Page 52

She swept into the room and stopped short, her breath catching at the sight of Shelby—clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, and dressed in well-fitted, spotless attire. He had discarded the ghastly eye patch as well, and heaven help her, he looked scrumptious enough to devour.

Her wits scattered like thistledown in a thunderstorm.

It took a couple of seconds to regain her equanimity. Determined to ignore his rugged good looks, she straightened her shoulders.

“What don’t you want me to know, Shelby?”

SIXTEEN

Fernleigh House study

Half a dozen tense seconds later

At Roxina’s question, Shelby jerked his head up and spun around.

Bloody maggoty hell.

The last thing he needed was for her to overhear him.

Asleep near the hearth, Dash leaped to his feet when he heard her voice, his ears flicking forward as he stretched before trotting to her side, nails clicking against the polished wood floor.

“I wondered where you disappeared to.” Roxina scratched behind his ears, and the mongrel gave her an adoring doggy smile, his tail thumping against her skirts.

Profoundly fetching in a cheerful coral-colored gown, the fabric flowing as she moved, she’d never been lovelier. She must have borrowed the gown from Matilda Fitzlloyd. The hue deepened the rich brown of Roxina’s eyes, brought out the healthy glow of her skin, and revealed the merest hint of copper in her sable hair.

Shelby had not noticed the subtle change in her hair before; the time she spent in the sun in Blackheath had added burnished streaks to her tresses. He liked the auburn ribbons. It meant she had adjusted to her peaceful life there and had been content.

Until that pitiless, black-souled jackanapes who would steal the pennies off a corpse’s eyes and complain they weren’t sovereigns, Rufus Desmond shattered her serenity, tossing her tranquil life head over heels. And as usual, when one dug around in the muck, Mitchel Danforth emerged as the root of the problem.

She swept into the study, her gaze roving the room for a moment before settling back on Shelby, sharp and expectant. “Well? What is it you do not want me to know?”

Shelby clenched his jaw.

He certainly would not tell her the truth—that Mitchel had been spotted in London, looking far worse for wear. At least not until he verified the information himself.

A mocking grin tilting his mouth, Robyn rested a shoulder against the carved walnut fireplace mantel, idly tracing the intricate scrollwork as if he had not a care in the world.

The dying fire in the grate cast faint, flickering shadows along the mahogany-paneled walls lined with bookshelves. The familiar scent of aged parchment, leather-bound tomes, and lingering ash settled around Shelby—the scents so ingrained in the study he barely noticed them anymore.

Awaiting Shelby’s response, Roxina took in the dark wood furniture, the towering shelves, and the thick green drapes drawn open to let in the afternoon light.

The study had always been Robyn’s retreat, a space untouched by the frivolities of the rest of the house, and Shelby had spent enough time in here over the years that he no longer paid much attention to the furnishings.

A large, well-worn pedestal desk of rich mahogany stood to one side, its broad surface stacked with correspondence and an ornate brass horse-shaped inkwell. Though slightly dated in style, with deep drawers lining both sides and a central kneehole, the desk remained in excellent condition, its polished surface bearing the faint marks of years of use.

Behind it sat a nut-brown buttoned leather chair with a high, gently curved back and sturdy, carved wooden legs, its supple leather softened by time. A decanter of brandy and cut crystal glasses rested atop a nearby sideboard, the scent of aged spirits mingling with the faint aroma of tobacco lingering in the air.

The room reflected Robyn’s personality exactly.

“I’d say you’re in rather a pickle, cousin,” Robyn chuckled, enjoying Shelby’s discomfort. “Neck deep in molasses, if you ask me. A very fine fettle, indeed.”

Shelby leveled his cousin with a cease-your-blathering scowl, but Robyn only grinned wider. Leave it to Robyn to find amusement in the situation.

“A proper mull, a fine kettle of fish.” Pulling his left earlobe, Robyn cast his gaze ceilingward as if searching for more ridiculous idioms. “A right tight spot and a dashed rum situation—all wrapped up with a pretty bow, I daresay.”

“Enough, Robyn,” Shelby fairly growled.

The tiniest smile played around the corners of Roxina’s pretty mouth.