Flinging around, she brought her apron to her face. “Jest like Mr Wentworth ye are! Thinkin’ ye can take yer pleasure just ‘cos I’m only a lowly servant, an’ no doubt thinkin’ ye can force me inter what I says no to.”
When he didn’t grab her, or shout, she lowered her apron to find him contemplating her.
He stood, resting against the back of the sofa. “It’s rather sobering to be compared to a blackguard like Wentworth.” He held up his palms in a gesture of supplication. “And I had rather taken your previous words to be an invitation.” He shrugged, and half turning, indicated the door. “You must be tired, Phoebe. And overwrought. Go and walk in the garden for a bit. The weather is fine and there is no one about. I have some work to do, not least of which is deciding what is to be done with you. I can’t send you back to Blinley Manor, can I?”
She was unable to hide her terror, which, for some reason made him laugh—although that was perhaps because she tripped on her overlong skirts again and was only saved from falling to her knees when he gripped her elbow to steady her.
“Deftly executed, Miss Phoebe. I see how anxious you are to reinforce to me how ill the dress fits you—indeed, a health liability. Now,” he waved her to the door, “off you go! Mrs Withins can give you something to eat which you might want to take into the garden.”
“You’ve had luncheon, sir?” she asked, only realising her mistake when he looked at her, curiously, and replied, “I dine at two.”
Of course, he’d hardly expect her, a mere servant, to join him. Phoebe lowered her eyes. She’d have to make sure she didn’t a similar mistake that might cost her the freedom she was at such pains to protect.
After a lonely afternoon and a chilly reception in the kitchen as she’d eaten her dinner with Mr and Mrs Withins, Phoebe climbed the stairs to her room, wondering how long she’d be living this half life. Mr Redding did not intend spending more time with her than necessary while the servant couple clearly despised her.
The cramping she’d felt earlier had returned, so she was glad to be able to lie down. She knew the signs well. In another ten days she would bleed, and there would be no child. No heir for Blinley. No cargo she must carry on behalf of her late husband. She was, as ever, redundant.
Wearily, she lay down, still in the ugly round dress, not bothering to put on her nightrail. She needed a plan to get her out of the danger she was in.
She needed Mr Redding’s protection, and continuing her charade as a servant increased her chances of remaining beneath anyone’s notice. Wentworth would have wasted no time eliciting every local yeoman and servant in the area to search for the murdering mistress of Blinley.
Huddled beneath the musty covers of a strange bed, Phoebe realized how carefully she must orchestrate the coming few days.
Without money or clothes, she could go nowhere. She wasn’t afraid that Mr Redding would cast her out. He wanted her to testify against Wentworth and she’d do it—though not until Mr Redding had ensured Wentworth was properly charged with his crime, and Phoebe could try and find someone who would uphold her version of events. She dashed away the tear that trickled down her cheek. The servants had seen her with the paper knife—the instrument of death—in her hand. There was no evidence more damning than that. She needed to find someone who would affirm that Phoebe was of good character, a dutiful wife, and that Wentworth was a master manipulator.
But who?
As she buried her head in the pillow she thought of the risk she ran in going out in public where she might be recognized. Really, she was much a prisoner here, in Mr Redding’s house, as she had been at Blinley Manor.
She must have been just drifting off to sleep when she was woken by the sound of heavy pounding on the front door. Terrified, she threw back the covers and ran to check that her door was locked before going to the casement which was slightly ajar. She could hear voices below, and when she glanced into the distance was horrified to see, in the fading light, Sir Roderick’s carriage.
Voices floated up to her from the portico. “No sign of Lady Cavanaugh, then? We’ve had our men scouring the countryside.”
Phoebe strained to hear Mr Redding’s response, the sweat tickling the back of her neck as his considered response stretched out in the silence.
“Murder? Is Lady Cavanaugh in danger?”
“In danger from the noose!”
Phoebe flinched. Did Sir Roderick despise her so much for rejecting him? Surely he could not believe Wentworth’s version of affairs?
“Good Lord, pray elaborate!”
Mr Redding put on a good show of ignorance. Well, at least that augured well for Phoebe. He had no idea of Phoebe’s true identity, and she intended to keep it that way.
