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

TWO

In the cottage entry

A half-dozen startled seconds later

“Frankie?” Roxina muttered stupidly.

Assuredly not who she had expected to see when she opened the door.

Gripping the envelope tightly with dirt-smudged fingers, he dipped his head and bent into a bow that would have made a duke proud.

Another letter?

More to the point, likely more anonymous money.

Blast Aubriella Matherfield for being as obstinate as I am .

Roxina had repeatedly asked her friend not to keep sending her funds, and Aubriella adamantly denied doing so. Nevertheless, another envelope had arrived, and Roxina would bet her new sunny gown, it contained money, just as the others had.

A gentle breeze ruffled the boy’s Irish-black hair lying across his forehead.

Despite her discomfit, Roxina could not deny that springtime in Blackheath possessed a particular charm. The cobbled streets, still damp from an earlier shower, glistened beneath the midday sun. Pale pink petals from the flowering cherry trees drifted lazily in the breeze, gathering in delicate drifts along the road’s edge.

London had never held this bucolic appeal.

Pedestrians bustled about—gentlemen in well-tailored greatcoats and ladies in colorful gowns and bonnets, their gloved hands lifting their skirts slightly to avoid the uneven stones. A fishmonger pushed his cart past, calling out his wares, while a pair of nursemaids corralled their young charges away from the muddied gutters.

Its thatched roof darkened by age and damp, Roxina’s cottage—a modest but sturdy affair of whitewashed brick—sat nestled between two larger homes. Ivy climbed one side, creeping toward the upper windows, while a profusion of daffodils, hyacinths, jonquils, and tulips, remnants of Miss Penford’s once-pristine garden, brightened the small front patch of earth. A wrought-iron gate needing paint and slightly rusted at the hinges marked the entrance to the narrow stone path leading to the Brunswick green door.

Perhaps ten or eleven years old, Frankie thrust the wrinkled, stained rectangle toward her.

The sixth since Roxina came to live in Blackheath.

“Is there…?” she began.

He shook his head in anticipation of her next question. “Nay, there isn’t a return address.”

Of course not.

There never had been.

Mrs. Eunice Beale, the ever-watchful busybody two cottages down and across Montpelier Row, stepped onto her stoop, her shrewd eyes narrowing at the sight of the exchange.

The plump woman, rigid with judgment, had a mouth perpetually pursed tighter than a goose’s hind end. She twisted her graying blonde hair into an unyielding bun, not a single strand daring to stray. Her four temperamental tabbies lounged in the cottage windows, flicking their tails in disapproval.

She glared at Frankie and shook a finger toward him. “You there, lad. Any correspondence for me today?”

Mrs. Beale knew well and good that Frankie had nothing for her. He did not serve as the postal delivery man. Someone paid him to deliver the messages to Roxina rather than post them, and Frankie earned a guinea each time.

He had proudly shared that tidbit with Roxina the second time he had shown up on her doorstep.

Smiling politely at Mrs. Beale, Frankie shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Bless the dear child for his manners.

“I only have another anonymous letter for Miss Danforth today.”

Blast and bunions .

Mrs. Beale’s eyebrows vaulted to her thinning hairline and dangled there like fuzzy caterpillars.

“ Anonymous ?” Curiosity and suspicion pitched the chinwag’s voice high on the last syllable as her sharp regard darted between the boy and Roxina. “That is highly irregular.”

Roxina almost groaned aloud.

“Aye.” Frankie looked up and down the street, then put a hand to the side of his mouth as if disclosing an important secret. “If’n you ask me, I think Miss Danforth has a secret admirer. Perhaps a soldier or a sailor. Sixth unmarked letter in four months.”

Dash, the child for being so eager to please.

He gave a sage nod, endearing for someone so young. “The bloke is right smitten.”

Roxina had quickly discovered Mrs. Beale relished spreading gossip.

“Indeed.” Eyes narrowing in speculation, Mrs. Beale raked her critical gaze over Roxina from head to toe before sniffing in disapproval and retreating inside her cottage.

Would attempting to befriend Mrs. Beale be a lost cause?

“Mind yourself, Miss Danforth.” Frankie gave a jaunty wave before darting off, his thin-soled boots clacking on the cobbles.

Roxina would most certainly offer the child biscuits if he came ’round again, and she strongly suspected he would.

The distant clatter of hooves drew her attention just as Georgine’s ancient carriage rattled up the street. The vehicle—a once-elegant dark blue barouche, now showing signs of wear—rolled to a halt before Roxina’s cottage. The two bay horses, well-fed but no longer in their prime, tossed their heads, their harnesses jingling.

The driver, a wiry man in a battered hat, barely had time to set the brake before Georgine descended in a flurry of pink silk, her matching pelisse trimmed in black velvet, her bonnet’s satin ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

She looked like a breath of fresh air.

She grinned up at the coachman. “Pick me up in three hours, Dobbs.”

“Aye, Miss.” He clicked his tongue. “Walk on.”

