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She had been prepared for secrecy, for the risks, even rejection and exposure, but not for this warmth, this unexpected kindheartedness. Blinking quickly, she whispered in her ear, “I shall. I promise.”

Mrs. Beale pulled away and patted Roxina’s cheek with the same gentle fondness a mother might give a daughter before turning to Shelby.

“Mr. Tellinger, I trust you can keep Miss Danforth safe? She’s a rare one, she is.”

He flexed his jaw but replied with calm self-assurance.

“I shall certainly endeavor to.” Then, softer, almost reverently, “She is more than rare. There is no one like her.”

Roxina gaped for a moment, heat skimming up her cheeks.

It almost sounded as if Shelby cared for her… really cared for her?

Mrs. Beale harrumphed, her keen regard swinging back and forth between Roxina and Shelby as if she had uncovered a great secret.

To ease the tension, Roxina blurted, “Oh, Mrs. Beale, I shall hide the key to my cottage beneath a round stone near the birdbath in the herb garden. Help yourself to any foodstuffs you wish, and also, borrow any books you fancy.”

“Pish posh. No need for any of that talk.” Mrs. Beale flapped her hand. “You shall return in a snap.”

“I hope so.” And Roxina did, but she doubted it. “Still, I would be grateful if you would keep an eye on the cottage.”

Mrs. Beale kept a sharp eye on all of Montpelier Row.

“Of course, I shall,” she said briskly. “Now, go blow out the lamps in the drawing room so it appears I’ve gone to bed. When I run outside, screeching, you two escape.”

Roxina hesitated, reluctant to leave this little haven of unexpected refuge. Sentimentality would have to wait. She gave a quick nod before turning and following Shelby into the sitting room, where he snuffed out each lamp until the house lay in utter darkness.

“Are you ready?” Shelby whispered near her ear.

Heart in her throat, Roxina nodded, then realized he could not see her. “Yes.”

Pulse pounding, she waited for Mrs. Beale’s shouts, announcing her exit from her garden.

Then—

“THIEVES! ROBBERS! Oh, heavens! I’m afraid they took everything! Even my mother’s silver teapot. Oh, no!” she wailed.

The caterwauling that followed could have raised the dead.

Shelby peeked out of the curtain and, satisfied, eased the door open a few inches. The faintest creak broke the penetrating silence. Shadows swallowed the village, the weak glow of a distant lantern barely piercing the swirling mist from the River Thames. A damp chill slipped through the gap, carrying the scent of earth and coal smoke.

The rain that had threatened all afternoon and evening seemed imminent now.

A door creaked open across the lane.

A man muttered something, his words slurred and unintelligible.

A woman gasped, her alarm slicing through the quiet.

A shadow flickered in the gloom.

Mrs. Beale shrieked like a banshee loosed from hell itself. Her wails rose, raw and piercing, unnatural enough to send shivers racing down Roxina’s spine.

Doors flew open.

Lanterns flared.

Voices crashed together in a chaotic swell—men shouting questions, women shrieking in alarm, their cries blending into Mrs. Beale’s unholy racket. Heavy footfalls struck the ground as villagers rushed from their cottages, their figures shifting like specters in the flickering glow.