Page 82

“Come inside, Mitchel.”

He gave a weary nod, the effort almost too much for him, for he swayed again.

“When did you last eat?” Guiding him toward the cottage, she held her breath. “Or bathe?”

“I don’t remember.”

Dash padded beside them, his steps slow, deliberate. He sniffed the air, tail flicking in agitation, ears twitching as if listening for something unseen.

Helping Mitchel inside took substantial effort.

Each step drained him, and by the time they reached the top stair, he could scarcely raise his foot.

He collapsed onto the spare bed, sinking into the thin mattress, his limbs slack with fatigue. He didn’t stir as she stripped away his ragged, filth-streaked clothing. The deep, unyielding slumber of utter exhaustion claimed him before she had finished the unpleasant task.

She had hoped to feed him and wash away the worst of the grime before his stench seeped into the sheets, but it was too late for that now. There would be time enough for both when he woke.

Roxina curled her fingers into the filthy fabric of his coat, her gaze fixed on the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Each harsh breath escaped with a faint, troubling rattle.

How many years had she waited for Mitchel to acknowledge what he had done?

Now, faced with him, broken and destitute, she hardly knew what to do with the moment or her emotions.

Was this justice?

Or something more bitter?

She must inform Shelby that Mitchel had emerged from whatever wretched hole he had buried himself in.

He had a right to know.

She would send a letter to Fernleigh House and trust Robyn Fitzlloyd to forward it without delay. She must also send for a physician.

Mrs. Beale might know of a reputable and trustworthy doctor.

A knock rattled the cottage door.

Roxina stiffened.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Dash let out a low, uneasy whine, his tail dropping, not in warning, but in reaction to her unease.

Then another knock echoed—louder. Insistent.

TWENTY THREE

The cottage entrance

A minute later…

Shelby sensed eyes boring into him as he rapped upon Roxina’s cottage door.

Half-turning, he glanced past his gleaming curricle parked before the cottage to the lane beyond. The morning sun bathed the street in golden light, illuminating a row of modest cottages, some of brick, others timber-framed with whitewashed plaster. The scent of freshly turned soil drifted from a nearby garden, where a hawthorn hedge, heavy with tiny white blossoms, hummed with fat bees.

Whistling a lively tune, a butcher’s boy trotted past, balancing a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Nearby, a door creaked open, followed by the scolding voice of a woman chiding a child for some mischief.

His curricle, an elegant vehicle, straight from the best coachmaker in London, shone with the unmistakable essence of wealth. The deep-green lacquered body gleamed, slightly blemished by road dust, its brass fittings polished to a shine. The black leather upholstery bore the faint scent of saddle soap, pristine and untarnished by age. His horses, a sturdy yet elegant pair of chestnuts, shifted impatiently and flicked their tails against flies.