Page 3 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

THREE

The Falcon’s Talon Coaching Inn and Pub

Shooters Hill, England

2 May 1819—Just after midnight

Sometimes, the hunted had no choice but to become the hunter.

Shelby Tellinger pulled the ratty, low-crowned felt cap lower onto his forehead as he hunched into the too-big sailor’s frock coat. The baggy jacket hid the boxlock pistol tucked into his waistband. He shifted slightly, the weight of his wicked boot knife—small enough to go unnoticed but sharp enough to finish what a pistol could not—a silent comfort.

A pistol at your side, a knife in your boot, and a quick wit in your head .

One of the many rules he followed as a thief-taker—a citizen who captured criminals for a reward.

Seated at a corner table facing the Falcon’s Talon’s common room, Shelby lifted the pint of warm, sludgy ale to his mouth.

God, how did the regulars drink this swill?

Thick smoke permeated the pub’s musty air along with the fetid aromas of stale alcohol, vomit, boiled cabbage, and sweaty, unwashed bodies. A malodorous drunk staggered past, crudely scratching his likely louse-infested groin on his return to his table from relieving himself outside.

Shelby couldn’t prevent the involuntary flaring of his nostrils at the fellow’s overwhelming stench.

Rancid tallow candles flickered overhead in the dusty, wrought-iron, cobweb-strewn chandeliers and the sagging sconces behind the scuffed and scarred bar. Even the brick building emitted a rank, earthy smell, a peculiar, fusty odor—a combination of mildew, mold, spoiled food, vermin waste, sour yeast, and years of spilled ale soaking into the warped floorboards.

To hide his face further while still allowing him to observe the motley patrons, Shelby adjusted the angle of his hat’s brim once more.

He could not risk being recognized.

His life depended on anonymity.

In his haste to flee London without detection last December, he had acquired his outerwear from a dubious secondhand shop in an unsavory section of Whitechapel. The origin of the garments, as well as their cleanliness, proved equally questionable.

With an unscrupulous moneylender’s ruthless henchmen on his heels and determined to recover the thousand pounds Shelby didn’t have—by any means necessary—Shelby had darted into the first open shop he came upon that frigid December afternoon.

Still, beggars could not be choosers.

That truth struck home with a sharp sting.

Circumstances had reduced him to little better than a mudlark.

A roar of laughter from the other side of the room snapped his attention back to the present. The boisterous sound emanated from sailors clustered around a table sticky with spilled ale. Their dented tin tankards clanked together in a toast before one of them—a brawny brute with the flattened nose of a habitual brawler—hauled a reluctant serving wench onto his lap.

She squealed in outrage, slapping at his groping hands, though the tolerant half-smile on her lips suggested she knew how to navigate such rough handling.

A sharp clang rang out behind the bar as the barkeep slammed a tankard onto the counter. “Mind yourself, Gibbons, or I’ll have you tossed into the gutter where you belong.”

The brawler laughed, loosening his hold on the wench.

She slipped off his lap and smoothed her rumpled skirts before shooting the barkeep a grateful look.

A pub this rough still had rules—rules enforced by the broad-shouldered, craggy-faced proprietor now wiping out a tankard with a cloth as filthy as his apron.

Giving his tankard a dubious glance, Shelby refused to consider how unsanitary the mug he sipped from might be.

He returned his focus to the doorway.

No sign of immediate danger.

No faces he recognized.

And yet… the unease curling in his gut did not subside.

Thus had been his life for these past months.

Nevertheless, a cautious man lived longer.

With practiced ease, he slid his hand beneath the coat, brushing his fingertips along the pistol’s smooth wooden grip.

A reminder.

A promise.

Should his enemies find him, Shelby would not be taken without a fight.

His musings drifted to Roxina Danforth again, as they did more often than he cared to admit.

Last December, he and Jackson Matherfield had rescued Roxina and Aubriella Penford—now Aubriella Matherfield—after a snowstorm stranded them at an inn just days before Christmastide. Shelby had taken Roxina to London to pack her belongings. Unbeknownst to her, he owned the mortgage on her house and had no choice but to use her home as collateral for a debt he didn’t owe.

Six years earlier, her scheming brother had mortgaged the property to the attic, defaulted on the payments, and nearly left her homeless. To protect her, Shelby had secretly purchased the loan. But now, he couldn’t raise enough cash to stall the collection of the debt Mitchel had racked up in his name. His life depended on keeping the ruthless moneylender, Merciless Morgan, at bay—at least for now.

Morgan was not a man one wanted as an enemy, especially when he had revenge in mind.

A year ago, Shelby saw an opportunity to invest in what he hoped would be a lucrative maritime trade venture to the West Indies. He sold his modest house and invested every penny, gambling on Neptune’s Providence return, which would arrive in England loaded with sugar, spices, tobacco, and other coveted goods.

If the wager paid off, he would be debt-free for good—and hopefully, never have pockets to let again. Until then, he lived in a humble lodging house, a fact he kept from even his closest friends.

