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“Lookin’ for a little entertainment t’night?” she purred seductively. Well, as seductively as she could with several missing teeth. A weeping chancre swelled her upper lip—probably infected with the pox.
He hid a grimace.
Summoning a drunken, lecherous grin in keeping with his assumed identity, Shelby tilted his head. “Aye, me darlin’, if yer offerin’ a bit o’ bedsport for free…?”
Which, of course, she was not.
But what better way to get rid of her?
Scowling, she straightened and planted her rough, reddened hands on her wide hips. She took his measure, raking her narrowed dirty-water brown eyes over his scruffy attire, eyepatch, and scraggly beard, and clearly found him wanting. “I ain’t given me favors away fer the likes of ye.”
“Too bad.” Shrugging, he lifted his tankard as she flounced away to find a bloke with deeper pockets and a less sensitive sense of smell to take her up on her offer.
Desmond tossed his cards on the table and, after gathering his winnings, roughly shook the barmaid off his lap.
“Care to try your luck upstairs, love?” She formed a moue with her mouth and batted her eyelashes coyly. “There’s a far sweeter prize awaiting you.”
He shook his head and shoved her away none too gently, causing her to stumble backward a couple of steps. “Not tonight. I have an important meeting.”
Her affronted glower would have disemboweled a lesser man, but it seemed Desmond did not care about offending her.
Keeping one eye on Desmond, Shelby finished his ale—leaving the foul brew would raise suspicion—then slowly stood, swaying and deliberately appearing pished.
He had a bounty to collect.
But first, Desmond would tell him everything he knew about Mitchel Danforth.
FOUR
Roxina’s bedchamber
2 May 1819—a few minutes past midnight
A ragged cry tore from Roxina, wrenching her wide awake. She lurched upright, heart pounding in her throat. Clutching the bedcovers with fisted hands, she tried to determine what woke her.
Tentacles of fear gripped her in an unyielding embrace, and her breath came in short, panicked pants. The bedchamber’s darkness closed around her, pregnant and oppressive, as if the night conspired to smother her.
A sliver of muted light peeked through a gap in the drawn draperies, barely illuminating the room’s edges. Shadows stretched and twisted along the walls, their inky black forms shifting and undulating. The walnut bedposts stood like silent sentinels, their dark wood gleaming faintly in the dim light.
The crisp scent of damp earth and budding spring foliage seeped in through the window she had left open, given the previous day’s unseasonable warmth. A faint trace of smoke from a distant chimney mixed with the night air, reminding her that somewhere beyond these walls, life continued, undisturbed by whatever had roused Roxina from sleep.
What time was it?
After midnight, she would guess, but not near dawn yet.
She cocked her head, listening.
The village lay in slumber, only the occasional bark of a distant dog disturbing the peaceful spring night. Beyond, silence pressed against the cottage walls, thick and impenetrable. As if the world held its breath, the usual sounds of rural life had vanished: the rustling of nocturnal creatures, the lonely hoot of an owl, the whisper of a breeze through the trees.
She shivered, but not from cold.
Wrinkling her forehead, Roxina pressed her lips together as unease without a determinable cause sent a chill juddering up her spine. Eyes wide, she lay back against the pillows and pulled the bedding to her chin.
After reading a few chapters of Confessional of the Black Penitents, she blew out the lamp and quickly fell asleep. Had the description of Father Schedoni’s ghastly smile and mysterious demeanor in the book contributed to this pervasive dread?
No, the novel did not cause this disquiet.
Nevertheless, an unmistakable sense of unease gripped Roxina.
