Page 10
That truth struck home with a sharp sting.
Circumstances had reduced him to little better than a mudlark.
A roar of laughter from the other side of the room snapped his attention back to the present. The boisterous sound emanated from sailors clustered around a table sticky with spilled ale. Their dented tin tankards clanked together in a toast before one of them—a brawny brute with the flattened nose of a habitual brawler—hauled a reluctant serving wench onto his lap.
She squealed in outrage, slapping at his groping hands, though the tolerant half-smile on her lips suggested she knew how to navigate such rough handling.
A sharp clang rang out behind the bar as the barkeep slammed a tankard onto the counter. “Mind yourself, Gibbons, or I’ll have you tossed into the gutter where you belong.”
The brawler laughed, loosening his hold on the wench.
She slipped off his lap and smoothed her rumpled skirts before shooting the barkeep a grateful look.
A pub this rough still had rules—rules enforced by the broad-shouldered, craggy-faced proprietor now wiping out a tankard with a cloth as filthy as his apron.
Giving his tankard a dubious glance, Shelby refused to consider how unsanitary the mug he sipped from might be.
He returned his focus to the doorway.
No sign of immediate danger.
No faces he recognized.
And yet… the unease curling in his gut did not subside.
Thus had been his life for these past months.
Nevertheless, a cautious man lived longer.
With practiced ease, he slid his hand beneath the coat, brushing his fingertips along the pistol’s smooth wooden grip.
A reminder.
A promise.
Should his enemies find him, Shelby would not be taken without a fight.
His musings drifted to Roxina Danforth again, as they did more often than he cared to admit.
Last December, he and Jackson Matherfield had rescued Roxina and Aubriella Penford—now Aubriella Matherfield—after a snowstorm stranded them at an inn just days before Christmastide. Shelby had taken Roxina to London to pack her belongings. Unbeknownst to her, he owned the mortgage on her house and had no choice but to use her home as collateral for a debt he didn’t owe.
Six years earlier, her scheming brother had mortgaged the property to the attic, defaulted on the payments, and nearly left her homeless. To protect her, Shelby had secretly purchased the loan. But now, he couldn’t raise enough cash to stall the collection of the debt Mitchel had racked up in his name. His life depended on keeping the ruthless moneylender, Merciless Morgan, at bay—at least for now.
Morgan was not a man one wanted as an enemy, especially when he had revenge in mind.
A year ago, Shelby saw an opportunity to invest in what he hoped would be a lucrative maritime trade venture to the West Indies. He sold his modest house and invested every penny, gambling on Neptune’s Providence return, which would arrive in England loaded with sugar, spices, tobacco, and other coveted goods.
If the wager paid off, he would be debt-free for good—and hopefully, never have pockets to let again. Until then, he lived in a humble lodging house, a fact he kept from even his closest friends.
Assuredly, Roxina would never learn that snippet.
Not that she would care a whit.
She despised Shelby with every fiber of her being, believing him every bit the scapegrace her cankerous cur of a brother had become. Letting her think the worst of him served Shelby’s purpose, but that decision had brought its share of consequences.
A rueful grin pulled his mouth up on one side.
He had loved Roxina with a burning intensity that staggered him almost since first meeting her. That same force drew him back to her, no matter how hard he fought it. A few times these past months, he had ventured to Blackheath, hoping to glimpse her at the cottage, the market, or strolling through the village.