Assuredly, Roxina would never learn that snippet.

Not that she would care a whit.

She despised Shelby with every fiber of her being, believing him every bit the scapegrace her cankerous cur of a brother had become. Letting her think the worst of him served Shelby’s purpose, but that decision had brought its share of consequences.

A rueful grin pulled his mouth up on one side.

He had loved Roxina with a burning intensity that staggered him almost since first meeting her. That same force drew him back to her, no matter how hard he fought it. A few times these past months, he had ventured to Blackheath, hoping to glimpse her at the cottage, the market, or strolling through the village.

More than once, fortune had smiled on him, though the instant he suspected Roxina noticed him, he slipped away.

Bloody fool! Muttonhead.

If brains were guineas, I would be a pauper.

Another wry grin teased the corners of his mouth.

At present, a pauper might have him at a disadvantage.

What the hell plagued him?

Only an imbecile surrendered his heart to a woman who would gladly stomp the organ flat with her boot heel if given the chance. His heart belonged to Roxina, though she would never claim it—unrequited love, a debt never acknowledged yet forever owed.

Naturally, he kept his feelings to himself.

Roxina saw him as Mitchel’s dearest friend and, therefore, her greatest nemesis. Besides, she prided herself on her intrepidness. She had no use for a man in her life—or so she had proclaimed many times in his presence, usually while leveling him with a murderous scowl meant to emasculate.

She valued her independence above all else.

No one had ever called Roxina Danforth biddable.

Meek. Obliging. Malleable .

No, indeed.

Wasn’t that partially why Shelby adored her?

Her feistiness. Dauntlessness. Resilience?

Aye.

He took another sip of the thick, barely palatable ale, fighting the wince of distaste scraping its way up his throat.

If the Devil brewed ale in his piss pot, this was what it would taste like.

Revolting .

This stuff had been stored improperly.

Nevertheless, bad ale remained the least of his worries.

Pulling the collar of his woolen sailor’s jacket higher, Shelby surveyed the crowded room.

These chaps did not represent England’s finest, but dressed in tattered sailor garb and sporting an unkempt beard, he blended right in with the scruffy patrons. Thus far, the disguise had served him well, and assuming the role of a down-on-his-luck sailor helped him to blend in with London’s and the surrounding areas’ disreputable underworlds.

The sordid environments where vermin like Mitchel Danforth thrived.

Yet, strangely, Mitchel hadn’t surfaced in any of his usual haunts.

No one had seen him in weeks.

Not that Shelby gave a damn about the bugger.

Still, Roxina’s brother remained a problem.

Mitchel possessed too much cunning, too sharp of a survival instinct to just vanish. A maggot-hearted scoundrel like him always schemed, always spotted the easiest pocket to pick, the nearest fool to fleece . If he hadn’t surfaced, he was either hiding and living off stolen coin, or one of his countless enemies had finally found him .

And if the latter…?

If Mitchel had died, that left Roxina utterly alone—not that her brother had ever cared. He’d resented her since birth, begrudged her very existence. Shelby doubted the bastard had ever spared her a groat’s worth of concern.

Regardless, she would never come to Shelby for help.

Never.

Despite every hard truth Shelby had forced himself to accept about Roxina, the thought of her abandoned and vulnerable disturbed him. But if Mitchel had truly disappeared—whether by flight or by force—she would need protection.

Even if she never knew, he would ensure she had it.

She shall always have me to care for her.

If I can remain alive, that is.

After Shelby discovered that Mitchel neglected Roxina, failing to provide even the barest essentials, he stepped in to care for her. He had done so ever since—over six years now—taking every precaution to remain anonymous.

She must never suspect he was her benefactor.

He had no doubt Roxina would refuse any aid he gave.

She despised him with every ounce of her being.

His heart clenched, a sharp pang spearing through him at that reluctant admission.

Scratching his chin, he sighed.

None of that mattered, though.

He had sworn to care for her as long as he could.

With Mitchel absent—the bloody silver-tongued jackanapes—and no longer able to abscond with the monthly allowance Shelby sent, he prayed Roxina might finally live in peace and comfort. Whenever possible, he sent her more, but thief-taking provided his only source of income now.

A temporary fix.

A desperate means to an end.

Until his ship literally came in loaded with sugar, coffee, tobacco, and spices.

Or…

Nay.

Shelby could not—would not—allow himself to consider the alternative.

Once he paid off the accursed debt Mitchel had shackled to his name, Shelby would be free.

Free to rebuild his life.

Free to walk the streets without the constant sensation of eyes boring into his back.

Free to stop sleeping with a pistol beneath his pillow and one eye open.

What then?

Honestly, he didn’t know, but he did know his first order of business.

Ridding himself of this damned beard and burning every stitch of this wretched clothing he had worn these past months. A warm bath—no, a week of warm baths—sounded like heaven. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would find a cottage somewhere along the coast where he could breathe air free of the stench of desperation and deceit.

