Page 20 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

TWENTY

Still in Fernleigh House gardens

Several excruciatingly long minutes later

The brief journey to Fernleigh House dragged, each second stretching unbearably with each carriage jolt. Absorbed in his tumultuous thoughts, Shelby stared blindly out the dusty window.

Per Honeybrook’s direction, the coachman had abandoned the main roads, instead weaving through winding lesser-used lanes where hedgerows loomed on either side, tangled with vines and wildflowers.

The scent of sun-warmed grass and spring greenery filled the air, mingling with the occasional sharp hint of distant wood smoke. Overhead, the afternoon sun blazed in a cloudless sky, its unrelenting light highlighting every rut and dip in the uneven road.

Burdened with unspoken dread, silence pressed against him, Robyn, and Quentin in the silent coach. The wheels’ rhythmic rattling and the occasional creak of leather carried through the space, punctuating the oppressive strain.

“I suggest we disembark the carriage and stealthily approach the house.” Honeybrook leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, his expression set hard as stone. Without his cravat and hat, the severe lines of his face appeared even sharper. Rigid control marked his every movement, but Shelby knew him well, and rage simmered beneath Quentin’s measured facade, ready to ignite at the slightest provocation.

Shelby studied Robyn.

His cousin had remained silent for too long. Motionless, his hands resting on his knees, he kept his focus locked on the passing landscape. The muscles flexing in his jaw betrayed the tempest roiling inside him.

“Matilda and Roxina are clever,” Shelby reassured.

Were the words for Robyn or himself?

“We don’t know that Desmond planned to catch them alone, Robyn.”

Robyn released a controlled breath, his shoulders rising slightly before settling again. “I promised my parents I would protect and care for Mittie.”

His murmured words carried the full force of that vow.

Meeting his tortured gaze, Shelby gave a sharp nod.

He had never spoken such an oath aloud, but the same certainty rested deep in his chest about Roxina. He would do everything in his power to keep her safe.

Honeybrook thumped the carriage roof.

“Stop here.” The command rang with authority.

The driver obeyed, and the coach lurched to a halt.

Outside, the breeze stirred the tall grass lining the road, carrying the sharpness of crushed grass and the faint sweetness of hawthorn blossoms. Sunlight stretched long across the landscape, warm and golden, utterly indifferent to the danger ahead.

Robyn ran a hand through his tousled hair.

“The women aren’t alone.” Robyn appeared more composed. “I have five able-bodied male employees at the house.”

He hesitated, then released another strained breath.

“There are several firearms inside too.” He grimaced. “But I doubt any of the servants know how to use one properly.”

Shelby adjusted his pistol, its solid presence familiar at his waist. The knife in his boot pressed against his ankle, another trusted friend in uncertain moments.

“We’ll assume Desmond is on the grounds and proceed with caution until we know otherwise. I’ll enter through the garden. Robyn, you go in through the kitchen entrance. Honeybrook, take the servants’ door.”

Robyn dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

Expression grim, Honeybrook twisted his lips into a cynical half-smile. “Let’s hope Desmond is arrogant enough to believe he has triumphed and believes we are no longer a threat.”

“I, for one, cannot wait to set the blackguard straight in that respect.” Shelby checked his pistol again.

Murderers, many times over, Desmond and his men wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“Stay sharp.” He wrapped his hand tighter around the gun’s grip. “We act now.”

With a smart salute and firm nod, Honeybrook and Robyn disembarked and soon disappeared into the hedgerows, their figures swallowed by shifting greenery.

Shelby stepped from the carriage, inhaling deeply, grounding himself.

Stately and serene, Fernleigh House stood ahead, but did an unseen peril lurk within its grounds?

He steadied his breath and prepared to move toward the garden entrance, his footfalls soft against the grass.

Today, this would end.

If Desmond did indeed skulk about inside Fernleigh House grounds, how many henchmen had he brought with him?

Or—Shelby’s stomach plummeted to his dusty boots.

Had Desmond come and gone already, abducting Roxina again?

The thought cleaved Shelby.

He forced himself to breathe, to focus.

Daring to peek over the wall, he surveyed the garden.

No overturned furniture or broken statuary littered the manicured grounds. The air carried no scent of gunpowder. Everything appeared undisturbed. But appearances meant nothing. Danger could hide behind a silk-draped window as easily as in a darkened alley.

Desmond had set an ambush for him at The Angel Inn.

Surely, the arrogant man believed his ruse had succeeded.

Desmond’s haughtiness worked to Shelby’s advantage.

If Desmond believed him dead, then he would not expect an attack.

Good .

Pressing into the nearest shadow, Shelby scanned the mews.

All looked as it should.

