Page 11
More than once, fortune had smiled on him, though the instant he suspected Roxina noticed him, he slipped away.
Bloody fool! Muttonhead.
If brains were guineas, I would be a pauper.
Another wry grin teased the corners of his mouth.
At present, a pauper might have him at a disadvantage.
What the hell plagued him?
Only an imbecile surrendered his heart to a woman who would gladly stomp the organ flat with her boot heel if given the chance. His heart belonged to Roxina, though she would never claim it—unrequited love, a debt never acknowledged yet forever owed.
Naturally, he kept his feelings to himself.
Roxina saw him as Mitchel’s dearest friend and, therefore, her greatest nemesis. Besides, she prided herself on her intrepidness. She had no use for a man in her life—or so she had proclaimed many times in his presence, usually while leveling him with a murderous scowl meant to emasculate.
She valued her independence above all else.
No one had ever called Roxina Danforth biddable.
Meek. Obliging. Malleable.
No, indeed.
Wasn’t that partially why Shelby adored her?
Her feistiness. Dauntlessness. Resilience?
Aye.
He took another sip of the thick, barely palatable ale, fighting the wince of distaste scraping its way up his throat.
If the Devil brewed ale in his piss pot, this was what it would taste like.
Revolting.
This stuff had been stored improperly.
Nevertheless, bad ale remained the least of his worries.
Pulling the collar of his woolen sailor’s jacket higher, Shelby surveyed the crowded room.
These chaps did not represent England’s finest, but dressed in tattered sailor garb and sporting an unkempt beard, he blended right in with the scruffy patrons. Thus far, the disguise had served him well, and assuming the role of a down-on-his-luck sailor helped him to blend in with London’s and the surrounding areas’ disreputable underworlds.
The sordid environments where vermin like Mitchel Danforth thrived.
Yet, strangely, Mitchel hadn’t surfaced in any of his usual haunts.
No one had seen him in weeks.
Not that Shelby gave a damn about the bugger.
Still, Roxina’s brother remained a problem.
Mitchel possessed too much cunning, too sharp of a survival instinct to just vanish. A maggot-hearted scoundrel like him always schemed, always spotted the easiest pocket to pick, the nearest fool to fleece. If he hadn’t surfaced, he was either hiding and living off stolen coin, or one of his countless enemies had finally found him.
And if the latter…?
