Page 18 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

EIGHTEEN

The Angel Inn

Near Seven Dials, London

That same afternoon…

Though Shelby had never frequented the establishment, finding The Angel Inn on St. Giles High Street near Seven Dials took little effort.

From halfway down the lane, he studied the dilapidated three-story structure. The building slumped against its neighbor as if unable to remain upright on its own, and a strong wind gust might send them both toppling into the street. Soot and grime darkened the once-red bricks, and moss streaked the sagging, broken wooden shutters.

The inn’s sign, swinging with each sluggish breeze, once depicted a golden angel but now resembled a battered cherub with one eye blackened by time and filth. A cracked windowpane glinted in the afternoon light, its jagged edges a testament to either a recent brawl or long-standing neglect.

To the coaching inn’s right, squeezed in between the buildings, lay a narrow alley, its passage choked with discarded crates, broken barrels, and rubbish. A skinny rat dashed from beneath a crate, an even skinnier tabby chasing the frantic creature.

The air carried the musty scent of decay, mingled with something fouler, likely refuse tossed from the upper windows. Shelby caught a pungent whiff—a mix of rotting vegetables and the acrid stench of waste steaming in the heat.

The street teemed with noise and movement.

Wagons and drays lurched over uneven cobblestones, their iron-rimmed wheels clattering and jarring against the timeworn stones. Decades of wear had smoothed some surfaces to a slick polish while others remained pitted and cracked, their edges softened by countless hooves and grinding metal. In places, the mortar had crumbled away, leaving shallow dips where rainwater gathered in murky pools.

A coachman cursed as his horse skittered sideways at a sudden shout, its hooves clattering against the slick cobblestones as it narrowly missed a barrow stacked with unappealing apples. Hawkers shouted over the din, their voices growing hoarse from a morning of hard bargaining.

Shelby shifted his attention to the Duck and Hound tavern’s entrance beside the coaching inn.

A trio of painted ladies lounged near the doorway, their laughter sharp and forced. Their once brightly colored gowns clung to their bodies, the silk and satin more threadbare than luxurious. Ribbons adorned their curls, though the effect failed to disguise the weariness beneath their painted smiles. One adjusted her drooping fichu and called out to a passing man, her voice a blend of honey and practiced charm.

“Surely a fine gent like you don’ mean to pass by without a kind word?” She lifted her skirts just enough to reveal a flash of mended stocking.

The man hunched his shoulders and strode faster, much to her companions’ amusement.

A scrawny mongrel trotted past, ribs jutting through its matted coat. The poor beast reminded Shelby of Dash. The dog sniffed at a pile of refuse, recoiled, then slunk toward an unattended basket of bread.

Rubbing his chin, Shelby fixed his focus on the inn, which supposedly housed Mitchel Danforth. “Honeybrook, are you confident your source is reliable?”

He grazed his fingers over the pistol’s handle at his waist, ready but concealed.

Jaw tight, Quentin Honeybrook, his dark hair damp from the humid afternoon, gave a terse nod.

“He has been up to now.” He cut Shelby a cynical glance. “But men of his ilk have the morals of a street thief and the loyalty of a starving rat. He would sell his mother for a coin or two. Still, I thought you would want to follow up on the lead.”

Of course, Shelby wanted to.

The sooner he apprehended Mitchel, the sooner he could get Merciless Morgan off his back.

“Forgive me for stating the obvious.” Amusement danced in Robyn’s sharp brown eyes. “If Danforth is present, just how precisely are we supposed to extract the lout if he refuses to come with us?”

“If he’s as ill as the informant claims, piling him into a hackney may not take much effort,” Honeybrook said. “Besides, there are three of us and one of him.”

Until now, Shelby hadn’t considered that Mitchel might be ill.

That explained why he hadn’t been seen.

He adjusted the scratchy cassock draped over his shoulders.

The borrowed robes from St. Giles in the Fields Church, just across the street, provided an effective disguise. The curates, eager to accept a generous donation, readily parted with the worn garments. In a district like this, clerics drew little notice—some viewed them as easy targets, while others ignored them entirely, no more significant than the broken cobblestones beneath their feet.

A carriage jolted past, its driver cracking the whip over a sweaty horse.

Despite the afternoon’s warmth and the heavy cassock, icy unease slid down Shelby’s spine.

Every instinct he possessed shouted, Caution . Caution. Caution.