Phoebe couldn’t see Sir Roderick, but she could imagine the pugnacious stance he’d be adopting right now. His voice dripped with salacious glee as he recounted the morbid details. “She pierced her husband through the chest like a stuck pig before running off with her lover. We’re looking for both of them.”
“Lady Cavanaugh has killed her husband?”
“And escaped with her lover. Or one of them.” Sir Roderick’s laugh sent shivers down Phoebe’s spine. “She’s not discriminating.”
“Can you give me a description of Lady Cavanaugh and her lover?”
“The kind of looks that’d make a man drop his breeches if she crooked her finger—which is what she’s done too many times. Not that I want to say more for the sake of his poor, departed lordship.”
“Sounds quite a piece.” Phoebe heard Hugh laugh, and felt like crying. “And were you so fortunate, Sir Roderick?”
There was a pause before Sir Roderick answered peevishly, “I am a married man, Mr Redding. I made it clear to Lady Cavanaugh that I was not one to make overtures to. That put her in place, so to speak, not that she didn’t try her lures again. Thought she could make me another of her conquests….”
Phoebe shuddered at the memory of the occasion to which Sir Roderick alluded. Each time she’d passed through the lonely passage where he’d accosted her, she was assaulted by the memory of his brandy-soaked breath as he’d pushed her against the wall and slurred that he would be eagerly awaiting a quick tumble in the storeroom the moment she could extricate herself from her hostessing duties. That he’d heard he’d not be the only one, other than her husband, to enjoy her favors.
Phoebe cringed at the memory of the night she’d gone from being the faithful wife of an abusing husband, to the lover of a man who proved to be even crueler than Ulrick.
What had Wentworth told Sir Roderick and others about their affair? Why would Sir Roderick have tried to force himself on her, using the words he had?
Clearly, he was now determined to be avenged for her dismissal of him, and he would win. He was the magistrate.
Her heart was in her mouth as she waited for the spiel that would instantly make it clear to Hugh that Phoebe was, in fact, Lady Cavanaugh, the woman they were looking for, but to her surprise, Sir Roderick’s description of an uncommonly handsome woman with a haughty bearing and a crown of golden hair had rung no bells with Hugh.
Haughty? Phoebe felt quite indignant at the word. She was not haughty. She was terrified.
She turned back from the window, expecting to hear Sir Roderick take his leave and get back in his carriage. Instead, to her horror, Hugh Redding’s pleasant voice could be heard inviting Sir Roderick indoors.
Phoebe ran back to the bed, put on her nightrail and dived under the covers where she lay, shivering with terror as she wondered if she were to be dragged from her bed and brought before her neighbor to give her account of the story. After all, Mr Redding knew she had witnessed the murder.
The vulnerability of her position was as stark as ever. Mr Redding thought he could use her to entrap Wentworth for his own reasons, but what would he do when he discovered who she really was?
Presently, she heard a soft tread upon the staircase, but to her relief no turning of the doorknob.
Yet even though it was apparent Mr Redding had passed her bedchamber door, the horror of what might unfold in the very near future continued to disturb her much-needed rest until she thought of a new tack.
She must make herself valuable. Mr Redding was a bachelor living a simple existence. Phoebe would have to show him how much more comfortable it was having her around.
6
“Good mornin’, Mr Reddin’.” Phoebe looked up from her chair at the dining room table as her rescuer—or host, or the man holding her prisoner until she’d proven her use to him in apprehending Wentworth—slanted her a look of surprise as he entered the room.
“I’ve organized breakfast.” She smiled pleasantly. “Obviously ye’ve not been a resident ‘ere fer long. Ye certainly don’t know ‘ow ter order yer servants around.”
His initial wonder at seeing her dressed, her hair done as best she could under the circumstances, was almost comical. Just as Phoebe was silently congratulating herself on having produced such a response, she was highly indignant when he burst out laughing.
“Oh my, but it’s Lady Phoebe is it, to be sure?” He swept her an exaggerated bow. “A rather fetching effect, I might add, since I can’t decide whether you look more like a burgher’s wife or a schoolroom miss playing dress-ups.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s true I could do with a woman about the place. A housekeeper would do well enough. A bit ‘o muslin would be my preference.” He quirked a playful smile over one shoulder as he went to the sideboard, adding, “But not a wife, Phoebe my dear. I could lead you a merry dance, of course, and make you believe that I had honorable intentions; however, I’m not a liar.”
