Page 41

That will happen when the Thames runs dry.

Before she could respond, Shelby squeezed her hand briefly before slipping into the shadows, his footsteps nearly soundless as he disappeared down the road.

A peculiar wistfulness blanketed Roxina as worry for his safety twisted her insides.

She might be as mad as Hades at Shelby, but he must return.

Leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree, tension and worry tangling, she counted: one, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

Minutes stretched long, the silence pressing in around her. Every shifting shadow sent her nerves on edge, the weight of their predicament growing heftier with each breath. She listened, straining, catching only the muted murmur of voices from the village and the occasional creak of what might be a sign in the wind.

Squinting, she straightened.

At last, movement stirred farther along the road.

Expression grim, Shelby emerged from the darkness. He covered the distance between them swiftly, his jaw clenched tight.

“They are there,” he said, voice low. “Desmond’s men—waiting for us. Two by the station doors, another watching from across the way. We have no chance of slipping past them unseen.”

Roxina’s heart sank. “Then the mail coach is not an option.”

“No.” Jaw taut, he glanced over his shoulder. “We must find another way.”

They could walk to London, but the risk of discovery escalated if they did.

“I don’t think—” Before Roxina could finish her objection, a sleek sporting curricle trundled toward them.

Shelby grabbed the bag, seized her wrist, and pulled her off the road, into the shadow of a towering oak.

Dash followed of his own accord.

They stood motionless, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

The figure seated in the curricle swayed precariously, his grip on the reins alarmingly loose. As the carriage drew nearer, a slurred, off-key melody carried through the night.

“Oh, a sailor bold and full of cheer, with a lass upon each knee— He kissed ’em once, he kissed ’em twice, then sailed away to sea!

He drank his rum, he sang his tune, and whispered words so sweet— But when the morning sun arose, he’d vanished down the street!”

The driver, a young man, hiccupped between lines, his voice wobbling between bravado and absolute incoherence.

Probably a young blood sowing his wild oats.

The high-stepping horses slowed as if embarrassed by their master’s performance—then came to a stop, almost directly across from the oak.

Just perfect.

Roxina held her breath.

Now, what were they to do?

Shelby chuckled, a low, melodious baritone.

“Well, it seems the good Lord has heard our prayers.”

How, pray tell?

As if reading her mind, he jerked his square chin toward the curricle, where the inebriated driver lifted a bottle to his lips.