Page 22 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

TWENTY TWO

Still in the garden

A few heartbeats later

Too late .

By the time Roxina understood her heart, the opportunity to love had slipped away, and the words would remain forever unspoken.

No anger or self-pity stirred within her.

How could either?

She had no right to expect anything from Shelby. He had done far more than he should have already, and he owed her nothing.

Nothing .

She would be grateful to him for the rest of her life, and that appreciation would have to be enough, though indebtedness made for a cold bedfellow.

But now, she had Dash to keep her warm on those lonely winter nights. Besides, until a little over a fortnight ago, she believed she would remain a spinster her entire life.

True, she might never share her love, but at least she had experienced it.

Though he was lost to her, prayers for Shelby’s safety rose with the morning sun.

May he be free of the moneylender’s reach.

May peace find him, even if it could never be with me.

Neither had Mitchel sent word, though that came as no surprise. When she lived in London, months often passed without news from her wayward brother.

A robin trilled from the lilac bush, its bright melody breaking the morning’s hush and interrupting her less-than-cheerful musings.

Roxina gave herself a firm mental shake.

Stop moping, Roxina Veronica Jillian Danforth.

The aroma of her freshly baked bread and gingerbread wafted out the open kitchen door.

Roxina tipped her face toward the sky.

She loved it here and didn’t miss London a jot.

The city had never suited her.

Here, among tidy lanes and cozy cottages, beneath this open sky, among these unpretentious people—this life called to her. This was where she wanted to live her life, content with the bucolic simplicity and enjoying her friendly and undemanding townspeople.

Hadn’t Shelby mentioned the same longing?

If stubbornness had not ruled Roxina’s heart, if judgment and condemnation had not clouded her mind, could they have built something together?

Sunlight filtered through the trellis, spilling gold across the herb beds. She ran her fingers over the tender green leaves, their scents rising warm in the air.

Perhaps.

Shelby’s eyes—framed by dark lashes—flashed in her thoughts. Followed by his wind tousled hair, the firm set of his jaw, and the somber intensity he always emitted.

The seconds ticked onward, becoming minutes, hours, days—and Shelby had not appeared.

Now Roxina could no longer pretend.

Only pray.

But did God care?

Her animosity toward Shelby had persisted too long. Only now, she understood it had never been about him, but about what he represented: her brother’s friend—his co-conspirator, his ally.

Mitchel, who despised Roxina from the moment she drew breath, never forgave her for robbing him of his only child status.

Surely, Mitchel had whispered his grievances into Shelby’s ear.

Hadn’t he?

What sort of man befriended Mitchel Danforth and emerged unscathed?

She had been wrong, however.

The truth was, it had been easier to see Shelby as an adversary. Easier than acknowledging he hadn’t inflicted the wounds. That the real betrayal belonged to Mitchel. That anger clouded her judgment, twisting the truth and keeping her from seeing the real Shelby.

A serious, kind, compassionate man with a rigid sense of honor.

Love and hate—cruel siblings, never far from each other—always taunting, harassing, and tormenting the other. Hadn’t she learned that hatred often masks love, disguising the heart’s deepest longing beneath a veil of defiance?

She had detested Shelby because she had loved him—her enemy and nemesis. And she had loved him because—heaven help her—she had never truly been able to hate him at all. The sharp words, the stony stares, the defiant silence—all armor and protection. A brittle shell against the longing she forbade herself to feel.

Now, she could not deny her feelings—did not want to deny them.

Roxina’s thoughts drifted to an alternate life—a quiet cottage on the outskirts of a modest village, where Shelby and she might have nurtured a small family. Warm afternoons spent in gentle conversation, children’s laughter mingling with the rustle of hedgerows, evenings illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

In that vision, every shared smile and whispered word spoke of contented simplicity, a life woven together by mutual care and understanding. How different could it have been if she had embraced that tender possibility rather than pushed it away with pride and defiance?

Had she built a wall of resentment that imprisoned her happiness?

She released a controlled breath through her nose.

Shelby would never come.

No more waiting, no more pretending.

It was time to move on.

She turned her focus away from the road as Dash released a rough rumble.

“Dash,” she murmured, not bothering to look up. “Hush. The hare only wants a snack.”

His body remained rigid.

Another growl followed, this time laced with warning.

A voice, hoarse and feeble, disrupted the garden’s tranquility.

“Hello, Roxina.”

Mitchel .

The air lodged in her throat, choking her.

Slowly, not wanting to believe her ears, she looked behind her.

Barely able to stand, Mitchel wavered in the garden’s entrance, swaying like a man who had spent too long at sea. Gaunt, pale, eyes sunken into hollow sockets, he more closely resembled a specter than a man.

The scent of fresh greenery curled in the morning air, but beneath it, another odor intruded—sour sweat, unwashed skin, and the pungent mustiness of illness and neglect.

A frantic rabbit darted across the garden path, its fluffy white tail bouncing before it vanished into the tangled undergrowth along the wall.

