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But getting back to Fernleigh House did.
Shelby should have listened to his instincts, but he’d been so bloody eager to snare Mitchel, he had not followed the first rule of a thief-taker: trust no one you don’t know personally.
“We should go.” Honeybrook’s expression turned stony. “Now.”
As one, they turned toward St. Giles Church and Honeybrook’s waiting coach, walking briskly but taking care not to draw undue attention.
The scent of hot bread wafted from a nearby vendor’s stall, incongruous against the stink of filth and desperation. A man sprawled against a wall, muttering to himself, an empty umber-colored rum bottle dangling from his filthy fingers.
Quickening his pace, the uneven cobblestones jarring against his feet, Shelby murmured, “We’ll take the side streets to Fernleigh House.”
A carriage rattled past, its driver snapping the reins with impatience.
Shelby must get to Roxina.
He couldn’t consider what would happen if Desmond found her.
Locking his jaw, he picked up his pace, the cassock slapping against his ankles.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
He could not be too late.
Anguish impaled him.
Because the truth was, he might already be.
NINETEEN
Fernleigh House gardens
Half-past three that afternoon
After Matilda had collected straw hats to shade them from the sun, she and Roxina stepped into the charming, meticulously tended English garden.
Flowers—roses in shades of blush pink and crimson, foxgloves with their tall spires of speckled white and lavender, and primroses in soft yellows and creamy whites—nestled among well-tended shrubs of lavender with dusky purple blooms, boxwoods’ dense green foliage, and flowering currant adorned with clusters of rosy-red blossoms.
The mingling scents of rosemary, thyme, and lemon balm wove through the gentle afternoon breeze—rosemary’s bold, piney fragrance intertwined with the slightly peppery scent of thyme, while lemon balm’s crisp, citrusy freshness brightened the air with its invigorating zest.
A stone fountain stood at the garden’s center, its weathered gray basin cradling crystal-clear water that rippled with each gentle splash from the sculpted cherub perched at its heart. A chubby, dimpled cherub sat atop a pedestal entwined with carved vines and blooming roses, his rounded cheeks forever frozen in innocent delight. Moss crept along the fountain’s base, lending a velvety green patina to the aged stone, softening its edges with nature’s quiet touch.
A thin stream arced from the smiling cherub’s outstretched hands, cascading down in an endless dance. Its soft burbling filled the air with a tranquil melody. Sunlight dappled through the branches above, glinting off the droplets and casting winking rainbows amid the spray. The shimmering water played over the stone’s worn surface, sprinkled with patches of mossy green, creating a mosaic of light and shadow.
Birds flitted between the hedgerows, their delicate trills and chirps a harmonious accompaniment to the fountain’s gentle melody. A pair of orange-tip butterflies danced above the wild garlic, their white wings flashing with each erratic turn, while a brimstone butterfly glided past, its pale-yellow wings as delicate as a rose petal.
Oh, to be as carefree as the birds and butterflies.
“This is breathtaking.” Roxina bent and brushed her fingertips over a delicate bluebell blossom. “I’ve been tending to the cottage garden, but mine is quite humble compared to this. Is this your doing, Matilda? It is utterly magnificent.”
“It is.” A blush tinted Matilda’s cheeks, but delight and pride danced in her eyes. “Robyn lets me have my way. He’s too protective, but in this, he does not restrict me. Tending the garden keeps me busy.”
Was Matilda also lonely?
Roxina fell in step beside Matilda. They meandered through the garden, pausing here and there to admire a new bloom or breathe in the fragrance of a climbing jasmine vine.
Dash, ever inquisitive, bounded ahead, his nose twitching as he veered toward a copse of hazel and elderberry at the garden’s farthest edge.
“Dash.” Roxina barely had time to call his name before he shot off like a musket ball, his paws kicking up bits of grass. A moment later, a chittering sound erupted from the trees, and a plump squirrel darted across the path, its tail fluffed in outraged alarm.
