Page 7

Mrs. Beale knew well and good that Frankie had nothing for her. He did not serve as the postal delivery man. Someone paid him to deliver the messages to Roxina rather than post them, and Frankie earned a guinea each time.

He had proudly shared that tidbit with Roxina the second time he had shown up on her doorstep.

Smiling politely at Mrs. Beale, Frankie shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Bless the dear child for his manners.

“I only have another anonymous letter for Miss Danforth today.”

Blast and bunions.

Mrs. Beale’s eyebrows vaulted to her thinning hairline and dangled there like fuzzy caterpillars.

“Anonymous?” Curiosity and suspicion pitched the chinwag’s voice high on the last syllable as her sharp regard darted between the boy and Roxina. “That is highly irregular.”

Roxina almost groaned aloud.

“Aye.” Frankie looked up and down the street, then put a hand to the side of his mouth as if disclosing an important secret. “If’n you ask me, I think Miss Danforth has a secret admirer. Perhaps a soldier or a sailor. Sixth unmarked letter in four months.”

Dash, the child for being so eager to please.

He gave a sage nod, endearing for someone so young. “The bloke is right smitten.”

Roxina had quickly discovered Mrs. Beale relished spreading gossip.

“Indeed.” Eyes narrowing in speculation, Mrs. Beale raked her critical gaze over Roxina from head to toe before sniffing in disapproval and retreating inside her cottage.

Would attempting to befriend Mrs. Beale be a lost cause?

“Mind yourself, Miss Danforth.” Frankie gave a jaunty wave before darting off, his thin-soled boots clacking on the cobbles.

Roxina would most certainly offer the child biscuits if he came ’round again, and she strongly suspected he would.

The distant clatter of hooves drew her attention just as Georgine’s ancient carriage rattled up the street. The vehicle—a once-elegant dark blue barouche, now showing signs of wear—rolled to a halt before Roxina’s cottage. The two bay horses, well-fed but no longer in their prime, tossed their heads, their harnesses jingling.

The driver, a wiry man in a battered hat, barely had time to set the brake before Georgine descended in a flurry of pink silk, her matching pelisse trimmed in black velvet, her bonnet’s satin ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

She looked like a breath of fresh air.

She grinned up at the coachman. “Pick me up in three hours, Dobbs.”

“Aye, Miss.” He clicked his tongue. “Walk on.”

As the carriage lumbered away, Georgine flew to Roxina’s side. “Hello, dearest!”

“Hello.”

Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Georgine blurted, “I have a proposition for another member. Matilda Fitzlloyd, though I think she’ll need to keep it a secret from her brother. Robyn Fitzlloyd is…” Shrugging, Georgine rolled her eyes. “He’s far too protective of Mittie, the poor dear. He practically smothers her. I would not stand for it, I tell you. Brotherly love is one thing, but she can scarcely breathe.”

Roxina couldn’t prevent the half-smile.

Most people underestimated Georgine’s feistiness and intrepidness. Possessing excellent manners and a firm grasp of etiquette, unlike Roxina and Aubriella, Georgine rarely kicked up a dust or made a cake of it.

That did not mean she did not have strong opinions.

Roxina knew Matilda Fitzlloyd—Mittie to her friends. Matilda might make an excellent addition to the Ladies of Opportunity. “We can discuss Matilda’s potential membership when the others arrive. I believe Claire also wants to recommend someone.”

The four original members met at Blenstock & Handcastle Academy for Young Ladies—a finishing school catering to those of respectable but non-aristocratic birth—where they forged a lasting friendship.