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“That seems reasonable. Sensible, even.” Matilda sighed and rolled her eyes. “I do so hate sensible.”
Roxina arched an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, we cannot have it said that we are taking unfair advantage and lining our purses.”
Still, she had not completely put aside the notion of placing a wager herself. Half the money Shelby sent her remained upstairs, tucked behind a painting in her chamber, and the temptation to turn those funds into more, to challenge fate, lurked at the edges of her thoughts.
She would need help, though, for the scandalous secret stake she wished to make.
“Let’s be about writing those letters, shall we? The afternoon already grows late.” Matilda pulled the bell pull.
A moment later, Bichard, the butler, entered with his usual impeccable composure. “You rang, Miss?”
“Yes,” Matilda said, clasping her hands before her. “Please bring us paper, ink, sand, wax, and a seal. Miss Danforth and I have urgent correspondences to write, and they must be delivered promptly when we are done. If they are available, Mrs. Matherfield, Miss Thackerly, and Mrs. Granlund should arrive within the hour.”
“As you wish, Miss.” The butler inclined his head in deference.
With the air of a man who had seen and heard far too much to be shocked by anything anymore, he turned and strode from the room.
Matilda waited until the door shut before speaking, her tone thoughtful. “I heard Shelby’s version of why you left Blackheath—via Robyn, mind you—but I should like to hear it from your lips.”
Roxina stiffened ever so slightly.
Shadows from the afternoon light played across the walls, stretching long and thin like secrets waiting to be uncovered. She cast a wary glance toward the door before guiding Matilda to the room’s farthest corner, ensuring no curious eavesdroppers might overhear.
Tone subdued, she shared the sordid tale.
“My brother cheated a very dangerous man at cards—Rufus Desmond.” Roxina spoke softly, yet intently. “He discovered where I lived in Blackheath. And—” she hesitated, her throat tightening, “—he is the leader of a ruthless group of cutthroat highwaymen.”
Eyes growing dinner-plate round, Matilda’s breath hitched as she choked on a gasp.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, curling her fingers into the folds of her gown.
“Shelby heard about Mitchel’s deception and started tracking Desmond, intending to question Desmond, and then claim the bounty.” Roxina swallowed. Telling the tale stirred her fears anew. “However, Desmond’s men captured Shelby first. They abducted me the next morning on my way to church.”
At the terrifying memory, a shudder ran through her, lifting the hairs on her arms.
Was that why she had awakened that night?
She had somehow known Shelby was in peril?
“Shelby helped me escape, Mittie. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here.” Oddly emotional, Roxina spoke around the lump in her throat. “I owe him my life.”
Head tilted, Matilda studied her for a long moment in that perceptive way she had. Then, with a slow smile, she arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me for saying so, but do I detect a newfound tenderness toward him?”
“If by that you mean I’m not condemning him to hellfire every time I see him anymore, then yes. But do not read anything into that.” Roxina scoffed, though heat crept up her neck. “I am merely grateful.”
Gratitude.
Was that all she felt?
Then why did Roxina’s thoughts circle back to Shelby, no matter how she tried to chase them away? Why did his voice linger in her mind, his touch—however fleeting—burn like a brand on her skin? What was this restless churning inside her, this maddening confusion that refused to be reasoned away?
If Roxina felt nothing, why did the mere thought of Shelby send her heart skittering?
Why did she strain to hear his footsteps?
Why did the room feel unbearably empty when he was not in it?
And why—for the love of God—did that brief kiss replay in her mind over and over and over?
