Page 15 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

FIFTEEN

Fernleigh House

London, England

The next day—nearly half-past eleven

A sharp crack rent the air—sudden, violent, unmistakable.

Gunfire.

Jolted awake, Roxina lurched upright, her breath wedged in her throat as terror beat against her ribs. The night before came rushing back. Her heart fluttered behind her breastbone, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears.

She focused on the unfamiliar chamber.

Where was she?

Shadows clung to the room’s corners, the dim light filtering through pale blue damask curtains, slightly faded but neatly kept, casting wavering patterns across the high ceiling. The soothing aroma of beeswax polish filled her nose, underscored by a faint trace of rose. A cool, earthy draft crept through the window’s imperfect seal.

She shifted, the soft mattress pressing against her back, its well-worn stuffing slightly uneven beneath her. The sheets, starched yet soft from countless washings, rasped against her fingertips.

The gunshot’s echo still rang in her ears.

Had it been real?

Or merely the lingering specter of the nightmare that had tormented her most of the night?

Another shot—or something like it—splintered the morning stillness.

She stiffened, breath held, straining to listen.

No shouts followed, no frantic footsteps or clash of steel.

No signs of danger creeping toward her door.

Slowly, reason pushed past the tight grip of fear.

She counted, one, two, three, four, five, willing calmness to return.

Not necessarily a pistol report, then.

A hunter’s musket, perhaps?

A gamekeeper firing at a fox or stray hound?

She shook her head.

No.

Robyn and Matilda lived on the outskirts of London, not in the open countryside.

It could have been something else entirely—a wheel breaking in a deep rut in the road, a wooden cart axle snapping beneath its load, or even the forceful snap of a tradesman’s whip urging along a stubborn team.

She inhaled again, slower and more measured this time, the tension in her limbs easing by degrees.

The previous night’s events crashed over her: Mrs. Beale screeching down the lane, fleeing to Greenwich, and Atherstone’s timely arrival.

Her pulse lurched again, but only for an instant.

She and Shelby had escaped Rufus Desmond.

At least for now.

The memory settled in her chest, tight yet steady, like the echo of a distant drumbeat. She curled her fingers into the linen sheets, their edges slightly frayed from use, grounding her in the present. The pillows beneath her head—stuffed with feathers but lacking the over-plumped softness of a wealthier household’s bedding—smelled faintly of rose water, though the scent had mostly faded.

Somewhere beyond the thick walls, a servant—or perhaps Matilda—moved with careful, measured steps, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath the weight.

Robyn’s welcome had been exactly as Shelby had said it would be—warm and gracious—after his initial suspicion and shock.

Roxina knew Robyn, of course.

They had attended the Templetons’ annual Christmas party for at least a decade, not to mention the intimate dinners at the Penfords’ and countless other social gatherings. The familiarity between them had been a constant, yet she must admit, she did not truly know him well.

Regardless, Robyn Fitzlloyd was a likable chap—gregarious yet shrewd, with a quick wit that masked an innate perceptiveness. He had a way of making one feel at ease while simultaneously calculating everything left unsaid. But there was something more to him, something elusive—much like Shelby.

Only slightly less sociable than her brother, Matilda had risen from bed to greet her cousin and Roxina. Wrapped in her night robe, she stepped into the candlelight, her unbound red hair spilling down her back in untamed waves. Fiery strands shimmered as she moved, catching the flickering glow. Her vivid blue eyes, heavy with sleep, still held warmth.

Matilda showed Roxina the cozy chamber she would call her own during her stay. A stay, Roxina meant to be short, despite Matilda and Robyn’s offer to remain as long as she needed.

Though of an older style, the carved rosewood furnishings lent the room a dignified elegance. Age had mellowed the wood to a deep, warm patina, well-polished surfaces gleaming. The silk wallpaper—soft ivory with delicate sprigs of pale blue forget-me-nots—whispered of a bygone era, imbuing the space with a distinctly feminine charm.

The borrowed nightgown Roxina wore brushed against her skin, the muslin softened by years of wear. Simple and unadorned, the nightdress featured a single row of careful hand-stitching along the cuffs. Made to last, not to impress, it bore the marks of practicality over vanity. It carried the faintest scent of rosewater and starch, a reminder of the quiet care taken in this household.

Frowning, she searched the room for Dash.

The blanket he slept upon last night lay empty.

Someone must have fetched him to take him outdoors while she slept like a slugabed.

Despite the circumstances, Roxina quite looked forward to visiting with Matilda.

Yawning, Roxina pressed a hand to her mouth, sweeping the room with her gaze.

A delicate coral-colored gown lay draped over an overstuffed chair to the right of the fireplace—one of Matilda’s, no doubt. The fabric, a cambric with a deep scalloped hem, pooled over the chair’s arm.

Beneath it, an Aubusson carpet stretched across the floor, its once-vibrant hues of rose, cream, and cornflower blue softened by time and wear. Floral medallions were woven through the pattern, their edges slightly muted, while scrollwork borders framed the design in graceful symmetry. Though the wool had thinned in places, it still held a whisper of its former plushness, lending the chamber a quiet, understated elegance.

Her drab gray gown had vanished.

