Page 11 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

ELEVEN

Roxina’s Cottage

Montpelier Row, Blackheath

Several trying minutes later

God help Shelby and Roxina if Desmond’s men spotted them.

Holding Roxina’s hand and hunched over so the shadows partially hid them, Shelby tugged her toward her cottage. The cool night air carried the scent of wet soil and crushed grass, mingling with the distant, acrid smoke from hearth fires burning in the village.

“Do not go through the front gate,” Roxina whispered, pulling him farther along the lane. “There is an entrance through the back garden. We are less likely to be seen.”

A frog croaked somewhere in the underbrush, the sound sharp and oddly foreboding in the thick hush of night.

As if sensing the urgency of the situation, Dash skulked low to the ground, ears pricked and fur raised, his movements nearly soundless as he shadowed them. The dog’s every muscle tensed, poised for action, as if he, too, understood the peril that stalked them.

“We do not dare light a lamp once inside, Roxina. Will you be able to find what you need in the dark?”

Her fingers trembled in his grasp, but her voice remained steady. “Yes. I only mean to grab a dark gray gown, which would serve much better for flight than my current one, some food, and money I have hidden in a book.”

Overhead, a horse chestnut branch rustled, something unseen shifting its foliage.

Shelby stiffened, heart hammering.

He half expected to see the gleam of steel or the flicker of a shadow where none should be. But then came a low coo, followed by the flutter of wings—just a wood pigeon, disturbed from its perch.

He exhaled slowly.

The waning moon and the partial cloud cover helped hide their scurried progress.

Villagers ran around the lane, calling and talking in loud voices.

“There is a fire at the mill!” a man bellowed, waving his arms wildly.

“Nonsense!” another shouted. “It is smugglers, I tell you! My cousin’s wife’s brother saw them sneaking through the trees not an hour past!”

“A fire? Smugglers?” came the creaky, warbly voice of an old woman. “I heard it was Mrs. Pritchard’s pig again! Knocked over a lantern, set the whole place alight, then ran off squealing!”

Through it all, Mrs. Beale’s shrill voice sliced through the night like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Thieves! There are thieves among us!” she screeched, her cries carrying over the din. “Up to no good, skulking about in the dark, I tell you! Someone, fetch the constable!”

Further down the road, two older men argued heatedly about whether the commotion had been caused by a brawl over a bad hand of cards or the apocalyptic return of Farmer Bevan’s notoriously ill-tempered goose.

Dogs yapped in a canine chorus, their frantic barking only adding to the bedlam.

Mrs. Beale continued her howling, growing ever more dramatic with each passing moment.

“She is quite an accomplished actress.” Shelby chuckled despite himself—a soft rumble caught in his throat.

Roxina giggled, the sound a soft, unexpected, melodious delight amid danger. “I thought her a mean-tempered gossip when I first met her because she constantly peered out her windows. I now know she fancies herself an amateur sleuth. This is probably the highlight of her life.”

Shelby bit back a grin. “We ought to give her a medal for services rendered. If nothing else, she ensures no one pays attention to us.”

Roxina’s fingers tightened around his, her warmth a stark contrast to the night’s chill. The press of her palm sent an unexpected shiver through him, something deeper than the cold, something unsettling and entirely too pleasant.

Did she feel it too?

This undeniable connection?

The garden loomed ahead, wild and overgrown in the darkness, the scent of ivy and crushed violets thick in the air. The faint, honeyed fragrance of unseen flowers drifted through the night, stirred by the shifting breeze. A trellis stood in shadow, its climbing hawthorn trembling, the blossoms nearly undetectable, but their scent whispering through the air like a ghostly presence.

Shelby barely avoided stepping in a puddle, his boot squishing into mud instead. A disgruntled croak erupted from nearby—another frog, evidently irritated with their intrusion.

Dash snuffled around, probably on the trail of a rabbit.

Roxina squeezed Shelby’s hand, drawing him toward the garden. “Come, before someone sees us.”

She was right.

They had been bloody lucky so far.

Shelby let her lead him forward, her fingers curled into his, sending warmth spiraling through his chest. The menace had not lessened, but right now, with her touch grounding him, this connection felt like something else entirely—something he dared not name.

Once at the rear of the house, Shelby drew her to a halt. “You must make haste. It will not take long for Desmond’s men to realize this was a distraction.”

“I know.” She slipped the key into the lock. A slight grating click sounded as it gave way, and they slid inside.

