Page 49 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake

A sharp crack rent the air—sudden, violent, unmistakable.

Gunfire.

Jolted awake, Roxina lurched upright, her breath wedged in her throat as terror beat against her ribs. The night before came rushing back. Her heart fluttered behind her breastbone, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears.

She focused on the unfamiliar chamber.

Where was she?

Shadows clung to the room’s corners, the dim light filtering through pale blue damask curtains, slightly faded but neatly kept, casting wavering patterns across the high ceiling. The soothing aroma of beeswax polish filled her nose, underscored by a faint trace of rose. A cool, earthy draft crept through the window’s imperfect seal.

She shifted, the soft mattress pressing against her back, its well-worn stuffing slightly uneven beneath her. The sheets, starched yet soft from countless washings, rasped against her fingertips.

The gunshot’s echo still rang in her ears.

Had it been real?

Or merely the lingering specter of the nightmare that had tormented her most of the night?

Another shot—or something like it—splintered the morning stillness.

She stiffened, breath held, straining to listen.

No shouts followed, no frantic footsteps or clash of steel.

No signs of danger creeping toward her door.

Slowly, reason pushed past the tight grip of fear.

She counted, one, two, three, four, five, willing calmness to return.

Not necessarily a pistol report, then.

A hunter’s musket, perhaps?

A gamekeeper firing at a fox or stray hound?

She shook her head.

No.

Robyn and Matilda lived on the outskirts of London, not in the open countryside.

It could have been something else entirely—a wheel breaking in a deep rut in the road, a wooden cart axle snapping beneath its load, or even the forceful snap of a tradesman’s whip urging along a stubborn team.

She inhaled again, slower and more measured this time, the tension in her limbs easing by degrees.

The previous night’s events crashed over her: Mrs. Beale screeching down the lane, fleeing to Greenwich, and Atherstone’s timely arrival.

Her pulse lurched again, but only for an instant.

She and Shelby had escaped Rufus Desmond.

At least for now.

The memory settled in her chest, tight yet steady, like the echo of a distant drumbeat. She curled her fingers into the linen sheets, their edges slightly frayed from use, grounding her in the present. The pillows beneath her head—stuffed with feathers but lacking the over-plumped softness of a wealthier household’s bedding—smelled faintly of rose water, though the scent had mostly faded.

Somewhere beyond the thick walls, a servant—or perhaps Matilda—moved with careful, measured steps, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath the weight.