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Robyn’s welcome had been exactly as Shelby had said it would be—warm and gracious—after his initial suspicion and shock.

Roxina knew Robyn, of course.

They had attended the Templetons’ annual Christmas party for at least a decade, not to mention the intimate dinners at the Penfords’ and countless other social gatherings. The familiarity between them had been a constant, yet she must admit, she did not truly know him well.

Regardless, Robyn Fitzlloyd was a likable chap—gregarious yet shrewd, with a quick wit that masked an innate perceptiveness. He had a way of making one feel at ease while simultaneously calculating everything left unsaid. But there was something more to him, something elusive—much like Shelby.

Only slightly less sociable than her brother, Matilda had risen from bed to greet her cousin and Roxina. Wrapped in her night robe, she stepped into the candlelight, her unbound red hair spilling down her back in untamed waves. Fiery strands shimmered as she moved, catching the flickering glow. Her vivid blue eyes, heavy with sleep, still held warmth.

Matilda showed Roxina the cozy chamber she would call her own during her stay. A stay, Roxina meant to be short, despite Matilda and Robyn’s offer to remain as long as she needed.

Though of an older style, the carved rosewood furnishings lent the room a dignified elegance. Age had mellowed the wood to a deep, warm patina, well-polished surfaces gleaming. The silk wallpaper—soft ivory with delicate sprigs of pale blue forget-me-nots—whispered of a bygone era, imbuing the space with a distinctly feminine charm.

The borrowed nightgown Roxina wore brushed against her skin, the muslin softened by years of wear. Simple and unadorned, the nightdress featured a single row of careful hand-stitching along the cuffs. Made to last, not to impress, it bore the marks of practicality over vanity. It carried the faintest scent of rosewater and starch, a reminder of the quiet care taken in this household.

Frowning, she searched the room for Dash.

The blanket he slept upon last night lay empty.

Someone must have fetched him to take him outdoors while she slept like a slugabed.

Despite the circumstances, Roxina quite looked forward to visiting with Matilda.

Yawning, Roxina pressed a hand to her mouth, sweeping the room with her gaze.

A delicate coral-colored gown lay draped over an overstuffed chair to the right of the fireplace—one of Matilda’s, no doubt. The fabric, a cambric with a deep scalloped hem, pooled over the chair’s arm.

Beneath it, an Aubusson carpet stretched across the floor, its once-vibrant hues of rose, cream, and cornflower blue softened by time and wear. Floral medallions were woven through the pattern, their edges slightly muted, while scrollwork borders framed the design in graceful symmetry. Though the wool had thinned in places, it still held a whisper of its former plushness, lending the chamber a quiet, understated elegance.

Her drab gray gown had vanished.

Dropping her gaze, she spotted her half-boots—freshly cleaned and polished—neatly placed beside the bed. The leather gleamed in the filtered morning light; the laces crisply retied with a care that bespoke a practiced hand.

Someone had been busy this morning.

Her attention shifted to an ormolu-mounted walnut bedside clock, the polished wood gleaming with a rich, honeyed patina. Gilded accents adorned the corners in delicate, curling flourishes, and the white enamel face bore fine black Roman numerals. The hands, slender and precise, ticked forward in a steady rhythm, the clock’s subtle chiming mechanism faintly audible in the room’s hush.

A startled yelp escaped her.

Half-past eleven?

Good heavens!

The only time she had ever remained abed so late was when she had been ill.

Nearly half the day had already slipped away, and she had much to do. Foremost was to decide where she would stay until she could return to the cottage in Blackheath.

Throwing back the bedcovers, she pushed herself to her feet and rushed to the washbasin. She splashed cool water over her face, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Roxina stepped into the hallway, the wooden floor solid beneath her boots as she gathered her bearings. Matilda’s gown fit her reasonably well. A trifle short, but that could not be helped.

Muted footsteps creaked from somewhere below, and the faint clatter of crockery and the low hum of conversation drifted upward. Beyond the windows, the occasional clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones and the distant cries of street hawkers reminded her they were still on London’s fringes.

The strains of a pianoforte drifted upward—delicate yet deliberate notes floating through the morning air like threads of fine lace.

Matilda, no doubt.

The melody was measured, almost contemplative, and a bittersweet pang tightened in Roxina’s chest.