Nostrils twitching, Dash flicked his ears as his gaze remained locked on the intruder.

“ Mitchel ?”

Roxina dropped the trowel, dirt crumbling between her fingers. She tugged off her gloves as she rose, letting them fall to the damp earth beside her boots.

He teetered like a man balancing on the edge of collapse. His once-powerful frame had withered beneath hardship. His finely tailored coat now hung in loose disrepair—frayed edges, missing buttons, and a jagged tear along the sleeve.

A pinkish scar slashed across his cheek, no doubt acquired when he cheated the wrong man.

Once crisply starched and snow-white, but now tattered and stained with sweat and grime, his cravat hung in a loose, wilted knot.

But his eyes—those deep brown eyes that had once burned with self-centered arrogance—held nothing of their former insolence. Shadows pooled in their depths, regret carving hollows into the sharp planes of his face.

A poorly kept mustache quivered atop his upper lip.

“Why are you here?” she asked between stiff lips, unable to summon an ounce of sisterly love or compassion.

He fashioned a frail smile and gave a pitiful shrug.

“Nowhere else to go,” he said, his mouth barely moving.

Outrage climbed Roxina’s spine, searing through her like a brand.

“No place else ?” The words struck cold, sharp, and incredulous. “And so you come here ? To my friend’s home, expecting what—kindness? Mercy? You, who abandoned me? You, who left me with nothing, who never once lifted a finger to help?”

She clenched her hands into tight fists.

“If it hadn’t been for Shelby Tellinger, I would have been thrown into the streets. And what you did to him… My God! It was bad enough the moneylenders forced him to put our home up for collateral and hounded him for the money you borrowed, but you cheated the leader of a gang of highwaymen at cards, and they abducted Shelby and me. Your selfishness and disregard for everyone else nearly cost us our lives.”

Roxina braced herself for his practiced excuses—the deflections, the shifting of blame, the attempts to make her feel guilty. How many times had he twisted words, making himself the victim?

But to her astonishment, he did none of those things.

“I’m sorry.”

He seemed so contrite. She almost believed him.

But experience taught her better.

Mitchel ducked his head, his shoulders folding inward as though trying to make himself smaller. His whisper, so faint, so full of self-loathing and castigation, barely carried to her across the few feet.

“I’ll go.” The words scraped from his throat like something broken beyond repair. “You’re absolutely correct. I have no right to ask anything of you, Roxina. Forgive me for disturbing you. I wish you well.”

Turning, he took an unsteady step away, and Roxina swallowed a gasp as he nearly toppled over.

His back to her, he spoke again, his voice raw and fractured. “I hope, someday, you can forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself for the god-awful, horrific way I treated you.”

Something inside her splintered, and the bastions of resentment, anger, and self-preservation crumbled.

He didn’t plead for help, nor make empty promises. Just an honest admission of his unkindness—something she had longed to hear but never expected.

He stumbled again, throwing his hand out to steady himself against the trellis.

In an instant, Roxina decided.

She refused to be as cruel as he had been.

Before hesitation or regret could take root, Roxina stepped forward, looping an arm around his frail frame. The stench of negligence clung to her brother, turning her stomach, but she held firm.

Heat radiated through his threadbare clothing, and dark smudges bruised the skin beneath his eyes.

Surprise tempered with hope sparked in his weary eyes.

“Come inside, Mitchel.”

He gave a weary nod, the effort almost too much for him, for he swayed again.

“When did you last eat?” Guiding him toward the cottage, she held her breath. “Or bathe?”

“I don’t remember.”

Dash padded beside them, his steps slow, deliberate. He sniffed the air, tail flicking in agitation, ears twitching as if listening for something unseen.

Helping Mitchel inside took substantial effort.

Each step drained him, and by the time they reached the top stair, he could scarcely raise his foot.

He collapsed onto the spare bed, sinking into the thin mattress, his limbs slack with fatigue. He didn’t stir as she stripped away his ragged, filth-streaked clothing. The deep, unyielding slumber of utter exhaustion claimed him before she had finished the unpleasant task.

She had hoped to feed him and wash away the worst of the grime before his stench seeped into the sheets, but it was too late for that now. There would be time enough for both when he woke.

Roxina curled her fingers into the filthy fabric of his coat, her gaze fixed on the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Each harsh breath escaped with a faint, troubling rattle.

How many years had she waited for Mitchel to acknowledge what he had done?

Now, faced with him, broken and destitute, she hardly knew what to do with the moment or her emotions.

Was this justice?

Or something more bitter?

She must inform Shelby that Mitchel had emerged from whatever wretched hole he had buried himself in.

He had a right to know.

She would send a letter to Fernleigh House and trust Robyn Fitzlloyd to forward it without delay. She must also send for a physician.

Mrs. Beale might know of a reputable and trustworthy doctor.

A knock rattled the cottage door.

Roxina stiffened.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Dash let out a low, uneasy whine, his tail dropping, not in warning, but in reaction to her unease.

Then another knock echoed—louder. Insistent.