Page 13

He would gift her a sum large enough to keep her in comfort all her days.

Shelby swallowed against the lump rising in his throat.

Once she no longer required his support, he would disappear from her life entirely.

Even if it killed him.

How could he never see the woman he loved again?

You could try to win her heart.

A bitter chuckle escaped him, earning him a wary glance from a passing barmaid.

A candle during a hurricane stood a better chance of success.

So far, he had deuced little luck finding any trace of Mitchel.

However, Shelby’s luck might be turning.

Last night’s secretive meeting with Robyn Fitzlloyd—Shelby’s maternal cousin—Jack Matherfield, and Quentin Honeybrook proved most informative. As always, Robyn had pressed Shelby to come to stay with him—as had the other men at various times.

Shelby refused.

Doing so might endanger them and their families. Robyn lived with his sister, Matilda, and Quentin lived with his brother, stepsister, and ward.

On Shelby’s behalf, the three men continued making covert inquiries regarding Danforth.

Robyn claimed a card-sharp named Rufus Desmond had lost a hefty sum in Greenwich just a week ago—to a man who matched Mitchel’s description. The fellow had sported a mustache and a healing scar on his cheek, but the resemblance suggested Mitchel lingered nearby, skulking like the craven, two-faced cur he was.

Convinced he’d been cheated, Desmond seethed with rage and swore revenge.

Desmond was probably right—Mitchel had cheated before and often. If the scoundrel had a single redeeming quality, Shelby had yet to see it.

As he took another sip of the sour, slightly acrid brew, he swept his gaze over the taproom occupants, lingering for a half-second on the swarthy, well-dressed man playing cards at a table on the room’s far side, near a dusty staircase, which no doubt led to chambers where the bit o’ muslins shared their favors for a few coins.

Rufus Desmond—the man Mitchel or his lookalike had cheated.

And… a man who just happened to have a one-hundred-pound bounty on his head for being the ringleader of a group of notorious highwaymen called the Bloodoak Brotherhood. Puffing on the cigar clenched between his teeth, the middling-aged gambler fondled a busty barmaid perched on his lap as she whispered in his ear.

As if sensing someone observed him, Desmond raised his dark eyes and leisurely perused the pub, sweeping his hooded gaze past Shelby and the other sloshed patrons as if they were as insignificant as a fly on a window or a log in the fireplace.

Shelby swiped his forearm across his bearded mouth in keeping with his disguise as a scruffy sea dog. Scraping a hand across his jaw and down the beard he had let grow for the past four months, he grimaced.

God, how he hated this bloody beard.

His face itched, and the wiry hairs constantly caught crumbs.

The black patch covering his right eye annoyed him far more.

Nevertheless, both concealed his identity.

A tavern wench a decade past her prime sidled near him, bending over to display her bountiful, sagging bosoms while smiling a siren’s practiced invitation.

Her faded bodice, once vibrant red but dulled by years of wear, strained against her ample curves, the laces loosened just enough to entice. A low-cut chemise peeked from beneath, its edges yellowed with age. Her skirts, a patched and uneven mix of coarse wool and linsey-woolsey, swayed as she moved, revealing scuffed leather shoes.

Despite his resolve not to react to her body odor, Shelby’s nose twitched.

Ale, sweat, and cheap perfume clung to her like a second skin. If she had bathed in the last fortnight, he would dance a jig on the table.