Page 17 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

SEVENTEEN

Fernleigh House drawing room

Almost 3 hours later, that same day

This waiting is excruciating .

Shelby and Robyn left nearly three hours ago with Quentin Honeybrook. Roxina and Matilda had heard nothing from either since their harried departure.

“You really must eat something, Zina.” Matilda poured her another cup of tea, the china clinking softly as she set the teapot down. “I know you did not break your fast this morning. You must keep your strength up.”

The mere thought of food turned Roxina’s stomach.

She wrapped her fingers around the delicate china, its warmth seeping into her chilled skin—a stark contrast to the icy unease settled deep in her bones since Shelby left. If she cared so little for him, why did near panic thrum through her?

How many times had she silently counted to five in the last three hours to soothe and calm herself?

She had lost count an hour ago.

Using the delicate tongs, Roxina plucked a lump from the sugar bowl and dropped it into her tea. Stirring slowly, she idly watched the granules dissolve in lazy spirals before taking a careful sip. The mellow, floral notes of the Darjeeling coated her tongue but brought no comfort.

Shouldn’t Mitchel be her primary concern?

Instead, Shelby’s safety consumed Roxina, gnawing at her peace of mind.

Did that make her a terrible sister?

A soft sigh drew her attention.

Shifting in her seat, Matilda clasped her hands tight in her lap before loosening her grip to toy with a pillow’s burgundy silk tassel. The cushion, covered in faded floral damask, bore the marks of years of use, the once-plush stuffing slightly flattened, and the gold-threaded trim a touch frayed. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, occasionally marked by a sigh, punctuated the silence between them.

On their journey to Greenwich, Shelby reassured Roxina that an extended stay with his cousins would cause no inconvenience to them. They were kind, generous people.

Matilda seemed as restless as Roxina, her attention darting between the clock, the door, and the windows, never settling for long. No doubt, she fretted over her brother, and a twinge of guilt pricked Roxina. Unlike her, Matilda embodied devotion—a caring, affectionate sister. But to be fair, she benefited from a doting, protective older brother.

The steady tick-tock of the mantel clock filled the quiet, each measured second stretching unbearably. The timepiece, encased in warm mahogany with inlaid brass details, sat atop the walnut hearth, its polished face reflecting the sunlight streaming into the room.

When it chimed three o’clock a couple minutes ago, Roxina had jumped, so fraught were her nerves. A pair of porcelain figurines flanked the clock—delicate shepherdesses in pastel gowns, their painted expressions forever serene, as if they had never known a moment of unease.

Roxina envied them.

Exhaling sharply, she stood.

This waiting would drive her mad.

Pacing to the window, she swept aside the lace curtain and stared into the sunlit street. The midday light poured down in bright ribbons, glinting off shiny carriages and dancing across the cobblestones.

A stable boy led a bay gelding past the house, the steady clip-clop of hooves crisp against the dry road. A breeze carried the mingling scents of spring air, freshly turned garden beds, and the faintest hint of lilacs. Somewhere beyond her view, a robin trilled a high, clear note, its song a cheerful contrast against the drawing room’s pregnant hush.

The soft patter of paws crossing the floor, followed by a gentle whine, announced Dash.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He padded toward Roxina, ears perked and dark eyes round with concern. Sensing her unease, he nudged her skirt with his nose, then settled beside her on the well-worn Aubusson carpet, his tail thumping once against its intricate weave of floral and scrollwork.

Reaching down, Roxina absently threaded her fingers through his coarse fur.

“I know, sweet boy,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am worried too.”

Matilda rose and came to stand beside her, pressing a comforting hand to Roxina’s arm. “They will return soon.”

Would they?

Recalling Shelby’s heartfelt declaration and her inadequate, indifferent response, Roxina swallowed hard.

Could she have been more diplomatic?

Kinder?

Known for her bluntness, Roxina thought she had tempered her reply, for she had no wish to hurt him.

Roxina. I love you.