No lumbering ruffians loitered about with battered faces and corrupt souls. No unfamiliar figures moved in the dimming afternoon light—only a stable boy hauling a bucket of water and a few chickens pecking at the dirt. The scent of clipped hedges and sun-warmed soil lingered in the air, mingling with something faintly floral—honeysuckle, perhaps, winding along an unseen trellis.

Keeping his back to the cool brick, Shelby stole toward the garden gate.

It stood open.

Alarm sluiced over him, turning his blood cold.

A feminine voice filtered out through the opening toward him.

Then another.

Familiar, but not Roxina or Matilda.

“You are intruding,” the first said, her tone sharp as honed steel. “Leave. Now.”

“You have no business here,” the second cut in, each clipped syllable laced with unwavering courage and authority. “You are not welcome.”

“I regret our second meeting is as unfortunate as the first, Miss Danforth,” Desmond said.

Bloody, bloody hell .

Desmond’s smug, oily purr slithered through the air, curling around Shelby like a hangman’s noose.

He bristled, fury and fear beating dual staccatos in his ears.

“Since I was unconscious the first time, this hardly counts as a second meeting,” Roxina snapped.

Shelby nearly smiled.

Her defiance never wavered.

“You are trespassing, sir.” Matilda’s voice rang out next, less sure but admirably steady. “I must ask you to leave at once before I send for the constable.”

Desmond chuckled, a slow, rasping sound that dripped with self-satisfaction.

That must have been how the serpent in the Garden of Eden sounded—confident, assured, vile, and cunning—every word laced with malicious intent.

“Never fear. I shall leave in short order.” His amusement vanished, his tone turning deadlier. “But not without Miss Danforth.”

Shelby edged closer, agitation winding through him like a drawn bowstring.

A single misstep could unravel everything.

His pulse thrummed through his veins, steady but charged.

He held little doubt that Desmond’s men waited nearby for their orders. Neither had he any doubt that lives lay in the balance.

In the stables, a horse whinnied and pawed the ground.

A wagon rumbled down the street, its driver singing a bawdy tune.

The familiar sounds ought to have been reassuring, yet they only heightened the threat, emphasizing how perilously this moment teetered between civility and bloodshed.

A gust of wind stirred the branches overhead, rustling the young spring leaves. The rhythmic creak of a horse-shaped weathervane turning lazily atop Fernleigh House added another layer of unease, each metallic groan echoing in the unnatural stillness.

“As there are five of us and only three of you, how do you propose to take Roxina?”

Was that Aubriella Matherfield?

Shelby hadn’t expected her presence.

Relief surged, but unease followed swiftly. Clever as she was, she and the others faced the same danger as Roxina.

At least Shelby knew how many men accompanied Desmond.

Desmond let out another slow evil chuckle, as if savoring the question.

“Ah, yes, well, as to that.” His voice dripped with smug amusement. “We are armed, and I seriously doubt you ladies have a pistol or a knife hidden in your skirts.”

A pregnant pause followed.

“Yes, but we can scream and cause a ruckus. People will come running.”

Georgine Thackerly too?

Shelby nearly smirked at her boldness, but this was no time for mirth.

“There are menservants in the house and the stables,” Matilda added, her tone flat and matter-of-fact.

Desmond sighed, the exaggerated exhalation betraying his growing impatience.

“I’ll shoot the first woman who screams.” He spoke smoothly but with murderous intent.

The women’s simultaneous gasp sent a dove to flight.

Shelby didn’t need to see to know Desmond had lifted his weapon and likely aimed it at Roxina or one of the other women.

“But I still intend to take Miss Danforth, with or without your cooperation.” Desmond spoke with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way—the leader of a feral gang of highwaymen who cared for no one and nothing beyond himself.

Roxina’s voice rang out, clear and sure. “If I come willingly, will you leave my friends unharmed?”

No, Roxina.

Shelby should have expected her bravado, but dread roared through him all the same. Of course, she would offer herself to spare the others.

Stubborn, reckless, infuriating, endearing, incomparable woman .

“ Hmm, ” Desmond hummed as if considering. “Tempting, my dear, but I find it amusing how you assume your surrender holds any sway over my actions.”

Footfalls soundless against the lush grass, Shelby crept closer—every muscle coiled, every sense tuned to the menacing energy crackling in the air. Moisture broke out across his forehead, and a bead of sweat trailed down his temple, but his grip on his pistol never faltered.

The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of gun oil and fetid unwashed bodies—Desmond’s men were close.

Shelby adjusted his stance, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation.

He stepped into the gate opening. “There’s no need for you to sacrifice yourself, Roxina.”

“ Shelby .”

Roxina’s whisper carried through the garden, edged with relief and dread.

Desmond’s entire frame went rigid.

So, Shelby had surprised the craven cur.

That brought a great sense of satisfaction, but gloating would have to wait.

