Page 14 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

FOURTEEN

Deptford, England

Southeast outskirts of London

Just over an hour later that same night

Shelby kept his grasp firm on the reins. Every mile brought them closer to safety—or straight into the trap Desmond waited to spring. So far, the journey to London passed without incident, but his muscles bunched with tension, and every sound sent his pulse pounding.

To avoid other travelers, he opted for lesser-traveled side roads that paralleled Greenwich High Road. Even though that meant a slower journey, it had proved a wise choice, as they had not encountered another soul.

The late hour likely attributed to that welcome reprieve.

A low, discordant snore issued from the inebriated peer sprawled in the far corner of the curricle, his cravat hanging loose, waistcoat askew, and hat long since abandoned to the wind. He muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, his head lolling forward before jerking upright again.

At Shelby’s feet, in the curricle’s narrow well, Dash let out a long-suffering sigh, his gangly frame wedged awkwardly in the cramped space. The dog had been a stalwart companion, but his patience had limits. He shifted with a heavy grunt, his tail thumping against the floorboards before he curled tighter, casting Shelby a look that spoke volumes about his discomfort.

Shelby patted Dash’s scruffy head. “Almost there.”

At some point, the rhythmic cadence of the horses’ hooves and the steady patter of rain against the leather hood lulled Roxina into slumber against Shelby’s shoulder. Mouth parted slightly, she slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

The past hours had taken their toll on all of them.

Shelby gripped the reins with rigid intensity, his gaze locked on the faint shimmer of London’s distant glow, fractured by the fine mist. The air became denser as they neared the city, pungent with the acrid stench of coal smoke and the river’s briny musk.

A faint, persistent clang from a distant foundry rang through the night and carried on the moist breeze. Somewhere across a pasture, a cow let out a long, mournful low, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the wet hush of the night.

The countryside rolled past in shadowed undulations, dotted with squat, stone-walled cottages, their steeply pitched roofs dark against the clouded sky. Thin wisps of ghostly smoke spiraled upward from a few chimneys, though most houses sat in near darkness, their occupants long since abed. The narrow road ahead gleamed slick and treacherous, the deep ruts saturated with rainwater. The horses’ hooves sent up muddy splashes as they pressed forward.

Casting a wary glance around, Shelby clenched his jaw.

They were not safe yet.

He could not afford to make a mistake, risk slowing their trudging pace, or assume they had escaped Desmond’s demonic clutches for good. Only when they reached Robyn Fitzlloyd’s house and when Roxina lay beyond Desmond’s and his ghouls’ reach would Shelby allow himself a moment’s respite.

A cynical smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he imagined Robyn’s face.

Robyn had long pestered him to visit, though Shelby had never imagined arriving on his cousin’s doorstep with Roxina Danforth in tow—let alone a three-sheets-to-the-wind, thoroughly sloshed noble.

As far as Robyn knew, Roxina detested Shelby.

He would bet his investment on Neptune’s Providence that Desmond pursued them—perhaps even now closing the distance. Not only had Mitchel cheated him, but Desmond also despised losing.

Plus, Shelby and Roxina had defied and defeated him, and pride alone would drive him to hunt them down. That made him even more dangerous. Once Shelby had secured Roxina safely at Robyn’s, he meant to turn the tables and become the hunter once more.

Desmond might not be the most dangerous criminal Shelby had tracked, but the highwayman’s network stretched far and wide, with eyes and ears lurking everywhere.

That made him treacherous.

Worse, Desmond was patient. The type of calculating fiend who calmly loitered in the shadows, biding his time, striking when his prey thought themselves safe.

Shelby could not afford to underestimate him.

He cast a glance at Roxina, taking in the gentle slope of her forehead and her pert silhouette, now visible without the god-awful discarded poke bonnet. That wretched contraption had concealed too much of her face, including the slight dimple in her cheek that appeared when she pressed her lips together in thought.

At their feet, Dash groaned and shifted, attempting to reposition himself in the curricle’s narrow well. A heavy thud followed as the dog stretched a hind leg, jostling the already cramped space. The poor beast suffered as much as the three humans squeezed into a seat meant for two.

Shelby gave the hound another sympathetic pat, murmuring, “I know, old boy. This isn’t exactly a gentleman’s chaise.”

Roxina sighed and shifted against him, her warmth seeping through his coat, her scent—a mix of lilacs and something softer, something uniquely her—curling into his senses.

That was another surprise.

For all her bravado and defiant words, her maddeningly enticing scent curled around him—subtle, warm, and entirely her.