As the carriage lumbered away, Georgine flew to Roxina’s side. “Hello, dearest!”

“Hello.”

Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Georgine blurted, “I have a proposition for another member. Matilda Fitzlloyd, though I think she’ll need to keep it a secret from her brother. Robyn Fitzlloyd is…” Shrugging, Georgine rolled her eyes. “He’s far too protective of Mittie, the poor dear. He practically smothers her. I would not stand for it, I tell you. Brotherly love is one thing, but she can scarcely breathe.”

Roxina couldn’t prevent the half-smile.

Most people underestimated Georgine’s feistiness and intrepidness. Possessing excellent manners and a firm grasp of etiquette, unlike Roxina and Aubriella, Georgine rarely kicked up a dust or made a cake of it.

That did not mean she did not have strong opinions.

Roxina knew Matilda Fitzlloyd—Mittie to her friends. Matilda might make an excellent addition to the Ladies of Opportunity . “We can discuss Matilda’s potential membership when the others arrive. I believe Claire also wants to recommend someone.”

The four original members met at Blenstock & Handcastle Academy for Young Ladies—a finishing school catering to those of respectable but non-aristocratic birth—where they forged a lasting friendship.

Keeping their organization surreptitious while discreetly recruiting new members required careful strategy. Even so, the current members had decided during their last meeting that the time had come to expand the group’s membership.

“You look very fetching. Is that a new gown?” Not waiting for Roxina’s answer, Georgine threw her arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. The letter crinkled in protest, and as she drew away, Georgine cast the smudged rectangle a speculative glance. “Another one?”

Pursing her mouth, Roxina nodded as she stepped aside to let Georgine enter the cottage.

“Anonymous, I presume?” Georgine motioned toward the missive as she swept past Roxina.

Roxina nodded again, “Unless there is a signature inside, which I highly doubt.”

There had not been so far.

After closing the door, she swiftly cracked the red wax seal.

Just as she suspected.

Several crisp notes lay wrapped in a plain piece of foolscap and not a hint whence it came.

“I think Aubriella has been up to mischief again.” She glanced upward and met Georgine’s puzzled gaze.

Georgine shook her head, her dark hair bouncing with her vehemence as she pointed at the notes with her gloved finger.

“That is not from Aubriella, Roxina.”

If not Aubriella, then who?

“In fact, when we spoke a couple of days ago,” Georgine said, “she expressed deep concern regarding who is sending you funds. Neither of us believes it is your brother.”

“That thought never crossed my mind.” Mitchel would sooner see her starve than send her a shilling. His past behavior proved that.

Georgine pulled off her gloves. “It could be misinterpreted if the wrong people were to learn of it, Zina.”

Only Roxina’s dearest friends called her by her nickname.

Not entirely certain she appreciated being the object of their discussion, but understanding Aubriella and Georgine only did so because they cared, Roxina raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Living alone here and receiving regular funds rather does…” Obviously disconcerted, Georgine bit her lower lip before blurting, “…make you appear like a kept woman.”

Roxina stiffened.

A kept woman ?

Surely not!

The very suggestion sent a bolt of indignation through her. She had worked too hard and sacrificed too much to have her independence so callously misconstrued.

“That is utterly ridiculous,” she scoffed, folding her arms. “Anyone who knows me would never assume such a thing.”

Her expression tinged with sympathy, Georgine sighed.

“Unfortunately, it is not about what those who know you think, Zina—it is about those who do not. Gossip thrives on assumptions, and an unmarried lady of modest means receiving anonymous funds?” She lifted a delicate shoulder. “It is bound to raise suspicions.”

Roxina exhaled sharply. “Well, that is utterly absurd. Do you mean to tell me because I choose to live alone, any financial support I receive—however innocent—could be seen as scandalous?”

Mrs. Beale’s disapproving countenance flashed to the forefront of Roxina’s mind.

Yes, that old biddy’s sharp tongue could make a nun appear like a dockside harlot.

Would fresh-baked biscuits ease Mrs. Beale’s disapproval?

It was worth a try.

“You know how awful Society is.” Georgine gave Roxina a rueful look. “Sadly, appearances do matter, and rumors are swift to take root.”

Only too true.

“Well, as not a single adult male has called at this residence, a gossip would find it difficult to construe such a slanderous tale.” Roxina studied the foolscap, the blank sheet mocking her.

“I really do wish you would take me up on my offer and come live with my brother and me, Zina. We have the room, and I would love the company.” Georgine swept a glance around the entry. “Don’t you get lonely, dearest?”

Roxina would not lie. “At times, I do. But I have also enjoyed the solitude and the peace. You know I never had the latter while living with Mitchel in London.”

“You never much cared for town life.” Georgine gave her a knowing smile. “I have no choice where I live. My brother dictates that.” She screwed her features into a silly face. “However, if I did, I believe I might enjoy a country estate.”

Roxina gave a distracted nod.

Who kept sending her money?

What did they stand to gain by keeping their identity a secret?

More importantly, what did Roxina stand to lose?