“I wouldn’t move, not even to breathe.” A pistol pointed at the miscreants, Robyn approached, his visage fiercer than Shelby had ever recalled. His usual affable demeanor had vanished, replaced by an iron-hard expression that would make lesser men tremble.

Robyn’s stony gaze softened as it swept over his sister and then the other women, lingering a moment on Georgine before his features hardened once more into unyielding lines.

He casually waved his pistol barrel between the intruders. “I’ll thank you to stop pointing your weapons at the women.”

“You have but a single shot,” Desmond sneered, curling his lips into a feral snarl as he shifted his grip on his pistol. “You cannot shoot all three of us.”

“Ah, but there are three of us, as well.”

Desmond jerked his head toward Honeybrook, who emerged from behind a Portuguese laurel bush, his weapon leveled and expression murderous.

“And I’ll wager this commotion has servants and townspeople descending upon the gardens within seconds. This is a battle you shall not win.” Honeybrook’s too-smooth tenor sent a chill up Shelby’s spine.

“Oh, thank God.” Claire Granlund pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes unnaturally bright. “We are saved.”

Shelby wasn’t ready to thank the Lord just yet.

Desmond and his hirelings still wielded their pistols, and desperate men made reckless decisions.

His gaze locked with Roxina’s over Desmond’s shoulder, and what glimmered in her dark brown pools gave him hope—made his soul soar.

Honeybrook spoke, his tone arctic and firm. “Ladies, move away, toward the house. Slowly.”

“The first one that takes a step gets a lead ball.” The taller of Desmond’s henchmen spat on the ground, tightening his fingers on his pistol’s grip.

Turning toward him, Desmond snarled, “Hold your tongue, Carver. I give the orders.”

A heartbeat later, and without hesitation, Desmond raised his pistol and aimed it directly at Roxina’s head.

No!

Shelby barely had time to react before chaos erupted.

A blur of enraged fur hurtled through the air—Dash.

In the scuffle, Desmond’s weapon discharged, shattering the garden’s tranquility.

The women screamed.

Men cursed.

Someone shouted on the street, followed by a man’s hoarse bellow in the mews. Several feminine shrieks carried into the garden.

Desmond dropped his now useless pistol, but another volley cracked the air, followed immediately by a third blast.

The scar-faced hireling at Desmond’s side jerked as a lead ball struck his forehead. His pistol tumbled from his grasp, clattering to the ground just before he crumpled lifelessly beside it, his vacant eyes fixed on the blue spring sky.

A crack shot, Robyn never missed his target.

A howl of outrage tore from Desmond’s throat as Dash lunged, the dog’s powerful jaws clamping onto his forearm. Stumbling, he fought to shake the beast off, his shrieks wild with fury.

He kicked and twisted, struggling to stay upright.

“Damn your black souls to the abyss!” he growled, sounding as if the devil possessed him. “You wretched, treacherous curs—I’ll flay the flesh from your bones and feed it to the crows! Filthy, meddling swine! I’ll see you rot in hell before I let you best me! By Lucifer’s own hand, I’ll carve out your hearts and piss on your graves!”

He yanked a gleaming blade from his belt.

“Dash!” Roxina cried.

Shelby held his hand up in warning. “Stay back, Roxina.”

She bolted forward, nevertheless.

Shelby lunged, trying to grab her.

An evil grin splitting his face, Desmond did the same.

Oh, God .

Honeybrook fired his pistol.

Desmond jerked backward, a lead ball embedded in his forehead. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, the blade slipping from his hand as blood pooled beneath him.

Dash pranced away, panting but seemingly unharmed.

Only one ruffian remained.

After a hasty glance at his dead compatriots, the poltroon whipped around and sprinted toward the gate, intent on escaping.

Hell would freeze first after what that craven rotter put Roxina through.

Shelby stepped into his path.

Nostrils flaring, the man skidded to a halt. Desperation twisted his face as he swung his pistol up, aiming squarely at Shelby’s chest.

“No!” Roxina’s scream pierced the air.

Without a second thought, she flung herself in front of Shelby.

His pulse tunneled hotly through his veins.

She placed herself in deadly peril to protect him.

Dash struck again, locking his powerful jaws onto the man’s arm. The villain shrieked and thrashed violently as he struggled to pry the furious dog off.

His pistol clanked onto the flagstone.

Robyn and Honeybrook pounced, dragging him to the ground. They struggled briefly—a furious flurry of fists and curses before the blighter lay pinned beneath their combined strength and weight.

Then, as if the world had suddenly awakened, the house erupted into movement.

Servants poured outside, armed with whatever they could find—the butler and footmen with pistols, a maid gripping a brass candlestick like a cudgel, the cook brandishing a rolling pin like a cudgel, and another maid wielding a fireplace poker.

