Page 4 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake

He would help ease her loneliness and provide protection too—not that she needed protecting in the small village.

Once her friends left, she would try to coax the dog inside.

He lay down near a birdbath, resting his muzzle on his paws.

“I shall be back. Wait there.” After closing the window, Roxina faced the room again.

Though the Georgian furnishings were outdated and excessive gewgaws had cluttered every surface until Roxina packed them away, she found the small house charming. Miss Penford had left the cottage to her niece, believing Aubriella, with her keen intelligence and obsessive interest in science, would also remain a spinster.

How wrong Astrid Penford had been on that account.

Bully for Aubriella for cocking a snook at Society and getting her happily ever after.

Chuckling, Roxina shook her head as she turned a daffodil so its vibrant orange center faced outward. How wrong everyone had been about Aubriella. Roxina’s best friend had wed Jackson Matherfield and set High Society on its ear by snaring one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

As much as Roxina rejoiced for Aubriella, she had no desire to marry and planned to remain a spinster for the rest of her life. Besides, at nearly six-and-twenty, without a dowry and never having had a suitor, she refused to entertain fanciful notions about marriage.

In truth, she never had.

The violent verbal abuse her mother had suffered as Richard Danforth’s second wife, as well as the cruel, rebellious shouts, insults, and jeers Mitchel had directed toward Mama, had left lasting marks on Roxina. To this day, she cringed when someone raised their voice.

Although, if Roxina were wholly honest—and she always strove to be, at least with herself—it bothered her conscience mightily that she depended upon Aubriella’s benevolence.

How long could Roxina take advantage of her friend?

Again, the notion of placing a secret bet teased.

She took pride in her independence in an era when men controlled nearly every aspect of women’s lives, leaving them reliant on male mercy and munificence—or, more often, the absence of it. For that very reason, she and her friends had devised the scheme to operate a betting book similar to White’s but exclusively for women.

Their little venture had proved far more successful than they had ever anticipated.

Pride at their accomplishment thrummed through her.

They made a difference in women’s lives—enabling those who trusted them with their secret wagers to have opportunities they might never otherwise have had.

Other than the four women, only Jackson Matherfield knew of their secret venture, and he wouldn’t breathe a word.

Imagine the scandal… the gossip.

She and the others were not averse to having other women join their little entourage, but newcomers must be carefully screened.

Another smile curved Roxina’s mouth.

She rather enjoyed upsetting Society’s snobs.

Those elites always looked down their aristocratic noses at anyone less fortunate than themselves. Except Shelby Tellinger had not, despite his paternal great-uncle holding the title of viscount.

Where was Shelby, anyway?

Her rotten-to-the-core brother had stolen Shelby’s identity, then had the ballocks to borrow money from a profoundly dangerous moneylender in Shelby’s name. That reckless act forced Shelby into hiding until he could either repay the loan or track down that miserable wastrel, Mitchel, and make him face the consequences of his perfidy.

Roxina knew her brother.

A beggar had a better chance of receiving an invitation to dine at Buckingham Palace than Shelby had of recovering the funds.

Mitchel would have wasted the funds on cards, harlots, and other scandalous activities.

That left Shelby in a precarious position at best.