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That a certain peer notorious for affairs with married ladies would be caught in a compromising position?
Lord Ashbourne immediately sprang to mind.
A reckless gamble could see the money gone in an instant, yet a well-placed bet…?
Could Roxina take that risk?
Should she take the risk?
If she wished to keep her stake a secret, she could not place such a bet with the Ladies of Opportunity. Not that she did not trust Aubriella, Claire, and Georgine, but the rules of their secret society forbade betting on the wagers they held the bank for.
The club existed to help women supplement their incomes by placing wagers. The Ladies of Opportunity kept five percent of each bet, allowing the founders—like the women they served—to set aside funds and avoid dependence on men for support. Every proposed wager required unanimous approval and, if deemed cruel or dishonorable, was rejected.
So how and where could Roxina place a bet?
She would need help—from a man.
A chill juddered down her spine.
Something she hesitated to do. No, something she loathed doing. Not a single man came to mind that she trusted wholeheartedly.
Shaking her head, she tucked the idea away to ponder later.
Instead, Roxina turned her musings to something more satisfying.
Smiling, she smoothed her hands down the front of the jonquil-yellow daygown she had finished sewing only this morning. The gown’s light, airy fabric skimmed her figure while the modest yet flattering neckline framed her collarbone, and the full skirt swayed with each step.
Yellow had always been her favorite color, although she had not possessed a frock in the cheerful shade for many years. This unembellished dress, free of frills, bows, or ribbons, reflected her simple taste in attire and marked the first new gown she had worn since her mother passed over a decade ago.
As much as Roxina detested admitting it—for she believed herself above the nonsensical twaddle of caring a jot about current fashion—she conceded that the new frock bolstered her confidence. Not that she gave a rat’s behind or two farthings for what anyone thought of her, other than the three friends who would soon join her for their weekly Ladies of Opportunity meeting.
Additional yards of material in seafoam green and mazarine blue lay neatly folded in her bedchamber, awaiting her skill with a needle to transform them into gowns. She felt positively indulged.
She sent a swift sideways glance at the mantel clock—nearly three. Aubriella, Georgine Thackerly, and Claire Granlund would arrive momentarily.
Roxina wrinkled her nose.
That annoying thirty-year-old clock.
She had half a mind to store it in a closet, wrapped in a quilt.
The elegantly painted Adam-style mantel clock, with its faded green scrollwork and delicate gold trim, still ticked away with the dignity of a dowager duchess. However, its wheezing chimes sounded suspiciously like an asthmatic goose.
The first time it had chimed, the godawful sound had nearly frightened the starch out of her.
She swept her gaze over the salon, assuring herself she had prepared everything for today’s visit.
A bright bouquet of sunny daffodils and jonquils, purple and pink hyacinths, and soft blue forget-me-nots, which she had picked an hour ago, lent a cheery air to the tea tray. The previous owner had once zealously tended flower, herb, and vegetable gardens at the sides and rear of the cozy cottage—though the small yard had become sorely overgrown.
As the weather permitted, Roxina had spent the past weeks restoring those gardens. Years of neglect had resulted in the once-immaculate flower beds becoming weed-choked, and she had taken great satisfaction in cutting them back and uncovering the lovely remnants of Astrid’s hard work.
The unusually warm April weather had made the task easier, coaxing new buds to bloom and bringing the scent of freshly turned earth and intrepid spring plants. Just yesterday, she had uncovered the first fragile shoots of what she suspected were peonies—though only time would tell and reveal their color.
Peonies, especially peach-toned and yellow, were her favorite flowers.
Tending the gardens and caring for the cottage gave her purpose.
Despite taking hour-long constitutional walks each day—to counter the weight she had gained from indulging in the baked goods she could now afford to make—and making the twenty-minute trek to St. Alfege Church in Greenwich for Sunday services, loneliness still plagued her.