The street bustled with pedestrians and vehicles; it had all day. Shelby and the others had covertly observed The Angel Inn for an hour. Something—the alley, the lingering afternoon shadows—set his nerves on edge.

In places like this, trouble often brewed nearby.

“I don’t believe it is a coincidence that your informant also knows who Desmond is.” Shelby spoke his thoughts aloud. “How could the informer know the connection between Desmond and Mitchel?”

Something about that reeked as foul as a three-day-old herring.

“Should we hail a cab then?” Honeybrook asked under his breath while surreptitiously surveying the bustling crowd.

Though they could see Honeybrook’s coach parked at St. Giles Church from where they stood, Shelby believed it wiser and less conspicuous to hire a conveyance to retrieve Danforth. It wasn’t uncommon for lushes to be bundled into a hack, and passersby would scarcely give the commotion a second glance.

However, a gleaming coach with matched blacks assuredly would draw unwanted attention.

Besides, a cab would be harder for Desmond to track.

“Before we hail a hackney to haul Danforth’s sorry arse away in, what say you we first send someone in to inquire if he’s even there?” Robyn jerked his chin toward the sordid establishment. “Subtly, of course.”

A solid plan, but not easily carried out.

Dressed as they were, they could not snoop around.

Clerics in the seedy inn’s tavern would raise eyebrows and send tongues wagging.

The real challenge lay in finding someone trustworthy enough to complete the task. In this neighborhood, trust ran thinner than watered-down gin. And getting someone to do the job rather than abscond with the coin was harder than keeping a cutpurse’s fingers out of an open pocket.

“There’s no shortage of desperate unfortunates who’d be glad of a coin in their palm.” Robyn swept the street with his keen gaze, his voice pitched low. “But I would wager, they run off as soon as they can make a fist around it.”

Precisely Shelby’s thoughts.

He sharpened his focus on the shadowed nooks and alleys, searching for stealth movement.

Desmond’s men could be anywhere.

Watching. Waiting .

So far, he had recognized none of the cardsharp’s henchmen. But that didn’t mean they were not there, lurking like diseased rats in the refuse-choked alleys.

A gust of wind kicked up the stench of rotting cabbage, dead rats, and the tang of horse dung. A woman in a tattered, dingy gray-brown shawl hunched in a doorway, hacking into her palm. Across the street, a costermonger bellowed his wares, boasting of crisp, fresh pippins in a voice that cut through the cacophony.

Fresh, my arse —pippins wouldn’t be in season. By now, last autumn’s stores would be shriveled or soft.

A pair of women sauntered past, their bodices scandalously low, skirts swinging in rhythm with the exaggerated sway of their hips.

A fading bruise tainted the blonde’s cheek where a man’s touch had been too rough. The other, a dark-haired girl with a thin, hard mouth, glanced their way before dismissing them with a cynical roll of her eyes.

Recognition struck.

Shelby’s gut tightened.

“Maude?”

The blonde halted, shifting her weight onto one hip as she planted her hands on her hips. She raked her sharp, wary gaze over him, slow and assessing. “Do I know you, guv? Ain’t been my habit to spread my legs for a man of God.”

Nudging Maude with a bony elbow, her companion let out a wheezing laugh.

Maude’s crimson gown, once rich in color, had dulled over time, the fabric faded and thin in places. The bodice, tight-laced to emphasize her curves, plunged indecently low, its yellowing lace trim fraying at the edges. A patched shawl, barely fit for warmth, dangled from a shoulder, and when she shifted, the edge of striped stockings peeked out beneath her skirts, just above a pair of scuffed ankle boots worn down at the heels.

The other doxy had opted for a blue-and-black striped dress that clung in all the wrong places. The material had seen better days, its seams gaping in spots, the faded silk ribbon threaded through the neckline doing little to disguise the poor fit. A bonnet too large for her head perched askew over the limp, poorly pinned curls beneath.

In an attempt at refinement and likely to hide pox or other disease marks, the women had powdered their faces, but the effort had missed the mark. Maude had applied rouge too thickly, making her look like a painted doll, and her lips, though stained red, had already smeared unevenly at the corners.

The other tart favored a heavier hand at cosmetics. Her soot-darkened eyebrows and lashes had smudged to such a degree, it appeared as though she wore a half-mask.

Shelby held Maude’s stare, waiting for her to recognize him.

