Page 13 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

THIRTEEN

Outskirts of Greenwich

Later that night—around half-past eleven

Every step toward Greenwich—a gamble between freedom and disaster.

Roxina scarcely spoke as they stealthily made their way to Greenwich.

Her reaction to discovering Shelby was once again her benefactor made no logical sense. Why did it surprise her that he continued supporting her after she left London?

Had she suspected it was him somewhere deep inside?

Was this ire tunneling through her, making her almost stomp as she walked, more toward herself for being stupid?

Lips pursed, she gave herself a mental shake and pushed the situation with Shelby into a niche to examine later. Her focus must be on eluding Desmond and his men.

Afterward, she would examine her emotions.

Ever diligent, carrying the bag of goods from the cottage, Shelby strode strong and silent on her left, closest to the road, while Dash trotted along on her right.

The dank night air clung to Roxina’s skin, carrying the faint, metallic tinge of rain-soaked earth. A drizzle misted down, cool and relentless, dampening her borrowed cloak, and errant droplets trickled down the brim of the poke bonnet.

She shivered but kept moving.

What choice did she have?

With each step, she expected Desmond or his men to appear, their shadowed forms emerging from the gloom like specters from hell. Her chest tightened with each breath, and anticipation prickled her skin. She hardly allowed herself to believe they had made good their escape, though a wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, a brief flicker of triumph.

Behind them, Mrs. Beal’s shrill screeches had faded, engulfed by the night, but the distant cries of angry crows still punctuated the quiet. A horse whinnied somewhere nearby, the sound eerie in the night, as if the beast, too, felt the darkness closing around him, cloying and inescapable.

A myriad of emotions—anger, betrayal, frustration, exhaustion, gratitude, and confusion—kept her silent. Shelby’s benevolence infuriated and pleased her, which made absolutely no sense.

When he had been her enemy, she had known where she stood.

But now…?

Now, she felt as if she stood on shifting sands, her footing and life constantly fluctuating.

It unnerved and discombobulated her.

And blast it all—this wretched poke bonnet did not help matters.

She jabbed the brim hard several times, dislodging a small stream of water.

The absurdly large rim jutted out so far that Roxina could scarcely see anything to either side, forcing her to turn her entire head like a bewildered pigeon whenever she wanted to glance at Shelby.

Though, in truth, that hadn’t been often.

When she looked at him, it forced her to examine herself.

Right now, she preferred not to because what would she do with what she might discover?

The rain had soaked the bonnet’s fabric, and the brim sagged, drooping into Roxina’s peripheral vision like a wilted flower.

Something brushed against her bonnet—a whisper of movement in the dark. Before she could react, Shelby gently gripped her arm, steering her aside with that infuriating mix of calm and confidence he exuded.

She exhaled sharply—not quite a huff, but close—more annoyed with herself than him. If not for the infernal bonnet, she might have noticed the tree branch herself. But she needed the disguise, so she endured the obnoxious bonnet, despite the accessory’s many miseries.

“I am impressed.’ Shelby must have noticed her frustration, for his voice carried an unmistakable note of amusement. “Not many people can simultaneously battle the elements and a bonnet that size.”

Roxina scowled but did not rise to the bait. “Since you find it so amusing, perhaps you would like to trade hats?”

“Tempting as your offer is, I must decline.” He chuckled low, entirely too pleased with himself. “I suspect it requires a certain… flair to carry off properly.”

“Coward,” Roxina muttered, but without annoyance.

Shelby made a sound that might have been a smothered laugh, but, mercifully, he said nothing more.

The thick clouds now smothered the sky, blotting out any hint of moonlight. The sounds of the night swirled around them—both comforting and unnerving. The distant glow of Greenwich guided them through the last stretch of their journey.

As they reached the township’s outskirts, Shelby lifted a hand, motioning for Roxina to stop. “I want you to wait here while I make certain Desmond’s men aren’t loitering about.”

Roxina shivered.

She had no desire to remain here in the dark with Dash, nor did she want Shelby to risk detection.

He set the bag down near her feet.

“Remember what I said, Roxina. If I do not return, get on the mail coach and go to my cousin, Robyn Fitzlloyd. He will help you.”

That will happen when the Thames runs dry .

Before she could respond, Shelby squeezed her hand briefly before slipping into the shadows, his footsteps nearly soundless as he disappeared down the road.

A peculiar wistfulness blanketed Roxina as worry for his safety twisted her insides.

She might be as mad as Hades at Shelby, but he must return.

Leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree, tension and worry tangling, she counted: one, two, three, four, five . One, two, three, four, five . One, two, three, four, five .

Minutes stretched long, the silence pressing in around her. Every shifting shadow sent her nerves on edge, the weight of their predicament growing heftier with each breath. She listened, straining, catching only the muted murmur of voices from the village and the occasional creak of what might be a sign in the wind.

Squinting, she straightened.

At last, movement stirred farther along the road.

Expression grim, Shelby emerged from the darkness. He covered the distance between them swiftly, his jaw clenched tight.

