Page 5

And at worst…?

Despite her perpetual annoyance with Shelby, that irrefutable fact worried her.

What would happen to him if he could not clear his name?

Would he be forced to leave England?

She tightened her jaw, a sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

Four months ago, she would not have spared the man she had believed to be her brother’s closest friend a thought. Except in December, she learned Shelby had fabricated his relationship with Mitchel. He had only pretended to be Mitchel’s friend to monitor her wayward brother.

More to the point, he had also done so to protect and provide for her.

Tears stung Roxina’s eyes, and she swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat.

She had resented Shelby for over six years, and that resentment had flared into loathing when he told her. Because of Mitchel’s actions, he’d been forced to put her home up as collateral for the moneylender.

In truth, she never owned the house. It had been Mitchel’s, but the bounder had mortgaged it to the rafters and then defaulted on the payments—not caring a jot that, in doing so, he left her vulnerable.

Shelby, not a man of means to Roxina’s knowledge, had purchased the mortgage so she would have a place to live.

Guilt scraped her sharp talons across Roxina’s conscience.

She owed Shelby much.

Believing him a blackguard and co-conspirator of the same ilk as her knave of a brother, she had judged him without knowing his true character. And when she learned how much he had done for her—secretly, without expecting recognition or thanks—her regret had nearly eviscerated her.

Worse, she had never thanked Shelby.

He had gone into hiding straightaway, and in these past months, she had not heard a word from him.

Sometimes at night, when she lay on the soft mattress upstairs and stared at the rafters, she feared he might be dead. Then an inexplicable sadness gripped her, leaving her unable to sleep and despondent the next day.

The hand-shaped brass knocker echoed sharply against the stout, arched walnut door, jerking her back to the present.

Ah, right on time.

Probably not Aubriella, though.

She gained a reputation for being late, and marriage had done little to improve that tendency.

If anything, being in love had made her more distracted than usual.

Roxina wended around the outdated but still serviceable walnut and deep green worsted wool pieces.

Astrid Penford had possessed an extreme penchant for green.

Every room in the cottage boasted verdant hues—the wallcoverings, furnishings, draperies, carpets, and the décor. Even the dishes and tea set bore the color scheme.

Roxina sneezed as she made her way to the entrance.

After four months and much diligent cleaning, a vague mustiness still lingered in the air. The cottage had been closed for several years after Miss Penford’s death, patiently awaiting a new resident.

What would Astrid Penford think of Roxina living in her cottage?

She hoped the independent spinster would approve.

Roxina glanced at the gilded Louis XVI mirror on the corridor wall. A striking piece, delicate acanthus leaves and floral motifs adorned its oval frame. She caught sight of herself—her brown eyes dark and contemplative, her simple chignon a stark contrast to the elaborate styles many fashionable ladies preferred.