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This couldn’t be love.
It could not.
Could it?
Had her heart played a cruel, cruel trick?
“How dreadfully predictable of you.” Matilda released a dramatic sigh, clearly not believing Roxina’s denial.
Roxina turned toward the window, afraid her friend might see in her eyes what she had only begun to suspect. Her smile softened as she traced the rim of the glass pane with her fingertip.
Outside, the world went on as if nothing were amiss.
Within her, however, a chaotic maelstrom raged. She did not turn around when she added, “Well, perhaps not entirely just grateful.”
“I knew it!” Matilda gasped, then clutched her chest theatrically. “The unflappable Roxina Danforth, developing feelings! Quick, someone fetch the smelling salts before I swoon.”
Roxina rolled her eyes, but a chuckle escaped her before she could temper it. “You are a ninny.”
“Guilty.” Matilda smirked.
A minute later, the butler returned with the writing materials.
“Bichard, please have Haywood ready to deliver our missives personally.” Matilda accepted the salver, topped with the supplies. “He should await a response from each recipient too.”
“Yes, Miss.” A kind twinkle in his eye, Bichard quit the drawing room at the staid, unhurried pace only a butler could affect.
Roxina and Matilda promptly settled down to compose their notes. Roxina also wrote a brief letter to Mrs. Beale but took care not to include a return address. Her hand steady even as her mind raced, she scratched the quill lightly against the foolscap.
In short order, they finished writing the brief notes and sent the messages with Haywood, who promised to post Roxina’s letter to Mrs. Beale.
Roxina prayed her friends were at home and could come straightaway.
“Roxina, while we wait for their responses, let’s stroll in the garden,” Matilda suggested, already moving toward the doorway. “The fresh air may help soothe our nerves, and last night’s showers have encouraged early blooms.”
“A splendid notion.” Roxina eagerly nodded. “That’s just the thing to take my mind off…”
She trailed off, unwilling to voice her worries.
What if Shelby did not return?
EIGHTEEN
The Angel Inn
Near Seven Dials, London
That same afternoon…
Though Shelby had never frequented the establishment, finding The Angel Inn on St. Giles High Street near Seven Dials took little effort.
From halfway down the lane, he studied the dilapidated three-story structure. The building slumped against its neighbor as if unable to remain upright on its own, and a strong wind gust might send them both toppling into the street. Soot and grime darkened the once-red bricks, and moss streaked the sagging, broken wooden shutters.
The inn’s sign, swinging with each sluggish breeze, once depicted a golden angel but now resembled a battered cherub with one eye blackened by time and filth. A cracked windowpane glinted in the afternoon light, its jagged edges a testament to either a recent brawl or long-standing neglect.
To the coaching inn’s right, squeezed in between the buildings, lay a narrow alley, its passage choked with discarded crates, broken barrels, and rubbish. A skinny rat dashed from beneath a crate, an even skinnier tabby chasing the frantic creature.
The air carried the musty scent of decay, mingled with something fouler, likely refuse tossed from the upper windows. Shelby caught a pungent whiff—a mix of rotting vegetables and the acrid stench of waste steaming in the heat.