The stable boy appeared next, slipping through the chaos with a pitchfork clutched in white-knuckled hands, while the groomsman wielded a shovel as if prepared to bury the bodies himself.

More yells echoed beyond the garden wall, and booted footsteps pounded against the cobblestones.

Several men stormed into the garden.

Swiftly assessing the situation, three assisted Robyn and Honeybrook in restraining the single living highwayman.

Chest heaving, Robyn rose and brushed at the dirt and grass smudging his buff-colored pantaloons while Honeybrook swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead.

“I’ll fetch the constable,” one newcomer said before trotting away.

Shelby sucked in a ragged breath.

It was over—well, at least Desmond no longer threatened Roxina.

Mitchel Danforth’s whereabouts had yet to be determined, however.

Another onlooker took in the grizzly scene and then whistled. “What a row, aye?”

Desmond lay sprawled in the dirt, lifeless, crimson blood seeping into the soil. His reign of terror had ended with a single shot.

His focus riveted on Roxina, Shelby took no time to celebrate the victory.

Trembling and her chest rapidly rising and falling, she stood frozen, wide-eyed and lips parted. She appeared dazed, her expression bewildered.

She lifted her arms as if to embrace him—then seemed to think better of it and dropped her hands to her sides.

“Roxina?” Shelby extended his arms, waiting… hoping.

Praying.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she was ready to admit she felt something for him other than disdain and contempt.

Her breath hitched, and her pert chin quivered.

Then, her composure shattered.

A choked sob broke free, raw and unrestrained.

Dash hurried to her side and whined.

That brave dog saved lives today.

Turning away, Roxina pressed her hands over her face before fleeing into the house, ever faithful Dash darting behind her.

Roxina’s reaction stalled the breath in Shelby’s lungs.

Yes, she had survived this horrific ordeal, but he would vow, something had awoken and unfurled within her—something far more compelling than dislike or fear.

And Shelby intended to find out exactly what that was. He stepped forward to follow her but stopped short when Matilda gasped, “ Georgine ?”

As one, the other women and Shelby glanced toward Georgine, white as a chalk and swaying as she clutched her shoulder, scarlet trickling from between her fingers, staining the pink silk of her gown.

“Oh, my God.” Aubriella gasped, throwing an arm around Georgine’s waist. “You’ve been shot, Georgie.”

“I don’t feel any pain.” Confused, Georgine shook her head. Forehead puckered, she glanced downward. “So why am I bleeding?”

“She’s in shock,” Claire said, fishing a handkerchief from her reticule and pressing it on the oozing wound.

“Someone go for the physician,” Robyn ordered as he rushed forward.

When everyone remained statue-still in shock, he snapped, “Now!”

“Aye.” Looking as if he might be ill, the stable boy gave a wobbly nod before racing off.

“Someone should send word to her sister,” Claire suggested.

“Regina is indisposed,” Georgine managed, her voice a frail thread. “She sprained her ankle yesterday and cannot bear weight for at least a week.”

“She should be notified, nonetheless. Assure her we shall take every care with Miss Thackerly.” Robyn scooped Georgine into his arms, searing each servant with a severe look. “Look lively now. Into the house. We need rags and boiled water. And whatever else the doctor requires.”

“Yes, sir.” They scurried to do his bidding.

“Robyn Fitzlloyd! Put me down this instant,” Georgine demanded rather weakly. “’Tis most unseemly. What will people say?”

“Madam, if I put you down, you will collapse.” He began marching toward the house before she answered. “Besides, I’d sooner care for a flea’s hiccup than loose-lipped chinwags’ tattle.”

“Bossy brute,” Georgine retorted before her eyelids fluttered closed, and she sagged against his chest.

Shelby caught Robyn’s eye.

More than casual concern glimmered in his cousin’s irises.

“Matilda, which chamber?” Robyn asked, glancing over his shoulder as he continued toward the house at a brisk pace.

Matilda flew to his side, worry marring her forehead as she laid a comforting hand on Georgine’s uninjured arm. “The rose bedchamber, I think. It has the most natural light for the physician.”

Over two hours later, after the constable had come, acquired statements from everyone, and removed the two dead men, as well as their hostile accomplice, Shelby gave a weary sigh. He and Honeybrook were the last to trudge toward the house.

Robyn hadn’t appeared again after carrying Miss Thackerly into Fernleigh House.

That didn’t surprise Shelby.

He had long suspected Robyn harbored a tendre for her.

A reluctant smile tried to form.

First, Jack Matherfield, then Shelby, and now Robyn—all victims of unrequited love. He slid Honeybrook a speculative sideways glance.

Was he also secretly smitten, despite his gruff demeanor?

Immediately upon entering the house, Shelby waylaid a footman carrying a stack of clean linens. “Where is Miss Danforth?”

“She left an hour ago, Mr. Tellinger.”