The day had drained her completely, and arriving at Robyn’s well past midnight only deepened her exhaustion. With any luck, she would rest well into the morning.

What time did she usually rise?

Shelby did not know.

But he knew this—she looked healthier than he could recall. The hollows in her cheeks had filled out, a healthy glow replacing the weary pallor of her skin, and her gown no longer hung loosely from her frame.

Not that he had been looking too closely.

Or so he told himself.

The past hours had stripped away Roxina’s usual defenses, revealing more than the sharp-tongued, defiant woman he had sparred with for most of their acquaintance. She was still fiery, fiercely independent, and clever, but tonight had exposed something more.

A quiet vulnerability. A fleeting hesitation in her dark chestnut eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching. And that sliver of uncertainty undid him more than all her sharp wit and defiant words ever could.

And Shelby had seen it.

Hell’s teeth, he had felt it.

He tightened his clasp on the reins until his knuckles turned white.

Would she ever fully trust him?

What would it take?

Jaw tightening, Shelby forced his fingers to relax.

Trust did not come easily; it was built in careful increments, tested with every choice, and once broken, it was seldom restored to its former strength.

Though Roxina no longer bristled at his every word, a sliver of doubt remained in her eyes, a wariness she could not entirely conceal.

He wished….

No.

That was a thought best left buried.

For now, the only thing that mattered was getting Roxina to safety.

And after that?

He would deal with Desmond.

Waiting a week, even a fortnight before going after the blackguard, might throw Desmond off their trail. But that also meant he and Roxina would need to remain hidden in Robyn’s house, avoiding all visitors.

That should not be too difficult—but she must stay.

Once Robyn and Matilda learned the severity of the situation, Shelby did not doubt they would take every necessary step to keep him and Roxina safe.

Based on past experience, Robyn would concoct some elaborate scheme to deter visitors—perhaps feigning an outbreak of a most distressing ailment. The last time he had wanted privacy, the household had claimed a particularly virulent case of “imported French malady.”

That had sent even the most inquisitive callers fleeing.

Later, explaining that no one in the household had actually acquired the disease had proved hysterical—at least from Shelby’s perspective. Robyn would not agree, but that was what he deserved for contriving such an outlandish taradiddle.

Shelby glanced at Roxina again.

Though he hated subjecting her to this ordeal, he could not regret the time spent by her side. Each moment only reinforced how much he cherished her—how fiercely he valued her happiness and safety.

She moved with quiet strength and effortless grace, a presence that drew attention without demanding it. Something about her, inexpressible yet irrefutable, made her unlike any woman Shelby had ever known—a rare blend of fire and gentleness, wisdom, and untamed spirit.

He loosened the reins further and allowed the horses to set the pace toward the city.

To the north, beyond the mist-laden fields, the Thames slithered through the night, its dark waters reflecting the faint glow of lanterns strung along the docks. The river’s briny scent mixed with the pungent aroma of damp wood and tar, filtered inland, borne on the sluggish breeze.

The creak of mooring ropes and the occasional shout of a night watchman drifted across the stillness. Above the horizon, the silhouettes of ships’ masts pierced the haze, their towering forms swaying gently like skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky.

When would Neptune’s Providence make port?

Though the vessel had not arrived early, neither was it overdue. Any number of things could cause a delay—unfavorable winds, storms brewing in the Caribbean, a sluggish customs process, or worse—piracy. The West Indies trade routes had become treacherous, with privateers and rogue captains seizing shipments under the guise of war remnants.

Would he emerge a wealthy man—or a pauper?

If the latter, how could he provide for Roxina?

As if sensing his scrutiny, she stirred. Her thick lashes fluttered before her eyes opened slowly. A furrow creased her brow in momentary confusion until awareness returned, and she realized where they were.

She stifled a yawn behind her hand, then nudged Atherstone back into the seat’s corner, where he snored loudly, oblivious to everything.

“How much longer, Shelby?” She shifted, her thigh brushing his, sending a jolt of awareness through him—sharp, unwanted, and utterly inescapable.

“Not long, Roxina. We should arrive in about fifteen minutes. I’m taking a circuitous route. The fewer eyes on us, the better.”

The curricle’s plain black lacquer bore no embellishments, its unadorned lines speaking to function over finery, a vehicle meant for practicality rather than display. The wheels rattled over the uneven road, the iron-bound rims cutting through shallow puddles, sending up fine spray.