Dropping her gaze, she spotted her half-boots—freshly cleaned and polished—neatly placed beside the bed. The leather gleamed in the filtered morning light; the laces crisply retied with a care that bespoke a practiced hand.

Someone had been busy this morning.

Her attention shifted to an ormolu-mounted walnut bedside clock, the polished wood gleaming with a rich, honeyed patina. Gilded accents adorned the corners in delicate, curling flourishes, and the white enamel face bore fine black Roman numerals. The hands, slender and precise, ticked forward in a steady rhythm, the clock’s subtle chiming mechanism faintly audible in the room’s hush.

A startled yelp escaped her.

Half-past eleven ?

Good heavens !

The only time she had ever remained abed so late was when she had been ill.

Nearly half the day had already slipped away, and she had much to do. Foremost was to decide where she would stay until she could return to the cottage in Blackheath.

Throwing back the bedcovers, she pushed herself to her feet and rushed to the washbasin. She splashed cool water over her face, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Roxina stepped into the hallway, the wooden floor solid beneath her boots as she gathered her bearings. Matilda’s gown fit her reasonably well. A trifle short, but that could not be helped.

Muted footsteps creaked from somewhere below, and the faint clatter of crockery and the low hum of conversation drifted upward. Beyond the windows, the occasional clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones and the distant cries of street hawkers reminded her they were still on London’s fringes.

The strains of a pianoforte drifted upward—delicate yet deliberate notes floating through the morning air like threads of fine lace.

Matilda, no doubt.

The melody was measured, almost contemplative, and a bittersweet pang tightened in Roxina’s chest.

Sunlight slanted in through a high, arched window above the stair landing, illuminating the dust motes that swirled lazily in the air. The narrow corridor branched off into several rooms, their doors painted a soft cream, the edges slightly worn from years of use.

Framed landscapes lined the walls, modest in size but skillfully rendered: A pastoral scene of rolling green fields under a bruised twilight sky. A lone fisherman casting his line into a glassy lake. A cluster of cottages nestled beneath towering oaks, a small dog trotting along a dirt path in the foreground.

Something about the dog—its lifted ears, the tilt of its head—stirred a flicker of recognition. It bore no true resemblance to Dash, but the posture, the quiet alertness, reminded her of him all the same. Her throat tightened.

Where was Dash?

He had never been far from her side, not once since he had trotted up to her cottage in Blackheath, thin but proud, as if he had chosen her rather than the other way around. She could still envision him hovering just beyond the garden, watching her with keen, intelligent eyes, his ribs sharp beneath his coat.

She had tossed him tea sandwiches—one at a time, careful not to move too quickly, letting him decide whether he trusted her. At first, he had snatched them up with wary glances, darting back to a safer distance. By the second day, he lingered near the doorstep, waiting. On the third, he had followed her inside as if he had always belonged.

She resisted the urge to call for him, lest she disturb the household. Surely, he was about somewhere—perhaps in the kitchen, hopeful for a bit of meat or a crust of bread from a kind-hearted servant.

Or perhaps Shelby had taken him for a walk.

No, that wouldn’t be wise, given their circumstances.

Dash was here, somewhere.

After breaking her fast, she meant to write Aubriella, Georgine, and Claire. They needed to know she had left the cottage.

Should she tell them why?

Roxina supposed she must—though she would omit the more alarming details. They would only fret over her safety, and nothing could be done about what had already transpired.

Nibbling her lower lip, she descended the stairs, the wood groaning softly under her careful steps.

The Ladies of Opportunity had always met at her home. She could hardly ask her friends to meet at Matilda’s and Robyn’s, could she?

No, that would be an imposition.

Besides, she did not intend to remain there for more than a day or two—whether or not Shelby agreed.

The ladies would need to determine where their next meeting would be held. Georgine had been quite keen on making Matilda a new member of their society. Perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to broach that subject too.

Roxina ran her fingertips along the smooth banister, its surface worn from years of use. Despite the morning light streaming through the narrow windows flanking the entryway, the wood remained cool to her touch.

Had Atherstone roused from his drunken stupor yet?

Would he remember Roxina and Shelby?

Poor young man.

Members of the aristocracy were often trapped in marriages of convenience, shackled to arrangements that benefited their families rather than themselves. At least, as a commoner, she was spared that particular indignity. No one would ever sell her off like a broodmare to the highest bidder.

A burst of laughter sounded from below—low, masculine, edged with something intangible. The deep timbre seemed vaguely familiar.

Shelby.

She rarely heard him laugh.

Roxina followed the murmuring voices, each step drawing her closer. The study door had been left ajar, the scent of strong coffee and cheroot wafting into the hallway.

Just as she reached the threshold, Shelby’s voice cut through the morning hush.

“I do not want Roxina to know.”

Her pulse skipped.

She swept into the room and stopped short, her breath catching at the sight of Shelby—clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, and dressed in well-fitted, spotless attire. He had discarded the ghastly eye patch as well, and heaven help her, he looked scrumptious enough to devour.

Her wits scattered like thistledown in a thunderstorm.

It took a couple of seconds to regain her equanimity. Determined to ignore his rugged good looks, she straightened her shoulders.

“What don’t you want me to know, Shelby?”