Tense with leeriness, Dash brushed against Shelby’s legs.

Fragrant, warm air greeted Shelby, a welcome change from the clamminess outside. Darkness cloaked everything, blinding him in the unfamiliar space until his eyes adjusted.

Scents surrounded him—fresh bread, cloves, cinnamon, and something floral and pungent, likely drying herbs. The stronger tang of smoke clung to the air, the lingering remnant of a past fire.

What secrets did this cottage hold?

“I shall gather food, and you get the other items you need.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the cottage’s dark interior. “Make haste, Roxina.”

She hurried away, her footsteps light but certain.

Dash followed, his nails clicking on the wood floor and then muting as he probably walked across a carpet.

Gathering food was only a precaution should they be delayed in reaching London.

Standing still, Shelby waited until his ears adjusted to the room’s hush. The sounds of Roxina’s movements faded, leaving only his breathing and the faint creaks of the house disturbing the intimate silence.

Squinting into the darkness, Shelby tried to determine where Roxina stored the kitchen items. The scent of bread led him forward.

He reached out, brushing against a wooden surface—likely a table.

With measured steps, he moved cautiously, trying to avoid obstacles, though he stumbled into objects, their clangs and scrapes unnaturally loud in the heavy silence.

He came upon what seemed to be an empty flour sack draped over a hook. He grabbed it and continued reaching blindly, skimming his fingers along the wooden shelves.

Victory .

A round of bread and what he thought might be pasties.

He dropped the loaf into the sack and, after locating a towel and wrapping the pasties, added them too. Apples, a hunk of cheese, and two carrots swiftly followed. Not a king’s fare, to be certain, but sufficient to hold them over for a short while.

His inability to see beyond obscure shadows sharpened his other senses. The air shifted as he moved, the sleeves of his too-big borrowed greatcoat whispering against his sides. A slight draft came from somewhere, probably down the chimney, stirring the scent of rosemary.

After securing the sack with a string, he stepped to the multi-paned window. He lifted the curtain edge a couple of inches, just enough to inspect the garden.

Shadows stretched across the space, still and undisturbed.

They would exit the same route.

He patted his chest, reassured by the hard coldness of coins hidden inside his jacket.

Roxina rushed back into the kitchen, her breathing uneven. “Sorry it took me so long. My yellow gown was a beacon, so I changed, rather than collect a gown to take with me.”

Smart thinking.

He could not fault her for the extra time.

A small, uncertain sound escaped her throat before she extended her hand. “Here, you carry the money.”

She pressed her palm against his, her skin warm against the chill clinging to his fingers.

He closed his hand over the notes.

This closeness, this urgent intimacy, to Roxina unsettled him. He could not see her face, but that made the awareness between them more tangible.

“I do not have a pocket,” she said. “Besides, I do not know who sent it, and that discomfits me.” She tilted her head slightly, confusion clear in her voice. “I have refused to spend a penny, but we may well need it.”

The darkness concealed his reaction, and Shelby silently thanked the lack of light. He knew exactly where that money had come from, and a deep ache settled in his chest. Roxina had never used the funds he sent to bring her peace of mind.

Accepting the money from her, he added half to his hidden stash.

“How much is here, Roxina?”

Shelby knew, of course, but she might find it suspicious if he did not ask. It would more than cover their expenses for the journey to London and provide for their needs for some time.

“A little over seventy-five pounds. From an anonymous source.” A hard edge tinged her tone before she snapped her fingers. “Dash, come.”

Dash padded into the kitchen.

“If we become separated, you should have money with you, Roxina. Put this inside your shoe.” Shelby placed the notes in her palm.

A pregnant pause filled the space between them, the air charged with an undefined undercurrent. Her hesitation sent an unspoken message.

Roxina didn’t like being forced to do anything.

The rustle of fabric broke the silence as she shifted. Her cloak brushed against his arm, a whisper of warmth in the cool room.

Shelby clenched his hands, resisting the ridiculous impulse to reach for her—to confess he had gifted the funds because he loved her.

The danger had not passed, but in the cottage’s stillness, with only the darkness and the quiet press of their breath between them, something else loomed—something far more dangerous than any man who may wait outside.

Was Roxina also remembering their too-brief kiss?

He sure as hell couldn’t forget it.

In fact, it had lit a fire he wasn’t certain he could prevent from turning into a raging conflagration.

Shelby exhaled slowly, steadying himself and reining in his roaring passion.

“We must go, Roxina.”