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Shelby clamped his jaw shut, swallowing the biting retort that burned on his tongue. He knew exactly what he felt for Mitchel—and assuredly, pity wasn’t among those dark emotions.

Holding Shelby’s hand, Roxina led him up the narrow stairwell.

Dash padded a few steps ahead, his sleek coat catching the dim light. The dog glanced back now and then, flicking his ears, as if trying to gauge the tension between his mistress and Shelby.

Shelby gave him an absent pat.

The narrow staircase creaked beneath their feet, groaning as if resentful of the intrusion.

Once they reached the landing, Shelby glanced around the cramped corridor, where outdated floral wallpaper in shades of dusky rose and sage adorned the walls. The pattern, faded but intact, spoke of another era when such elaborate designs had been in vogue. Though no longer fashionable, the walls bore no peeling or damage, merely the gentle wear of age.

Dust motes swirled in the weak sunlight filtering through the small, square, clear-paned window. A faint aroma of lavender and beeswax polish lingered in the air, hinting at Roxina’s efforts to keep the cottage clean and welcoming despite its worn and dated state.

When Roxina pushed open the small, arched bedchamber door, Shelby hesitated in the opening, battling the instinct to either pummel Mitchel to within an inch of his miserable life or verbally filet the bounder, neither of which would likely endear Shelby to her.

How often had he seen Roxina fight back tears over her brother’s bitter betrayals, neglect, and cruelty? How many times had he wanted to shake Mitchel senseless for abandoning his sister to fend for herself?

Sucking in a deep breath, Shelby advanced a couple of steps, taking in the simple, well-tended chamber and the withered man upon the mattress in one sweep. He did this for Roxina, not the unworthy cur lying in the bed, a spent shell of the man he had once been.

He masked the shock reverberating through him at Mitchel’s wasted appearance.

My God, the man was half dead already.

Needing a moment to steady himself, Shelby examined the bedchamber.

Though small and spare, the room exuded warmth and quiet dignity.

Shelby slid a surreptitious glance from beneath his eyelashes toward Mitchel Danforth, who lay motionless on the narrow bed, his emaciated form barely disturbing the washed-out coverlet that had once been forest green.

A nondescript wooden chair stood by the window, a neatly folded knitted blanket—green, of course—draped over its back. A porcelain basin sat empty on the square bobbin bedside table, a crisp linen cloth precisely folded beside it. The room, though simple, radiated an atmosphere of peace and tranquility, neither of which Danforth deserved.

Dash circled once before settling beside the bed, resting his chin on his paws as if he sensed the somberness of the moment.

Just short of glowering at Mitchel, Shelby firmed his mouth and flexed his jaw, surprised that the bitter resentment that had clung like tar to his soul had lessened remarkably since entering the chamber.

Trepidation joined the shock registering on Mitchel’s face as Shelby followed Roxina to the center of the room. The air between the men grew dense and awkward as memories of deception, betrayal, and shattered trust surfaced again.

“What did you need, Mitchel?” Roxina asked.

“Nothing of import.” Mitchel’s wary gaze flitted nervously from Shelby, then to the doorway, as if calculating an escape—though it was as obvious as the scar on the man’s face, Mitchel hadn’t the strength to lift himself from the bed. Skeletal, gravely ill, and utterly defeated, Mitchel bore all the signs of a dying man.

Swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck, he averted his eyes, then dragged his focus back to Shelby.

“I have wronged you greatly, Shelby.” His reedy, weak voice revealed the effort it took for him to speak. “I cannot correct that wrong, though I wish with all my being that I could. I regret my treachery more than I can say.”

The sight of the pitiful wretch unraveled the anger, outrage, and bitterness Shelby had clung to for so long. He’d seen enough dying men to recognize death’s imminent grip on Mitchel—how frail and fleeting his existence had become. What point was there in holding on to hatred or seeking vengeance when the man was already slipping from this world?

Did Roxina understand that—given his grave illness—Mitchel would probably not recover?

Closing his eyes, his lashes dark against his sallow, protruding cheeks, Mitchel released a shallow, rattly breath. A moment later, he slowly lifted his eyelids, though not without noticeable effort.

“I’m no fool. I know I am not long for this world.” He coughed, a wheezing hack that racked his entire frame. He glanced at his sister, and for the first time in all the years he had known Mitchel, Shelby detected a trace of affection.

Roxina saw it too, and her features grew taut with suppressed emotion.

“Shelby, I know I failed in my duties and neglected Roxina for far too long, leaving you to shoulder the burden I should have carried. I have no right to ask anything of you, but I beg you to find it in your heart to forgive me—and to keep looking after her. You’ve provided for her, cared for her when I failed her so miserably. She has no one else, and I’ll rest easier knowing she won’t have to struggle.”

Frail and remorseful, Mitchel clung to the last shred of decency he had left.