Page 3 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake

As did boredom.

Knitting blankets, booties, and caps for Aubriella’s future child—though Aubriella was not expecting—filled an hour or two of Roxina’s day. Tedium pushed her to read Astrid’s gothic romances in bed each night.

Confessional of the Black Penitents by Ann Radcliffe sat on the nightstand, waiting for Roxina to resume the disturbing tale tonight. A self-proclaimed pragmatist, she doubted her friends would believe she secretly read romances.

This quiet, solitary life offered her a welcome escape from the relentless fretting and poverty she endured in London, where she battled daily to afford fuel, food, candles, and other necessities.

Though peaceful, her days sometimes seemed a touch too quiet. Perhaps she should make more of an effort to be neighborly. Mrs. Beale, though prickly, might appreciate a plate of biscuits or an invitation to tea.

Glancing around her new home, Roxina tipped her mouth upward.

Yes, this life suited her far better than London’s hubbub.

Sunlight streamed through the tall, narrow windows, their delicate panes framing the garden beyond. The lace curtains softened the glare, casting a gentle glow over the polished mahogany tea table’s old wood. Roxina welcomed the warmth and light, a far cry from the dim, cramped rooms she’d once known.

Outside, a pair of blackbirds flitted among the budding hawthorn branches, their cheerful trills filling the air as sunlight glinted off their ebony-purple feathers. A robin perched on the garden gatepost and pecked at the lichen-clad wood.

Living here made her far happier than life with Mitchel in London ever had.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and Roxina turned to see a scraggly dog skirting along the yard’s edge. The animal hesitated, sniffing at the ground, then slunk behind a fence as a cart rattled by. The pathetic thing’s ribs stuck out starkly beneath its dull, patchy fur.

The poor, emaciated beast had first appeared last week.

Something in Roxina’s heart clenched at the sight. No creature should have to endure hunger—not even a mangy stray. She snatched three sandwiches off the table and, after quickly opening the window, tossed the snack onto the ground.

“Here, boy. It is all right. I shan’t hurt you.”

As the dog hesitated, Roxina caught sight of a man loitering across the street. Dressed in an unremarkable dark gray greatcoat, he leaned his tall frame against a lamppost, arms crossed over his chest. A wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, but she glimpsed dark, longish hair and the sharp glint of watchful eyes.

She had spotted him in nearly the same spot for the third time this week.

Coincidence?

Or did he wait for someone?

Watching something?

Watching her?

Do not be a goose. Why would he?

Feigning indifference, Roxina forced herself to avert her attention, though unease prickled up her spine.

He made the second strange man she had noticed in Blackheath, although the other, a scruffy sailor with a patch over his eye, seldom appeared and usually disappeared soon after she spotted him.

He never approached or spoke to her. She believed the sightings a mere coincidence. After all, Blackheath hardly qualified as a large village. Naturally, she would see the same people from time to time.

Hesitant at first, the starving dog crept closer, never taking his wary but gentle gaze off her.

“Yes, they are for you,” she crooned softly. “I’ll get you something more substantial later on. We’ll get you cleaned up too.”

The dog snatched the sandwiches and gulped them down without chewing.

He tentatively wagged his scruffy tail.

Something about this pitiful creature pulled at her heartstrings. For the first time in her life, she could afford a pet. The linen closet upstairs contained several older blankets that could be used for a bed. The animal might not wish to become domesticated, so choosing a name would have to wait.

When exactly, in the past few minutes, had she made him hers?