his breath coming fast, his long strides barely making a sound against the compacted dirt.

How did he run so silently?

“Faster,” he urged, his voice low and steady.

Something rustled nearby.

The scrape of a boot against gravel?

Roxina’s pulse jackknifed.

Their abductors or simply a concerned neighbor?

Dash let out a low, warning growl, his muscles coiled, ready to strike.

Shelby gripped Roxina’s wrist.

“Hurry, just a little farther,” he breathed, fierce and unyielding.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Roxina ran toward her cottage.

Ran as though the devil himself pursued her.

Because perhaps—he did.