Phoebe tugged at her lip with her teeth. She’d gone through every tactical alternative, and decided that her best course of action was appealing to the fact that Mr Redding admired her as much as he hoped to profit by her. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Mr Reddin’, why didn’t ye tell the magistrate that I was ‘ere when ‘e came ter the cottage last night?”
Mr Redding took a seat opposite, looking surprised. “Sir Roderick? Were you eavesdropping?”
“I ‘eard ‘im from me casement. I couldn’t ‘elp it, ‘e’s such a loud…” She left the sentence hanging, letting her expression make it clear what she thought of him.
Mr Redding sent her a level look as he picked up his knife and fork, closing his eyes in brief appreciation of the aroma of streaky bacon.
Thoughtfully, he said, “I remembered your distrust of the man, and I own, there was something about him that didn’t sit well with me.” He shrugged. “I should, of course, have brought you downstairs to give your account. I don’t know why I didn’t since it was only delaying the inevitable. He’s investigating the murder and the disappearance of Lady Cavanaugh, and you know more than any of us.” He paused, heavily, “Don’t you, Phoebe?”
“Did ‘e say anythin’ ’bout…the murder?” Phoebe felt lightheaded just asking the question.
Mr Redding speared another piece of bacon. “Of course. What else do you think brought him here? Naturally, I invited him in, and he told me that immediately after she’d dropped the murder weapon, Lady Cavanaugh threw herself out of a window, leaped into Mr Wentworth’s carriage, and disappeared into the night.”
He finished his mouthful. Now he stared long and hard at Phoebe.
A great whooshing sensation rushed through her. So this was it, the inevitable unmasking. Mr Redding was playing with her. He knew very well that he was seated across from the woman who’d fled the scene of the murder—Lady Cavanaugh.
“Well, Phoebe, what do you have to say for yourself?” He put his head on one side. “Perhaps the truth would be a good start.”
Phoebe clasped her hands together and leaned across the table. “I…it’s true I—”
“Yes, that you and Lady Cavanaugh fled the scene of the crime together. But what became of her between the time you left Blinley Manor and when I intercepted you? That’s what we’d all like to know, and it’s what I should have had you tell Mr Roderick for yourself. Well, you will in due course, but I want to know now.”
“Ye…want ter know what ‘appened ter Lady Cavanaugh? Ye want ter know where I put ‘er out of the coach so I could continue drivin’ an’ so draw attention away from ’er?”
Mr Redding nodded.
Phoebe couldn’t believe her reprieve. She thought quickly before lying—for lying seemed the only way to keep herself safe—“The stage ter Bath were passin’. She leaped aboard at the last minute an’ I carried on.”
He seemed to accept this, completely.
“You’ll have to tell Mr Roderick everything, you do realize.”
Phoebe put up her hands in entreaty. “Mr Roderick is not ter be trusted. I’ll not reveal ter ‘im Lady Cavanaugh’s whereabouts. ‘E tried ter push ‘imself on me mistress. ‘E’s a terrible man!” She worried her lip even more. “An’ ‘e’s tellin’ lies ‘bout me mistress bein’ responsible fer Sir Ulrick’s death. She didn’t kill ’im, I told ye that. Mr Wentworth did. ‘E forced me mistress’s ‘ands around the knife an’ with ‘is own strength behind, drove in the blade.”
Phoebe stared down at her skirts as if expecting to see them suddenly crimson with blood. She knew there was a limit to how much Mr Redding would believe, and how long he’d shelter her if she either refused to tell her account to the magistrate or proved of no use in bringing Wentworth to account.
He frowned. “I say, that’s a rather different slant on your story of last night. Nevertheless, the truth will be for the magistrate to decide—once they’ve heard the witnesses. And one of those ought to be you.”
She closed her eyes. This was terrifying. “Mr Wentworth is after me blood, sir,” she whispered. “If ‘e learns where I am I won’t live ter testify.”
Mr Redding sighed. “So he knows how loyal you are to your mistress, and he’s afraid of what you saw. Is that it?”
Phoebe thought quickly. She dare not be recognized by anyone. If Mr Redding thought to introduce her to someone in the locality as Lady Cavanaugh’s maid, she’d be revealed in an instant.