Maude curled her mouth mockingly, then flattened into a thin, contemplative ribbon.

Eyes rounding, her jaw went slack.

And there it was.

“Saints alive. You .”

Her companion swept her bright red lips into a knowing smirk. “Coo, he is the handsome gent, aye?”

“Aye.” Maude tapped her fingertips lightly against her skirts before she crossed her arms again. “Blimey, didn’t reckon it was you in them robes, gov. Look like a proper preacher, you do.”

“Not by choice,” Shelby said.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off an old ghost. The teasing edge in her voice dulled. “Since you found me. Since you put that bastard Sykes in the ground.”

“He swung at Newgate.” Shelby clenched his jaw. “Just as he deserved.”

“Aye, he did.” A shadow glinted in her gaze, there and gone the next blink. “I never forgot. You saved my life that night. I owe you. And I always pay my debts.”

Shelby gave a small nod.

He never expected to take her up on her promise. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Figures. Blokes like you don’t come ’round unless they need somethin’.” Her jaded gaze slid to his companions, then back to him. “What do you want?”

“Would you make a discreet inquiry in The Angel Inn? We’re looking for a man named Mitchel Danforth. We believe he’s ill. He might have a mustache and a fresh scar on his face. We have reason to believe he has a rented room above the inn.”

“Leave it to us, Guv.” Maude looped her thin arm through Bess’s. “Shan’t take but a tick and a tumble.”

Winking, she flashed a flirtatious smile, then flounced away.

Shelby and his companions moved a few feet farther along the lane to observe her progress as the woman weaved through the crowded street.

Smirking, Robyn fiddled with his cassock sleeve.

“Cousin, you keep the strangest company. But I suppose that’s part of your occupation.” His expression darkened. “Though I wish you would find another besides thief catching.”

Even Robyn didn’t know Shelby had sold his house.

“I’m working on it, Robyn.”

If fortune favored Shelby, Neptune’s Providence should make port any day now. Either he would be wealthy or as poor as the hollow-cheeked, haunted-eyed wretches roaming the Dials.

“ Ballocks .”

Honeybrook’s guttural expletive drew Shelby’s and Robyn’s attention.

“That is my informant, and I’d say his purse is fuller than it was this morning.” With a jerk of his chin, Honeybrook indicated a skinny runt of a man scurrying from The Angel Inn. He bobbed his head right and left like a pigeon while clutching the front of his moth-eaten coat, as if guarding the crown jewels. “God dammit, the lice-ridden, oath-breaking guttersnipe.”

A Jack-on-both-sides with pockets to line and no conscience to trouble him—not uncommon or a surprise amongst London’s underbelly.

Maude emerged from the alley and swiftly crossed the street. Moving with purpose, she didn’t spare them a glance nor slowed as she passed by. “He’s not there. But hired henchmen are, and they’re waiting for you. I sneaked out the back while Bess distracted them, but you’d best be on your way and quickly.”

Hell’s bells .

“It’s a bloody trap,” Robyn hissed between clenched teeth. He jerked his head up, his gaze locking with Shelby’s. “I would bet my best boots they wanted us away from the house, Shelby.”

Roxina !

Shelby’s blood ran cold.

That meant Desmond had discovered where she was.

How?

That didn’t matter.

But getting back to Fernleigh House did.

Shelby should have listened to his instincts, but he’d been so bloody eager to snare Mitchel, he had not followed the first rule of a thief-taker: trust no one you don’t know personally .

“We should go.” Honeybrook’s expression turned stony. “ Now. ”

As one, they turned toward St. Giles Church and Honeybrook’s waiting coach, walking briskly but taking care not to draw undue attention.

The scent of hot bread wafted from a nearby vendor’s stall, incongruous against the stink of filth and desperation. A man sprawled against a wall, muttering to himself, an empty umber-colored rum bottle dangling from his filthy fingers.

Quickening his pace, the uneven cobblestones jarring against his feet, Shelby murmured, “We’ll take the side streets to Fernleigh House.”

A carriage rattled past, its driver snapping the reins with impatience.

Shelby must get to Roxina.

He couldn’t consider what would happen if Desmond found her.

Locking his jaw, he picked up his pace, the cassock slapping against his ankles.

Faster . Faster. Faster .

He could not be too late.

Anguish impaled him.

Because the truth was, he might already be.