Page 5 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

FIVE

The Falcon’s Talon coaching inn and pub

That same night–around one in the morning

The moment Shelby stepped into the stable’s shadows, a prickle of unease crawled up his spine—had he become the hunted?

Alert and cautious, he kept to the shadows, his breath steady, each step precise and silent as he followed Desmond deeper into the stable. A warm ember glowed at the tip of Desmond’s cigar, swelling and fading with each drag. The pungent scent of tobacco mixed with the musty aroma of hay, liniment, and horseflesh.

A flickering lantern barely held back the inky darkness, its flame guttering in the faint draft that seeped through the gaps in the wooden walls. Somewhere deeper in the gloom, horses scuffed their hooves against straw, and the occasional swish of a restless horse’s tail broke the heavy quiet. Wood creaked as a horse shifted in its stall.

Outside, distant coarse laughter drifted from the nearby tavern, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of coach wheels on the courtyard flagstone. Beyond the stable’s doors, the world remained unaware of the tension saturating the musty air.

Shelby slipped a hand beneath his coat, resting his fingertips lightly against the pistol concealed there. He firmed his grip around the handle.

“I would have a word.” He kept his tone low and controlled.

Desmond let out a soft, eerie chuckle, a slow, deliberate rumble, as if Shelby’s presence amused him.

“It’s about bloody time.” Smoke curled past his lips as he spoke. “Did you really think I did not notice you watching me in the pub?”

Damn and blast .

The man dressed with the careless elegance of someone who understood wealth but didn’t flaunt it. The brass buttons of his navy superfine coat gleamed in the lantern light. A burgundy waistcoat in a subtly embroidered pattern, hinting at refinement, covered his pristine white lawn shirt.

Desmond rolled the no doubt expensive cigar between his fingers, studying Shelby with dark, unreadable eyes.

The measured assessment sent heat prickling along the back of Shelby’s neck.

Had he underestimated the danger Desmond presented?

Shelby released a measured breath, every sense keenly alert.

It did not surprise him that Desmond regarded him with thinly disguised disdain. The salt-stained coat he wore had seen too many years at sea, the fabric stiff from exposure to wind and brine. The rough linen of his shirt, once white, had faded to a tired gray. Every thread of his attire marked him as a man beneath Desmond’s notice.

But that was exactly the point.

So why had Desmond noticed Shelby?

What about his demeanor gave him away?

Desmond let the cigar linger near his mouth, then cut his attention toward the stable entrance. “You had best put any thoughts of robbing me aside. You would not make it two steps before my men have you on the ground.”

Shelby stiffened, muscles coiling as unease slithered through him.

Behind him, straw rustled, and a boot scuffed against a stone.

Hell’s bells .

Had he walked straight into a trap?

He shifted, angling his stance just enough to glimpse two figures emerging from the darkness.

The taller man wore a mud-crusted greatcoat, its hem stiff from years of neglect. A battered tricorn slouched low over his forehead, casting deep shadows over sharp, assessing eyes. A thin scar lashed his face, and a belt at his waist sagged beneath the weight of a long, wicked-looking knife.

Beside him, a broader man adjusted the sleeves of a soiled and faded green waistcoat. The fabric strained over a thickly muscled frame, the mismatched buttons barely holding it closed. He flexed his battle-scarred hands, his knuckles cracking in the hush.

Shelby tightened his jaw.

Careless idiot .

Years spent tracking criminals, collecting bounties, anticipating every move—and yet, he had walked into this snare.

The ruffians inched forward, their presence an ominous warning.

Producing a slow, affable grin, Shelby raised his hands slightly, palms outward. “I’m not here to rob you. I merely seek information.”

Desmond’s brows slashed together, skepticism carving deeper lines into his sharp, angular face.

“You present an enigma, my shabby friend.” He raked his menacing gaze over Shelby’s attire before settling on his face, curiosity darkening his expression. “You appear to be a common tippler, yet your speech hints at refinement.”

Shelby met Desmond’s flinty regard head-on. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Indeed.” Desmond shifted his weight, crossing one ankle over the other as if he had all the time in the world. Every inch of the Bloodoak Brotherhood’s leader exuded confidence, as though he controlled this encounter.

In truth, he did.

Trusting him would be imprudent. However, a sliver of honesty might shift the balance in Shelby’s favor.

“I believe we’ve both been swindled by the same man.” A shallow breath slipped through his teeth as he gestured at himself, at the rough disguise necessity had forced upon him. “He stole my identity, obtained a loan using it, and left me hiding from a rather blood-thirsty moneylender until I can clear my name.”

Desmond studied him for a moment longer, then tilted his head slightly. “And who, pray tell, is this man?”

Shelby didn’t hesitate. “Mitchel Danforth.”

The subtle shift in Desmond’s deportment betrayed him. The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by something colder, unforgiving, and deadlier.

He reminded Shelby of a coiled cobra, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Apparently, Mitchel had cheated him.

A slow, calculating smile curled the edges of Desmond’s mouth. “Well, isn’t this a fortuitous encounter?”

Not the term Shelby would have used.

Unease twisted in his gut.

Desmond had not clawed his way to the top of the Bloodoak Brotherhood with charm and decorum. His reputation heralded cold-blooded ruthlessness. He had built his empire on fear and terror, not favor.

Shelby waited, certain Desmond would reveal his purpose in good time.

“What?” Desmond rolled the cigar between his lips as he spoke, his tone lazy but laced with flint. “Don’t try to convince me you are not intrigued. Surely you want to know why I think this meeting is so… convenient .”

Shelby dragged a hand across his bristly chin, the motion drawing Desmond’s focus just long enough for him to slip his hand inside his coat and rest it atop his pistol. Steady despite the tension knotting his shoulders, he curled his fingers around the grip and cocked his mouth into a mocking smile. “I assume you are about to tell me.”

Desmond signaled his men with an almost indiscernible flexing of his eyes.

The louts shifted, and Shelby tensed.

“My other engagement this evening,” Desmond said, before exhaling a smoke ring, “is with a gentleman who has been watching Miss Roxina Danforth at my behest.”

No !

Icy dread skated up Shelby’s spine.

“She is our mutual friend’s sister, I believe.” Desmond cut him a side-eyed glance.

How had he discovered that?

God only knew what a foul-blooded snake like Desmond, who left ruin in his wake and laughed in the process, would do to Roxina if he believed she knew how to contact Mitchel. Desmond would never accept that she did not know her brother’s whereabouts.

Shelby went rigid, rage heating his blood as he prepared to draw his weapon. “She does not know where her brother is. He left her to fend for herself and doesn’t give a damn about her.”

“Ah, but I deduce by your reaction the chit does mean something to you . Interesting.” A maniacal smile split Desmond’s face. “Very useful, as well.”

Done with finesse, Shelby growled, “Harm one hair on her head, and you shall?—”

Blinding pain erupted at the back of his skull.

Too late .

The world lurched.

Sounds warped and slowed.

The impact of dropping to his knees on the straw-strewn ground barely registered through the haze closing in around him.

Darkness engulfed Shelby, dragging terror for Roxina into oblivion with him.