“They are there,” he said, voice low. “Desmond’s men—waiting for us. Two by the station doors, another watching from across the way. We have no chance of slipping past them unseen.”

Roxina’s heart sank. “Then the mail coach is not an option.”

“No.” Jaw taut, he glanced over his shoulder. “We must find another way.”

They could walk to London, but the risk of discovery escalated if they did.

“I don’t think—” Before Roxina could finish her objection, a sleek sporting curricle trundled toward them.

Shelby grabbed the bag, seized her wrist, and pulled her off the road, into the shadow of a towering oak.

Dash followed of his own accord.

They stood motionless, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

The figure seated in the curricle swayed precariously, his grip on the reins alarmingly loose. As the carriage drew nearer, a slurred, off-key melody carried through the night.

“ Oh, a sailor bold and full of cheer, with a lass upon each knee— He kissed ’em once, he kissed ’em twice, then sailed away to sea!

He drank his rum, he sang his tune, and whispered words so sweet— But when the morning sun arose, he’d vanished down the street !”

The driver, a young man, hiccupped between lines, his voice wobbling between bravado and absolute incoherence.

Probably a young blood sowing his wild oats.

The high-stepping horses slowed as if embarrassed by their master’s performance—then came to a stop, almost directly across from the oak.

Just perfect.

Roxina held her breath.

Now, what were they to do?

Shelby chuckled, a low, melodious baritone.

“Well, it seems the good Lord has heard our prayers.”

How, pray tell ?

As if reading her mind, he jerked his square chin toward the curricle, where the inebriated driver lifted a bottle to his lips.

“Is he… Is he drunk ?” Roxina ventured from the trees’ shadows.

“Aye, thoroughly pished. Bosky as a bishop. Soused to the seams and pickled to the placket.” A grin tugged at Shelby’s lips. “And we shall impose upon the fellow to give us a ride.”

Roxina exhaled sharply, her nerves still tingling from the unexpected turn of events.

“But, Shelby, he’s a stranger, and he appears to be a noble,” she whispered under her breath. “And in case it escaped you, we are dressed as commoners.”

“Leave it to me.” Shelby acted swiftly; his movements confident as he approached the curricle. “Ho, there, yon driver!”

Roxina collected the bag, and then, her pace more sedate, trailed him, ever faithful Dash at her side, watchful but docile.

The driver squinted into the darkness, apparently having a difficult time focusing.

“Hullo, there,” he replied jovially. Hiccup . “Unfriendly night to be talking a walk.” Hiccup.

Even from several feet away, Roxina smelled the spirits clinging to the driver like a second skin, and her nose twitched involuntarily.

He took another swig from his bottle. “Unfriendly night for carousing too.”

“Indeed.” Shelby gave a confirming nod.

The buck waved his brandy bottle with the grandeur of a man delivering a profound and tragic soliloquy. “Alas, my last night as a free man.”

Hiccup .

“You see, my good fellow, my fate is sealed. Tomorrow, I wed Lady Prudence Buttershaw, Duchess of Dowdiness, Baroness of Bad Luck, and the Halitosis Heiress to the Vast Buttershaw Fortunes.” He let out a soul-weary sigh.

The horses flicked their ears as if they had heard the sad tale too many times.

Shelby cast a droll glance over his shoulder toward Roxina.

“Lady Prudence is ten years my senior.” Hiccup . He produced a lopsided grin while leaning forward and announcing sotto voce. “Homely as a boiled potato, and her front teeth could open walnuts.”

Roxina winced inwardly at his unflattering depiction of his affianced.

“And her breath.” His expression aghast, he jerked upright. “Good God, man.” Hiccup . “The last time she spoke to me at close range, my cravat wilted, the ferns drooped, and the wallpaper peeled from the walls. My mother’s cat ran away and still hasn’t returned.”

He leaned forward once more, eyes bleary but earnest. “A footman almost fainted, and I heard the butler muttering something about bringing in a priest for an exorcism.”

Hiccup .

He released a long, enthusiastic belch followed by what sounded suspiciously like a robust passage of wind.

Good heavens .

Roxina made a strangled sound, and Dash flattened his ears.

Was the chap so desperate to fill the family coffers he would take such an unpleasant creature to wife?

Roxina wasn’t sure who she felt the most pity for.

Lady Prudence Buttershaw for her physical failings and having to enter a union with a man who clearly disparaged her, or this defeated sot whose circumstances required he marry for money.

A marriage of convenience.

Was convenience a fair exchange for a lifetime sentence with someone you did not love?

No.

All the more reason to avoid that sacred institution.

“Rather unwise and dangerous to drive while drunk as a wheelbarrow.” Shelby crossed his arms and jerked his head toward the passive horses. “It seems your horseflesh has more sense than you at present.”

The buck blinked, as if noticing his predicament for the first time. He stared at the horses’ backs for a moment, took another swig, then straightened—or at least tried to —before swaying dangerously. “Perhaps ’tis a sign. Divine intervention. The heavens themselves refusing to let me go forward with this unholy union.”

“Fortunate for you that you came upon us.” Veiled humor tempered Shelby’s words, though an undercurrent of censure edged his tone. He swept his mouth upward into an engaging smile. “Perhaps you should not drink yourself half-blind before taking the reins in hand.”