And Roxina?

He would gift her a sum large enough to keep her in comfort all her days.

Shelby swallowed against the lump rising in his throat.

Once she no longer required his support, he would disappear from her life entirely.

Even if it killed him.

How could he never see the woman he loved again?

You could try to win her heart .

A bitter chuckle escaped him, earning him a wary glance from a passing barmaid.

A candle during a hurricane stood a better chance of success.

So far, he had deuced little luck finding any trace of Mitchel.

However, Shelby’s luck might be turning.

Last night’s secretive meeting with Robyn Fitzlloyd—Shelby’s maternal cousin—Jack Matherfield, and Quentin Honeybrook proved most informative. As always, Robyn had pressed Shelby to come to stay with him—as had the other men at various times.

Shelby refused.

Doing so might endanger them and their families. Robyn lived with his sister, Matilda, and Quentin lived with his brother, stepsister, and ward.

On Shelby’s behalf, the three men continued making covert inquiries regarding Danforth.

Robyn claimed a card-sharp named Rufus Desmond had lost a hefty sum in Greenwich just a week ago—to a man who matched Mitchel’s description. The fellow had sported a mustache and a healing scar on his cheek, but the resemblance suggested Mitchel lingered nearby, skulking like the craven, two-faced cur he was.

Convinced he’d been cheated, Desmond seethed with rage and swore revenge.

Desmond was probably right—Mitchel had cheated before and often. If the scoundrel had a single redeeming quality, Shelby had yet to see it.

As he took another sip of the sour, slightly acrid brew, he swept his gaze over the taproom occupants, lingering for a half-second on the swarthy, well-dressed man playing cards at a table on the room’s far side, near a dusty staircase, which no doubt led to chambers where the bit o’ muslins shared their favors for a few coins.

Rufus Desmond—the man Mitchel or his lookalike had cheated.

And… a man who just happened to have a one-hundred-pound bounty on his head for being the ringleader of a group of notorious highwaymen called the Bloodoak Brotherhood. Puffing on the cigar clenched between his teeth, the middling-aged gambler fondled a busty barmaid perched on his lap as she whispered in his ear.

As if sensing someone observed him, Desmond raised his dark eyes and leisurely perused the pub, sweeping his hooded gaze past Shelby and the other sloshed patrons as if they were as insignificant as a fly on a window or a log in the fireplace.

Shelby swiped his forearm across his bearded mouth in keeping with his disguise as a scruffy sea dog. Scraping a hand across his jaw and down the beard he had let grow for the past four months, he grimaced.

God, how he hated this bloody beard.

His face itched, and the wiry hairs constantly caught crumbs.

The black patch covering his right eye annoyed him far more.

Nevertheless, both concealed his identity.

A tavern wench a decade past her prime sidled near him, bending over to display her bountiful, sagging bosoms while smiling a siren’s practiced invitation.

Her faded bodice, once vibrant red but dulled by years of wear, strained against her ample curves, the laces loosened just enough to entice. A low-cut chemise peeked from beneath, its edges yellowed with age. Her skirts, a patched and uneven mix of coarse wool and linsey-woolsey, swayed as she moved, revealing scuffed leather shoes.

Despite his resolve not to react to her body odor, Shelby’s nose twitched.

Ale, sweat, and cheap perfume clung to her like a second skin. If she had bathed in the last fortnight, he would dance a jig on the table.

“Lookin’ for a little entertainment t’night?” she purred seductively. Well, as seductively as she could with several missing teeth. A weeping chancre swelled her upper lip— probably infected with the pox .

He hid a grimace.

Summoning a drunken, lecherous grin in keeping with his assumed identity, Shelby tilted his head. “Aye, me darlin’, if yer offerin’ a bit o’ bedsport for free…?”

Which, of course, she was not.

But what better way to get rid of her?

Scowling, she straightened and planted her rough, reddened hands on her wide hips. She took his measure, raking her narrowed dirty-water brown eyes over his scruffy attire, eyepatch, and scraggly beard, and clearly found him wanting. “I ain’t given me favors away fer the likes of ye .”

“Too bad.” Shrugging, he lifted his tankard as she flounced away to find a bloke with deeper pockets and a less sensitive sense of smell to take her up on her offer.

Desmond tossed his cards on the table and, after gathering his winnings, roughly shook the barmaid off his lap.

“Care to try your luck upstairs, love?” She formed a moue with her mouth and batted her eyelashes coyly. “There’s a far sweeter prize awaiting you.”

He shook his head and shoved her away none too gently, causing her to stumble backward a couple of steps. “Not tonight. I have an important meeting.”

Her affronted glower would have disemboweled a lesser man, but it seemed Desmond did not care about offending her.

Keeping one eye on Desmond, Shelby finished his ale—leaving the foul brew would raise suspicion—then slowly stood, swaying and deliberately appearing pished.

He had a bounty to collect.

But first, Desmond would tell him everything he knew about Mitchel Danforth.