Page 9 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

NINE

Mrs. Beale’s cottage

Montpelier Row, Blackheath

That night—half-past nine

One misstep, one wrong move… and everything would be lost.

Slouching and still wearing Shelby’s sailor coat with the collar pulled high, Roxina tucked her chin to her chest, swiftly unfastened Mrs. Beale’s gate, and slipped inside. The latch gave a soft metallic click, loud in the night’s hush.

A few random raindrops speckled her and the ground, as if the fickle sky could not decide if it wanted to release a deluge or simply tease with a sprinkle once in a while.

Certain Desmond or his men watched her every move, her pulse thrummed a frantic rhythm as she hurried across the pavers, the chill of the evening seeping through her gown. She knocked softly on the door, her fingers trembling inside her ruined gloves.

Roxina silently prayed that Mrs. Beale wouldn’t slam the door in her face. She had, after all, promised to dine with the elderly woman—only to abandon her plans. Though their friendship had strengthened, Roxina’s impending request was so outrageous it teetered on the edge of lunacy.

Still, what choice did she have?

None.

Somewhere in the night behind her, Shelby hid among the shifting shadows, a silent sentinel, waiting to see if Mrs. Beale would take part in their outrageous scheme. Laced with the heady fragrance of lilacs and the faint, wild tang of hawthorn, the darkness curled around Roxina, both friend and foe.

Though soft lamplight glowed beyond Mrs. Beale’s curtains, no answer came, and despair scratched at Roxina’s chest. Hunching lower into the coat, she knocked again, a little harder this time.

Taut with silence and dread, each second crawled by as she awaited a reply.

“Who’s there?” came Mrs. Beale’s cautious query, the voice muffled and warbled through the wood.

Oh, thank God .

“Mrs. Beale, it’s Roxina.” Her voice, though barely above a whisper, carried the urgency thrumming through her. “I need your help. Please.”

A front curtain fluttered for the merest instant, but several excruciating seconds stretched on before the distinct scrape of a key turning in a lock sounded.

At last, the door cracked open a couple of inches, revealing Mrs. Beale, her nightcap askew, clearly having already prepared for bed. She peered out, eyes narrowed, one hand clutching a brass candlestick as if prepared to use it as a weapon.

“It is you.” She peered up and down the lane. “Well, let’s get you inside before someone sees you lurking about and I have to answer awkward questions in the morn.”

Releasing a grateful sigh, Roxina darted into the house, her heart still hammering.

Mrs. Beale promptly closed the door and locked it with a decisive snap.

“This had better not bring trouble to my doorstep, girl,” she muttered, though the sharpness in her eyes eased as she studied Roxina.

Before Roxina could even turn down the collar of Shelby’s coat, a sudden blur of fur launched itself at her from the kitchen.

“Dash!” A startled laugh bubbled forth as she dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around the scruffy dog. Wagging his tail furiously, he whined and licked her cheek. His entire body quivered with joy. “Oh—I was so afraid for you.”

Tears blurred her eyes. Her voice hitched as she buried her face in his warm fur, the tension of the past hours unraveling the merest bit because he was safe and unharmed.

“That beast of yours has done nothing but pace and grumble since he arrived.” Mrs. Beale sniffed, sounding suspiciously near tears. “Took him in because I’m softhearted and know how much he means to you, but I draw the line at sharing my bed with a flea-ridden mongrel.”

At that moment, a furious yowl split the air.

Roxina turned just in time to see a plump orange tabby perched on the edge of the rocking chair, its back arched, fur bristling in swirling patterns. Its round belly wobbled slightly with the motion, but its amber eyes blazed with outrage.

From beneath the table, a sleek silver cat slinked out, its narrow body draped in inky-black stripes. Its white-tipped tail flicked once, and its green eyes—sharp and gleaming—narrowed into glowing slits as it studied the scene, tense and watchful.

“And my cats are none too pleased about his presence, either.” Mrs. Beale sighed, planting her hands on her wide hips. “Just look at them, will you? Acting like I’ve invited the devil himself in for tea and crumpets.”

Dash, entirely unfazed, wagged his tail and let out a friendly woof.

The orange tabby responded with a hiss, then bolted for the nearest chair, sending a sewing basket tumbling in its wake. Bobbins rolled across the floor. A tangle of embroidery floss spilled out like unraveled secrets trailing in the cat’s frantic path.

“Oh, heavens, I—I’m so sorry,” Roxina gasped. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a bobbin, her heart still racing. “Dash didn’t mean to?—”

She swallowed hard and looked up, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Beale huffed, bending with great effort to retrieve a thimble that had rolled near her slippered foot.

“Thank you for not turning me away, Mrs. Beale.” Roxina summoned a wobbly smile. “Truly, I don’t know what I would have done if you had. I am quite desperate.”

Roxina exhaled shakily, twisting a piece of petal pink embroidery floss between her fingers.

“I expect this visit of yours comes with a great deal more trouble than a bit of spilled thread,” Mrs. Beale said.