“The truth is, I’m as afraid of Sir Roderick as Mr Wentworth,” she murmured. “‘E tried ter force ‘imself on me an’ when I kicked ‘im where it ‘urt, ‘e said I’d live ter regret it.” It was the truth and surely he’d not force her. “Sir Roderick is jest like Mr Wentworth. They’d fondle the rumps of any servin’ girl an’ I were no exception. I can’t tell Sir Roderick me story. Surely there’s some other way I can ‘elp yer get ter Mr Wentworth?” She rose and went around the table to put her hand on his shoulder. Dangerous and familiar, but it was the only way she knew how to beseech him. “Ye ‘ave yer own argument with Mr Wentworth, an’ I ‘ave mine. I’ll ‘elp ye all I can, fer I am familiar with ‘is ’abits, bein’ as ‘ow me lady talked often ‘bout ’im. An’ not in any flatterin’ way, I can tell ye.” She swallowed with difficulty, then added. “’T’was ‘is plan ‘atched with Lord Ulrick that meant me lady was forced to enjoy the…attentions of Lord Cavanaugh’s cousin ‘cause me lady’s ‘usband were so desperate fer an ’eir.”
Mr Redding made a choking noise. “Lord, Phoebe, you can’t run around spreading rumors like that if you claim on the other hand that your mistress is as pure as the driven snow.”
“Well, mayhaps not the driven snow, but she’s a good an’ virtuous lady an’ she ‘ad no wish ter do the things ‘is lordship commanded ‘er ter do an’ yet she’s painted as…immoral. She was actin’ on ‘er ‘usband’s orders.”
Another waft of some delicious cooking aroma made Mr Redding turn with an appreciative sniff as Mrs Withins entered the room with more bacon.
“Did you really organize this by yourself, Phoebe?” He looked impressed. “I confess to being somewhat distracted by matters other than my stomach, and am the first to own I am not terribly efficient at organizing the servants. I caught them playing at cribbage last night when I went in search of food.” He loaded up his plate once mor
e, adding when the door had closed behind Mrs Withins, “But let us turn back to the topic at hand, Phoebe, now that we are alone.” He chewed on the crispy meat then smacked his lips. “I daresay I’ll have to concede your victory in this instance. You’ll need a new dress if you’re to sit at table with me like a real lady, for that’s what you’re intending, isn’t it?”
Phoebe was both jubilant and full of ire as she watched him devour his plate of food. She hated being treated like a servant, but she had to get a new dress if she had any chance of getting out of the area without coming face to face with Sir Roderick.
And as Hugh helped himself to yet more bacon and eggs, he thought how pleasant it was to enjoy the niceties of life without having to be responsible for organizing them. The household was a woman’s domain, and Hugh had not the energy or inclination to get the servants to do what they’d done under Phoebe’s direction. Clearly, young Phoebe the lady’s maid was adept at more than just arranging her mistress’s hair. If she contributed to the comforts of the next few weeks he had the lease of the cottage, then she’d want and need to be more ornamental than she was in the bulky homespun of the miller’s wife’s clothes. Yes, a new dress would be fair recompense.
“Is there something you require, Phoebe?” Her breakfast finished, she’d risen but was now standing in the doorway.
“Jest an assurance that ye’ll not let Mr Wentworth get away with the wrong ‘e’s done ye. I want atonement fer me mistress.” Her shoulders slumped. “I worry fer ‘er an’ ‘ope she ‘as found sanctuary. She ‘ad few friends in the area.”
“I’m sure she’s quite safe. It certainly sounds as if she knows how to look after herself. And let me assure you that Mr Wentworth’s day of reckoning is almost upon him.” Hugh felt the warmth of his mission feed through his veins as he sat back in his chair, gazing upon the lovely face before him.
Dressed like a lady, he thought, and with her ability to ape her betters, coupled with a sharp intellect, he might really find young Phoebe an asset in a multiple of ways. It was quite clear she felt an attraction for him. He shifted in his seat. He’d imagined a lonely, solitary time out here in the wilderness, but suddenly he felt quite fired up. He’d rescued Phoebe, and while he had no intention of taking advantage of her, the looks she slanted at him suggested she’d not be averse to his overtures.
The Duchess and the Highwayman Page 5