Four paltry words that kept a running monologue in her mind. And not only did they torment her to no end, but memory after memory reared its head, reminding her of all the times Shelby had shown her he loved her, and she had been too blind—too deuced obstinate—to see it.

God above, when had she become so unfeeling and calloused?

A hardened skeptic who could not recognize love?

No , she argued with herself.

You have refused to feel—to love .

That was not the same as being incapable of loving.

Roxina almost gasped at the agony wrenching her heart.

If she didn’t care about Shelby— really care —would she feel this pain?

Never had she been more confused.

God, help me .

She needed something— anything —to fill this wretched time before her mind spun itself into an even darker place. A place she wasn’t prepared to face.

She clasped Matilda’s hand, praying her desperation didn’t show.

“Mittie, why don’t we send word to Aubriella, Claire, and Georgine and see if they can call later this afternoon? We can discuss the situation that brought me here.” She summoned a strained smile. “And I know you were interested in becoming a member of the Ladies of Opportunity .”

“Indeed, I am!” Matilda’s eyes widened with excitement, her whole countenance lighting up like a child offered an entire tray of sweetmeats. “You would not believe the incredulous wagers I have heard.”

Oh, Roxina would, for she had written so many ridiculous bets in Ladies of Opportunity’s ledger that it boggled the mind.

The Dowager Belaire bet her crony, Lady Wyman, ten guineas that she could drink more cups of tea than Lady Wyman before having to excuse herself to the necessary.

Lady Tolland and Lady Henshaw wagered five guineas on who could slip the most sugar lumps into Lord Percival’s and Sir Digby’s tea before the gentlemen finally refused to drink another sip.

Lady Sybil bet Lady Marchmont who could make Miss Tibbins exclaim, “Gosh!” the most times during a single evening at Vauxhall Gardens.

Matilda leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice, though there was no one to overhear her. “Just last week, Lady Pemberton bet Lady Tottenham twenty guineas that her husband would snore so loudly at the opera that someone would swat him with her fan. Those ladies are constantly at odds and trying to outshine the other.”

Roxina smothered a laugh, shaking her head. “And did he?”

“With great gusto.” Blue eyes sparkling, Matilda grinned. “The Dowager Rushbrook whacked Mr. Tottenham twice on the head before the first intermission.”

Roxina’s lips twitched with amusement, though she quickly tempered her jollity with a more serious tone. “We do not place wagers ourselves because it’s a conflict of interest.”

“That seems reasonable. Sensible, even.” Matilda sighed and rolled her eyes. “I do so hate sensible.”

Roxina arched an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, we cannot have it said that we are taking unfair advantage and lining our purses.”

Still, she had not completely put aside the notion of placing a wager herself. Half the money Shelby sent her remained upstairs, tucked behind a painting in her chamber, and the temptation to turn those funds into more, to challenge fate, lurked at the edges of her thoughts.

She would need help, though, for the scandalous secret stake she wished to make.

“Let’s be about writing those letters, shall we? The afternoon already grows late.” Matilda pulled the bell pull.

A moment later, Bichard, the butler, entered with his usual impeccable composure. “You rang, Miss?”

“Yes,” Matilda said, clasping her hands before her. “Please bring us paper, ink, sand, wax, and a seal. Miss Danforth and I have urgent correspondences to write, and they must be delivered promptly when we are done. If they are available, Mrs. Matherfield, Miss Thackerly, and Mrs. Granlund should arrive within the hour.”

“As you wish, Miss.” The butler inclined his head in deference.

With the air of a man who had seen and heard far too much to be shocked by anything anymore, he turned and strode from the room.

Matilda waited until the door shut before speaking, her tone thoughtful. “I heard Shelby’s version of why you left Blackheath—via Robyn, mind you—but I should like to hear it from your lips.”

Roxina stiffened ever so slightly.

Shadows from the afternoon light played across the walls, stretching long and thin like secrets waiting to be uncovered. She cast a wary glance toward the door before guiding Matilda to the room’s farthest corner, ensuring no curious eavesdroppers might overhear.