“It does,” Roxina admitted, her voice weighted with emotion. “More than I can bear alone.” She dared to meet the older woman’s gaze. “And I swear, I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice.”

Mrs. Beale sighed, shaking her head as she stooped to gather the rest of the sewing supplies.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re here,” she muttered gruffly, though softness tempered her tone. She set the basket back in place and smoothed a loose thread between her fingers.

“Well, don’t just kneel there. Up with you.” She waved a gnarled hand. “Let’s put the kettle on. Tea may not solve every trouble, but it warms the soul and steels the spirit.”

Roxina pushed to her feet, taking in the cottage’s cozy interior.

The small sitting room exuded warmth, its well-worn furnishings lovingly kept and neatly arranged. The scent of lemon and beeswax polish lingered in the air, mingling with the comforting aroma of baked bread and chicken pasties. A rocking chair sat near the hearth, where embers glowed faintly in the iron grate.

Roxina exhaled, tension unraveling from her chest.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she had found a momentary refuge in the storm.

She turned to face Mrs. Beale. “I’m so sorry to inconvenience you, but I had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Miss Danforth, but you look a wreck. I expected you two hours ago for supper.” Hurt filtered into the woman’s voice as she cast Roxina an accusing glance. “But when your dog showed up limping, and without you this afternoon, I confess I became quite concerned for you.”

“I know. Forgive me.” A shudder rippled across Roxina’s shoulders, and she wrapped her arms around herself, barely keeping her teeth from chattering—from cold and fear. “But I was literally running for my life.”

Keeping to the shadows, speaking in hushed whispers, she and Shelby had crept toward the village. Their stealthy trek from Oxleas Wood to Montpelier Row had taken a toll on Roxina’s already frayed nerves.

What should have been a ten or fifteen-minute walk had taken them over an hour. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of wind through the underbrush had sent her heart skipping and her pulse leaping.

“I have reason to believe my house is being watched,” she said without preamble.

That piqued Mrs. Beale’s interest.

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Roxina nodded. “That is why I came here instead of going home.”

Mrs. Beale curved her mouth into a forgiving smile before glancing at her locked door. “Let’s go to the kitchen, shall we? The chicken pasty has cooled, but you look like you could use something to eat.”

Although Roxina hadn’t eaten since morning, and her stomach gnawed at her backbone with hunger, she didn’t think she could choke down a bite. Not with the weight of this desperate situation pressing upon her.

And not while she fretted about Shelby’s safety.

Though Mrs. Beale had drawn the draperies, Roxina still fretted someone outside might see her. The thought unsettled her. She resisted the urge to peek through the window, but a creeping unease slithered up her spine.

Yes, moving to the back of the house made sense.

Besides, Shelby waited near the back kitchen entrance. Roxina gave a shallow nod and, swallowing hard, followed Mrs. Beale as she hobbled into the warm, inviting kitchen.

“Have a seat while I put the kettle on, deary.” Mrs. Beale motioned toward a sturdy oak table, scarred by years of use, standing in the center of the kitchen, its surface littered with bits of fabric and a pair of spectacles. “Just push the fabric aside. I am sewing new cushions for my cats.”

Roxina hesitated before lowering herself onto the wooden chair, every muscle coiled with tension. The faint scent of cinnamon and apples drifted through the kitchen, but the homey aroma did little to soothe her frayed nerves.

Shelby would be much safer in the cottage.

“Mrs. Beale, a family friend, Shelby Tellinger, is outside.” He should have crept into Mrs. Beale’s Garden by now. Roxina clasped her hands together. “It’s not safe.”

Mrs. Beale pursed her lips, then gave a sharp nod. “Well, go fetch him, then.”

Roxina unlatched the back door and peered out.

“Shelby?” Her voice carried a soft yet firm resolve.

A dark shape shifted near the trellis and then approached. The kitchen lamplight illuminated his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the firm set of his jaw. A shadow pooled beneath his gray eyes, weary yet piercing, while a smudge of grime traced the hollow of his cheek.

The unnecessary black leather eyepatch, worn like a battle scar, only sharpened his air of quiet authority. His straight, aristocratic nose bore the faintest ridge, as though once broken and healed with silent endurance, while his firm, unsmiling mouth held no trace of softness, carved instead by years of restraint.

Roxina had seen him countless times before, yet somehow, she had never truly looked at him. His presence had always been a fixture—solid, imposing, unreadable—but the contours of his face, the sharp planes, and the quiet strength etched into every line had gone unnoticed.

Why?

Had her prejudice, her assumptions about who he was, blinded her to the striking features that now held her captivated?

Perhaps those details, along with the sculpted line of his mouth and the quiet intensity in his gray eyes, made her view him differently now. As if, for the first time, she looked past what she had always believed and saw the man beneath—the one she had never allowed herself to notice before.

Had something within her changed?

Or had that brief kiss completely tilted her world, making her see everything from a new perspective?

Shelby hesitated in the doorway, glancing at Mrs. Beale with a polite deference that didn’t diminish his innate confidence. “I don’t wish to intrude.”