However, the horses—an exquisite pair, sleek and well-muscled, their glossy coats reflecting the lantern’s glow—would attract notice. Bred for speed and endurance, they carried on tirelessly despite the long journey.

She exhaled a soft sigh, nodding before resettling against his shoulder.

Shelby’s heart soared at the simple, intimate gesture.

Did she even realize how much she had thawed toward him?

Fifteen minutes .

If Desmond’s men weren’t already scouring the city, that might be enough time.

And if not?

Then Shelby must be ready.

If anyone spotted them, he planned to play the part of a weary driver bringing his drunken master home. He wished he could better conceal Roxina, but he could not ask her to crawl onto the floorboards and trade places with Dash.

As if reading his mind, Roxina smoothed a hand over Dash’s scruffy head, her fingers disappearing into the thick fur.

“I should hunch down in the front and let Dash take my place. No one will question two men returning from carousing, but a woman with them?” She shook her head, a wry smile ghosting her lips. “No one will believe that—unless they take me for a harlot.”

Before Shelby could object further, she stood, clutching the curricle’s side, and pointed to the seat, issuing a low command. “Up.”

Dash, ever obedient, leaped into the vacated space, sprawling across the seat as if he had been promoted to nobility. Even in the muted half-light, confusion flickered in his soulful eyes.

Roxina lowered herself to the floor, drew up her knees, and draped the cloak over her entire body, including her head. Her muffled voice floated up to Shelby.

“How do I look?”

“Like a very lumpy sack of grain,” he murmured, barely hiding his amusement.

A sharp pinch bit into his calf. He stiffened. “Ouch.”

Incorrigible minx.

Before she could retort, a carriage bore down upon them.

The driver barely spared them a glance as he continued onward, his vehicle’s lamps bouncing erratically and casting grotesque shadows along the roadway.

“Was that a conveyance?” Roxina whispered from beneath the cloak.

“Indeed. And they did not give us a second glance.”

Atherstone shifted beside Dash, looped an arm around the dog’s sturdy shoulders, and murmured in a low, affectionate voice.

“My dear… You are soft…warm…magnificent,” he slurred, pressing his nose into Dash’s fur. “What silken tresses you have…”

Shelby bit his cheek to keep from laughing, but Roxina’s muffled snort from under the cloak nearly undid him.

Dash, ever patient, let out a long-suffering sigh but tolerated the misplaced affections.

Ten minutes later, Shelby steered the curricle into the mews behind Fernleigh House.

A sleepy, confused stable boy stumbled forth, rubbing his eyes, his cap askew. “’Ere now, who?—?”

Before he could finish, Robyn appeared, an open letter in hand, his expression equal parts irritation and curiosity.

Shelby would wager he had a pistol concealed beneath his jacket.

“Who are you, and why are you skulking about my household at this hour?” Robyn demanded.

Tugging off his hat, Shelby leaned forward, allowing the merest hint of a smirk.

“What? Not happy to see me, cousin?”

“ Shelby ?” Robyn tripped down the stairs, two at a time. “What in God’s name brings you here this time of night?”

Robyn pinned his sharp gaze on Atherstone, who remained slumped in his seat, one arm draped heavily over Dash. The drunken lord nuzzled into the dog’s thick fur and murmured, “Soft as an angel, my darling…”

“He’ll be heartbroken when he sobers up and realizes his ‘angel’ has four paws and a tail.” Shelby grinned.

Robyn lifted his hawkish eyebrows above skeptical brown eyes. “You brought me a soused nobleman?”

“Not intentionally, I assure you. It is more of an accidental convenience.” Shelby shifted, his muscles stiff from being crammed into the cramped space. “Can I impose upon your driver to see him home? I don’t wish Atherstone to wake up here. Too many questions I’d rather not answer.”

“I’ll bet.” Eyes narrowed, Robyn pointed. “Atherstone, you say? Peregrine Atherstone? Didn’t know the chap liked his spirits so much.”

“He’s getting married tomorrow—today.” Shelby shrugged. “He’s not altogether keen on the notion.”

Grunting, Robyn narrowed his gaze, finally spying the lump on the floor of the curricle. He pointed. “And who, pray tell, is that?”

Before Shelby could respond, Roxina flipped the cloak off her head, meeting Robyn’s gaze with a weary but steady expression. “It’s good to see you, Robyn. I wish the circumstances were less dire.”

Arms crossed, Robyn eyed the drunken nobleman, the bedraggled dog, and Roxina’s rumpled appearance. “I cannot wait to hear the explanation for this.”