Tone subdued, she shared the sordid tale.

“My brother cheated a very dangerous man at cards—Rufus Desmond.” Roxina spoke softly, yet intently. “He discovered where I lived in Blackheath. And—” she hesitated, her throat tightening, “—he is the leader of a ruthless group of cutthroat highwaymen.”

Eyes growing dinner-plate round, Matilda’s breath hitched as she choked on a gasp.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered, curling her fingers into the folds of her gown.

“Shelby heard about Mitchel’s deception and started tracking Desmond, intending to question Desmond, and then claim the bounty.” Roxina swallowed. Telling the tale stirred her fears anew. “However, Desmond’s men captured Shelby first. They abducted me the next morning on my way to church.”

At the terrifying memory, a shudder ran through her, lifting the hairs on her arms.

Was that why she had awakened that night?

She had somehow known Shelby was in peril?

“Shelby helped me escape, Mittie. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here.” Oddly emotional, Roxina spoke around the lump in her throat. “I owe him my life.”

Head tilted, Matilda studied her for a long moment in that perceptive way she had. Then, with a slow smile, she arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me for saying so, but do I detect a newfound tenderness toward him?”

“If by that you mean I’m not condemning him to hellfire every time I see him anymore, then yes. But do not read anything into that.” Roxina scoffed, though heat crept up her neck. “I am merely grateful.”

Gratitude.

Was that all she felt?

Then why did Roxina’s thoughts circle back to Shelby, no matter how she tried to chase them away? Why did his voice linger in her mind, his touch—however fleeting—burn like a brand on her skin? What was this restless churning inside her, this maddening confusion that refused to be reasoned away?

If Roxina felt nothing, why did the mere thought of Shelby send her heart skittering?

Why did she strain to hear his footsteps?

Why did the room feel unbearably empty when he was not in it?

And why—for the love of God—did that brief kiss replay in her mind over and over and over ?

This couldn’t be love.

It could not.

Could it?

Had her heart played a cruel, cruel trick?

“How dreadfully predictable of you.” Matilda released a dramatic sigh, clearly not believing Roxina’s denial.

Roxina turned toward the window, afraid her friend might see in her eyes what she had only begun to suspect. Her smile softened as she traced the rim of the glass pane with her fingertip.

Outside, the world went on as if nothing were amiss.

Within her, however, a chaotic maelstrom raged. She did not turn around when she added, “Well, perhaps not entirely just grateful.”

“I knew it!” Matilda gasped, then clutched her chest theatrically. “The unflappable Roxina Danforth, developing feelings ! Quick, someone fetch the smelling salts before I swoon.”

Roxina rolled her eyes, but a chuckle escaped her before she could temper it. “You are a ninny.”

“Guilty.” Matilda smirked.

A minute later, the butler returned with the writing materials.

“Bichard, please have Haywood ready to deliver our missives personally.” Matilda accepted the salver, topped with the supplies. “He should await a response from each recipient too.”

“Yes, Miss.” A kind twinkle in his eye, Bichard quit the drawing room at the staid, unhurried pace only a butler could affect.

Roxina and Matilda promptly settled down to compose their notes. Roxina also wrote a brief letter to Mrs. Beale but took care not to include a return address. Her hand steady even as her mind raced, she scratched the quill lightly against the foolscap.

In short order, they finished writing the brief notes and sent the messages with Haywood, who promised to post Roxina’s letter to Mrs. Beale.

Roxina prayed her friends were at home and could come straightaway.

“Roxina, while we wait for their responses, let’s stroll in the garden,” Matilda suggested, already moving toward the doorway. “The fresh air may help soothe our nerves, and last night’s showers have encouraged early blooms.”

“A splendid notion.” Roxina eagerly nodded. “That’s just the thing to take my mind off…”

She trailed off, unwilling to voice her worries.

What if Shelby did not return ?