Page 45

Just over an hour later that same night

Shelby kept his grasp firm on the reins. Every mile brought them closer to safety—or straight into the trap Desmond waited to spring. So far, the journey to London passed without incident, but his muscles bunched with tension, and every sound sent his pulse pounding.

To avoid other travelers, he opted for lesser-traveled side roads that paralleled Greenwich High Road. Even though that meant a slower journey, it had proved a wise choice, as they had not encountered another soul.

The late hour likely attributed to that welcome reprieve.

A low, discordant snore issued from the inebriated peer sprawled in the far corner of the curricle, his cravat hanging loose, waistcoat askew, and hat long since abandoned to the wind. He muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, his head lolling forward before jerking upright again.

At Shelby’s feet, in the curricle’s narrow well, Dash let out a long-suffering sigh, his gangly frame wedged awkwardly in the cramped space. The dog had been a stalwart companion, but his patience had limits. He shifted with a heavy grunt, his tail thumping against the floorboards before he curled tighter, casting Shelby a look that spoke volumes about his discomfort.

Shelby patted Dash’s scruffy head. “Almost there.”

At some point, the rhythmic cadence of the horses’ hooves and the steady patter of rain against the leather hood lulled Roxina into slumber against Shelby’s shoulder. Mouth parted slightly, she slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

The past hours had taken their toll on all of them.

Shelby gripped the reins with rigid intensity, his gaze locked on the faint shimmer of London’s distant glow, fractured by the fine mist. The air became denser as they neared the city, pungent with the acrid stench of coal smoke and the river’s briny musk.

A faint, persistent clang from a distant foundry rang through the night and carried on the moist breeze. Somewhere across a pasture, a cow let out a long, mournful low, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the wet hush of the night.

The countryside rolled past in shadowed undulations, dotted with squat, stone-walled cottages, their steeply pitched roofs dark against the clouded sky. Thin wisps of ghostly smoke spiraled upward from a few chimneys, though most houses sat in near darkness, their occupants long since abed. The narrow road ahead gleamed slick and treacherous, the deep ruts saturated with rainwater. The horses’ hooves sent up muddy splashes as they pressed forward.

Casting a wary glance around, Shelby clenched his jaw.

They were not safe yet.

He could not afford to make a mistake, risk slowing their trudging pace, or assume they had escaped Desmond’s demonic clutches for good. Only when they reached Robyn Fitzlloyd’s house and when Roxina lay beyond Desmond’s and his ghouls’ reach would Shelby allow himself a moment’s respite.

A cynical smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he imagined Robyn’s face.

Robyn had long pestered him to visit, though Shelby had never imagined arriving on his cousin’s doorstep with Roxina Danforth in tow—let alone a three-sheets-to-the-wind, thoroughly sloshed noble.

As far as Robyn knew, Roxina detested Shelby.

He would bet his investment on Neptune’s Providence that Desmond pursued them—perhaps even now closing the distance. Not only had Mitchel cheated him, but Desmond also despised losing.

Plus, Shelby and Roxina had defied and defeated him, and pride alone would drive him to hunt them down. That made him even more dangerous. Once Shelby had secured Roxina safely at Robyn’s, he meant to turn the tables and become the hunter once more.

Desmond might not be the most dangerous criminal Shelby had tracked, but the highwayman’s network stretched far and wide, with eyes and ears lurking everywhere.

That made him treacherous.

Worse, Desmond was patient. The type of calculating fiend who calmly loitered in the shadows, biding his time, striking when his prey thought themselves safe.

Shelby could not afford to underestimate him.

He cast a glance at Roxina, taking in the gentle slope of her forehead and her pert silhouette, now visible without the god-awful discarded poke bonnet. That wretched contraption had concealed too much of her face, including the slight dimple in her cheek that appeared when she pressed her lips together in thought.

At their feet, Dash groaned and shifted, attempting to reposition himself in the curricle’s narrow well. A heavy thud followed as the dog stretched a hind leg, jostling the already cramped space. The poor beast suffered as much as the three humans squeezed into a seat meant for two.

Shelby gave the hound another sympathetic pat, murmuring, “I know, old boy. This isn’t exactly a gentleman’s chaise.”

Roxina sighed and shifted against him, her warmth seeping through his coat, her scent—a mix of lilacs and something softer, something uniquely her—curling into his senses.

That was another surprise.

For all her bravado and defiant words, her maddeningly enticing scent curled around him—subtle, warm, and entirely her.