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Sunlight slanted in through a high, arched window above the stair landing, illuminating the dust motes that swirled lazily in the air. The narrow corridor branched off into several rooms, their doors painted a soft cream, the edges slightly worn from years of use.
Framed landscapes lined the walls, modest in size but skillfully rendered: A pastoral scene of rolling green fields under a bruised twilight sky. A lone fisherman casting his line into a glassy lake. A cluster of cottages nestled beneath towering oaks, a small dog trotting along a dirt path in the foreground.
Something about the dog—its lifted ears, the tilt of its head—stirred a flicker of recognition. It bore no true resemblance to Dash, but the posture, the quiet alertness, reminded her of him all the same. Her throat tightened.
Where was Dash?
He had never been far from her side, not once since he had trotted up to her cottage in Blackheath, thin but proud, as if he had chosen her rather than the other way around. She could still envision him hovering just beyond the garden, watching her with keen, intelligent eyes, his ribs sharp beneath his coat.
She had tossed him tea sandwiches—one at a time, careful not to move too quickly, letting him decide whether he trusted her. At first, he had snatched them up with wary glances, darting back to a safer distance. By the second day, he lingered near the doorstep, waiting. On the third, he had followed her inside as if he had always belonged.
She resisted the urge to call for him, lest she disturb the household. Surely, he was about somewhere—perhaps in the kitchen, hopeful for a bit of meat or a crust of bread from a kind-hearted servant.
Or perhaps Shelby had taken him for a walk.
No, that wouldn’t be wise, given their circumstances.
Dash was here, somewhere.
After breaking her fast, she meant to write Aubriella, Georgine, and Claire. They needed to know she had left the cottage.
Should she tell them why?
Roxina supposed she must—though she would omit the more alarming details. They would only fret over her safety, and nothing could be done about what had already transpired.
Nibbling her lower lip, she descended the stairs, the wood groaning softly under her careful steps.
The Ladies of Opportunity had always met at her home. She could hardly ask her friends to meet at Matilda’s and Robyn’s, could she?
No, that would be an imposition.
Besides, she did not intend to remain there for more than a day or two—whether or not Shelby agreed.
The ladies would need to determine where their next meeting would be held. Georgine had been quite keen on making Matilda a new member of their society. Perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to broach that subject too.
Roxina ran her fingertips along the smooth banister, its surface worn from years of use. Despite the morning light streaming through the narrow windows flanking the entryway, the wood remained cool to her touch.
Had Atherstone roused from his drunken stupor yet?
Would he remember Roxina and Shelby?
Poor young man.
Members of the aristocracy were often trapped in marriages of convenience, shackled to arrangements that benefited their families rather than themselves. At least, as a commoner, she was spared that particular indignity. No one would ever sell her off like a broodmare to the highest bidder.
A burst of laughter sounded from below—low, masculine, edged with something intangible. The deep timbre seemed vaguely familiar.
Shelby.
She rarely heard him laugh.
Roxina followed the murmuring voices, each step drawing her closer. The study door had been left ajar, the scent of strong coffee and cheroot wafting into the hallway.
Just as she reached the threshold, Shelby’s voice cut through the morning hush.
“I do not want Roxina to know.”
Her pulse skipped.
