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Shelby adjusted his cuffs, the crisp linen peeking from beneath the sleeves of his tobacco-brown coat. The finely tailored garment fit him with a precision he had never enjoyed. His buff pantaloons, smooth and expertly cut, did not wrinkle at the knee, and his new Hessians bore a mirror-like glow. Even his gloves, crafted from the finest kidskin, flexed easily around his fingers, a stark contrast to the worn pair he once owned.

Across the lane, Mrs. Beale stood on her stoop, a friendly smile curving her wrinkled face, though her sharp eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Behind her, a fat orange cat sprawled in the parlor window, one paw dangling lazily over the sill. It blinked slowly at Shelby, its expression both indifferent and vaguely judgmental, as if it had already determined he was not worth getting up for.

Giving a jaunty wave, Mrs. Beale called, “Please stop by and have a chat, Mr. Tellinger.”

In other words—What are you doing here, and what has occurred since we last met?

“I shall do my best, Mrs. Beale.” He tipped his new beaver top hat, offering no promises. Depending on the outcome of his conversation with Roxina, he might not be inclined toward a cozy chat with the kindly but inquisitive widow.

Mrs. Beale tapped her broom against the stoop as if to say she would wait.

Facing Roxina’s cottage door again, he turned his mouth down.

Why hadn’t she answered?

He knocked once more, this time harder.

Perhaps she tended the garden in the rear.

Or was she out?

Just as he prepared to walk to the back of the cottage, the door creaked open a couple of inches—just wide enough for Roxina to peek out.

“Shelby?”

“Who were you expecting, Roxina?” Waggling his eyebrows, he could not prevent a mischievous grin. “A troll? The Night Coachman or The Lantern Man?”

Her doe-like eyes widened, and her pretty mouth parted in a breathless exclamation.

“I take it you’re surprised to see me?”

But was she pleased?

She curled her fingers around the edge of the door until her knuckles whitened. A dozen emotions flickered across her face—too fleeting to name—but none suggested outright displeasure.

That, at least, boded well.

Though her abrupt departure from Fernleigh House had initially crushed him, over the past weeks, Shelby concluded Roxina’s flight had less to do with him and more to do with confronting and accepting new and foreign emotions. Of course, he had thought of her often—constantly—but circumstances had prevented him from seeking her sooner.

First, it had taken days to deal with the legal aspects of shooting Desmond and his hireling. The authorities had an insufferable fondness for documents, statements, and official inquiries, despite the obvious villainy of the men in question.

Then, much to his relief and delight, Neptune’s Providence had sailed into port, her hold heavy with the goods Shelby had invested in. Now, he claimed wealth that would turn many of the upper ten thousand green with envy.

No longer was he the man who scoured docks and back alleys for bounty work, hoping to earn enough to keep his creditors at bay. He no longer stretched coins between meals nor haggled over a worn coat at a second-hand shop to ensure he had enough to send anonymous funds to Roxina.

News of his good fortune had spread faster than drawing room gossip amongst the ton.

Now, Shelby’s name carried authority beyond the taverns and shipping yards. Merchants sought his favor, men who had once looked upon him with disdain tipped their hats in greeting, and he had standing—true standing—not merely that of a man scraping by on wits.

His bank account boasted sums he had once only dreamed of, and he had spread his investments to other trade ventures, promising even greater returns. What was more, he had purchased property—an actual estate—rather than merely renting rooms.

Had it truly been less than three weeks ago that he had barely a half-penny to his name, wore second-hand sailor’s garb, and collected bounties to keep the moneylender off his back?

Paying Mitchel’s debt to the backstreet banker had topped Shelby’s list of tasks, and it had taken two days to locate the foul fellow. The man had the disposition of an irate polecat and the hygiene of a muck-stained street hawker.

At least the transaction had been quick and final.