The buck waved Shelby’s suggestion off with a clumsy gesticulation.

“ Pshaw . That’s a very uninspired explanation, ol’ chap.” Hiccup . He gestured toward the road, missed entirely, and nearly toppled off the seat. “Tell me, then. Will you rescue me, abandon me, or mercifully push me off a cliff?”

Shelby considered him for a long moment.

“Our horse went lame in Blackheath, and unfortunately, no mounts were available for hire. We had no choice but to walk to Greenwich, hoping for better luck.” He affected an aristocratic accent and demeanor. “My wife twisted her ankle and cannot walk much farther . She’s also expecting.”

Wife ? Expecting?

Roxina barely stifled her astonished gasp.

Shelby crossed the mark.

Desperate times and all that, but a pregnant wife ?

“We’re on our way to London.” Shelby’s voice grew grave. “My mother-in-law is on her deathbed.”

He drew her close to his side, whispering into her ear under his breath. “Pretend to cry.”

When she didn’t respond, he squeezed her waist.

Bowing her head, Roxina sniffled loudly.

Not a weeper, pretending to cry did not come naturally.

The gentleman doffed his top hat.

“My deepest sympathy,” he slurred.

Hiccup.

Roxina dabbed at imaginary tears.

Shelby heaved a dramatic sigh. “And now we may not reach her side in time. The mail coach does not leave Greenwich until six tomorrow morning. I fear we will be too late to say our goodbyes.”

Wailing, Roxina buried her face in her hands, sobbing loudly.

She might as well play along.

Dash whined and nudged the hem of her cloak.

Poor dog.

He didn’t know what to make of her theatrics.

“No such thing. You must allow me to take you into my curricle.” Hiccup . Grinning, the young man teetered on the seat. “Peregrine Leopold Montgomery Phineas Atherstone V of Tunbridge Wells at your service.”

“Shelby Tellinger.” Shelby gave an impressive bow. “Of the Godalming Tellingers.”

“Related to Lord Marston?” Atherstone asked.

“Aye, Benedict Tellinger is my grand uncle.”

Roxina peeped at Shelby.

It wasn’t like him to name-drop.

“Excellent.” Atherstone produced a lopsided grin, then slumped forward, chin to chest. The bottle slipped from his fingers and clanked onto the curricle floor. A moment later, loud snores emitted from the vehicle.

Roxina swore the horses exchanged a disgusted glance before one whinnied as if to say, “ Oh, marvelous. Lord Lush has once again decided that ‘upright’ is optional. Shall we wait for someone to take up the reins or proceed and let nature take its course? ”

“Atherstone?” Shelby reached up and nudged Atherstone with the back of his hand.

No reaction.

He pressed a bit harder, but the young gentleman merely groaned and lolled to the side, his head bouncing against his chest.

“Out cold.” Shelby grinned. “Most convenient. Come Roxina. Let me help you climb aboard.”

Roxina hesitated.

“We cannot simply take his carriage, Shelby.”

“We can, and we must.” Shelby climbed onto the seat, bracing himself as the curricle shifted beneath his weight. “We are aiding this unwise chap who would otherwise likely spend the night here in the damp.”

With a firm push, Shelby shoved the unconscious driver to the side. He crumpled against the curricle’s interior wall with a muffled grunt.

Roxina cringed.

The sight of Atherstone—his slack mouth—and the reek of brandy dragged forth memories of her brother Mitchel’s inebriated antics. The endless nights spent coaxing him into bed, the slurred curses, and worst of all, knowing he would never change.

Shelby extended his hand. “Unless you’d rather wait for Desmond’s men to come sniffing about, Roxina?”

Needing no further convincing, she handed him the bag. She gathered her skirts, accepted Shelby’s help, and clambered up beside him, the leather seat cool beneath her palms.

“Here. You’ll have to hold this.” Shelby passed their bag of provisions.

Determined not to gawp at Atherstone, she snapped her fingers. “Come, Dash.”

After a wary glance toward the insensate man, Dash jumped onto the floorboard, his warm body pressing into her knees in the cramped quarters.

The horses, a striking matched pair of chestnut Hackneys with gleaming coats and four perfectly symmetrical white stockings, flicked their ears. One stamped a hoof, sensing the shift in their passengers’ weight.

“Walk on.” Shelby took up the reins, clicking his tongue softly.

The curricle lurched forward, the wheels squishing over the soft earth as it bore them into the spring night.

Roxina glanced sideways at the slumped figure beside her.

“What if he wakes, Shelby?”

“Then he’ll have a fine story to tell his friends about the night he loaned his curricle to a desperate, needy couple.” Shelby’s grin gleamed in the dim light. “But he’s foxed beyond reason, and if we are fortunate, he won’t rouse.” He lifted his shoulders. “And if he does, he probably won’t remember.”

The night stretched before her, uncertain and treacherous, but at least now, she and Shelby had a means to escape. Roxina tightened her grip on the seat—because, whether by fate or folly, she couldn’t change course now.