Page 9 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake

It was worth a try.

“You know how awful Society is.” Georgine gave Roxina a rueful look. “Sadly, appearances do matter, and rumors are swift to take root.”

Only too true.

“Well, as not a single adult male has called at this residence, a gossip would find it difficult to construe such a slanderous tale.” Roxina studied the foolscap, the blank sheet mocking her.

“I really do wish you would take me up on my offer and come live with my brother and me, Zina. We have the room, and I would love the company.” Georgine swept a glance around the entry. “Don’t you get lonely, dearest?”

Roxina would not lie. “At times, I do. But I have also enjoyed the solitude and the peace. You know I never had the latter while living with Mitchel in London.”

“You never much cared for town life.” Georgine gave her a knowing smile. “I have no choice where I live. My brother dictates that.” She screwed her features into a silly face. “However, if I did, I believe I might enjoy a country estate.”

Roxina gave a distracted nod.

Who kept sending her money?

What did they stand to gain by keeping their identity a secret?

More importantly, what did Roxina stand to lose?

THREE

The Falcon’s Talon Coaching Inn and Pub

Shooters Hill, England

2 May 1819—Just after midnight

Sometimes, the hunted had no choice but to become the hunter.

Shelby Tellinger pulled the ratty, low-crowned felt cap lower onto his forehead as he hunched into the too-big sailor’s frock coat. The baggy jacket hid the boxlock pistol tucked into his waistband. He shifted slightly, the weight of his wicked boot knife—small enough to go unnoticed but sharp enough to finish what a pistol could not—a silent comfort.

A pistol at your side, a knife in your boot, and a quick wit in your head.

One of the many rules he followed as a thief-taker—a citizen who captured criminals for a reward.

Seated at a corner table facing the Falcon’s Talon’s common room, Shelby lifted the pint of warm, sludgy ale to his mouth.

God, how did the regulars drink this swill?

Thick smoke permeated the pub’s musty air along with the fetid aromas of stale alcohol, vomit, boiled cabbage, and sweaty, unwashed bodies. A malodorous drunk staggered past, crudely scratching his likely louse-infested groin on his return to his table from relieving himself outside.

Shelby couldn’t prevent the involuntary flaring of his nostrils at the fellow’s overwhelming stench.

Rancid tallow candles flickered overhead in the dusty, wrought-iron, cobweb-strewn chandeliers and the sagging sconces behind the scuffed and scarred bar. Even the brick building emitted a rank, earthy smell, a peculiar, fusty odor—a combination of mildew, mold, spoiled food, vermin waste, sour yeast, and years of spilled ale soaking into the warped floorboards.

To hide his face further while still allowing him to observe the motley patrons, Shelby adjusted the angle of his hat’s brim once more.

He could not risk being recognized.

His life depended on anonymity.

In his haste to flee London without detection last December, he had acquired his outerwear from a dubious secondhand shop in an unsavory section of Whitechapel. The origin of the garments, as well as their cleanliness, proved equally questionable.

With an unscrupulous moneylender’s ruthless henchmen on his heels and determined to recover the thousand pounds Shelby didn’t have—by any means necessary—Shelby had darted into the first open shop he came upon that frigid December afternoon.

Still, beggars could not be choosers.