The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  “Yes, so I can dress and attend a dinner where several MPs, including my charming Mr Xavier, will be in attendance,” Ada simpered. “Aunt Alexa introduced us three days ago.”

  “Ah yes, so that’s my cue to quiz you on your beau.” Hugh tried to sound interested, but his mood was fearful and heavy. “My apologies for allowing myself to be distracted.”

  “Don’t be churlish, Hugh. Phoebe will come back if she loves you as she says she does. And please be glad for me. Since you asked—or rather, didn’t in so many words—Mr Xavier is a widower with no children and no title but an adequate fortune and a fine Mayfair address, and Aunt Alexa says I’d struggle to do better. Fortunately, I find myself rather intrigued by Mr Xavier. He is very kind.”

  “Very kind? And doddery? Oh Ada, don’t sell yourself short. You don’t need to settle for an old man.”

  “I don’t plan to settle for anyone I don’t choose to ally myself to for the remainder of my days. Mr Xavier is fifteen years older, interesting, and well-connected.”

  “Are you brave enough to risk—”

  “Do you mean have I covered my tracks well enough to confidently entertain Mr Xavier’s attentions without fear of discovery of the fact that I’m no better than your Phoebe?”

  “No need to bristle like a hedgehog, my dear Ada.” Hugh shook his head. “My, but you are not the meek and mild little sister I once knew.”

  “That’s because I’ve seen Mr Wentworth win a fine estate and profit despite the crimes he’s committed against me. I will trouble myself no more with him, but if I cannot get my revenge in seeing him reduced in status and fortune, then my revenge will be in prospering in my own life. I will not be an unpaid companion to a crotchety aunt for the remainder of my days because of Mr Wentworth. I shall be the wife and hostess of a man of politics. I shall not be afraid, Hugh, for nothing can be as bad as that which I’ve endured already.”

  “Fighting words, indeed,” Hugh said admiringly. “I wish you great success in your endeavors toward such ends. Meanwhile, I must return and decide what to do about Phoebe.”

  “You can do nothing until she decides to return.”

  Hugh looked at her sadly. “You truly believe she has left me?”

  Ada smiled. “I also believe she will return to you, Hugh, when she grows tired of her pleasure-seeking and realizes no kinder, sweeter man existed. And you will take her back because you love her. It will end happily; I’ve no doubt. Now go to your club and stop mooning about like a lovestruck calf.”

  17

  It was just after midnight that Phoebe was roughly pushed into the withdrawing chamber of the receiving lackey on duty, who raised his grizzled head and looked at them blearily. He’d obviously been asleep in a chair before the grate.

  In the disconcerting silence, she heard the time burst forth from the far-too-cheerful street caller just below the window, and shivered as the door opened to a stooped gentleman punctiliously adjusting his bagwig, his expression sonorous. His displeasure at seeing them was in contrast to Wentworth’s transparent satisfaction. He looked as if he’d been recalled from far more pleasurable pursuits.

  “Lord Mayberry, I’d like to present Lady Cavanaugh, the woman who murdered her husband and my cousin. The woman all England has been looking for this past two months.”

  Lord Mayberry wiped rheumy eyes with a handkerchief and peered at Phoebe, his gaze traveling critically from the dirt-encrusted hem of one of the secondhand gowns she’d acquired, and which was partly concealed beneath her faded black bombazine cloak. She was not dressed like a lady, she knew. Nor like a servant either.

  Lord Mayberry squinted at her, and with horror, she realized she’d seen him earlier that night at Madame Plumb’s.

  “She does not look like Lady Cavanaugh,” he muttered, no doubt confused by her appearance as he signaled over his shoulder to a hovering maid to pour them all a brandy.

  “For Lady Cavanaugh, too,” he added. “She’ll need it.”

  They sat down and the maid brought over the drinks, whispering something in her employer’s ear which he waved away with a flicker of irritation. “Reassure Margaret that all is well,” he told her. “And that I’ve been at home all evening, but that my sleep has been disturbed by an apprehended murderess. That’ll have her down in a trice, wanting to know this and that, never satisfied,” he muttered, though Phoebe was sure they were not intended to hear what he just said, just as she knew Lord Mayberry had not been in his own bed all night.

  Fear had locked up her throat, but now she managed tightly, “I did not murder my husband.”

  His lordship looked at her sharply. “Oh, so you admit you are Lady Cavanaugh then. That’s a pity. I’d thought to release you with a warning for solicitation and leave it at that.” He glared from her to Wentworth, then sighed, waving his empty glass in the air for his maid to collect. “Well then, we’d better get on with it, hadn’t we?”

  In the dim chamber of elongated shadows, names and titles, alleged crimes and statements, were recorded by a tall, lanky young man with a prematurely-aged face and small pointed ears, who’d been summoned for the task. Then they were all on their feet again, and Wentworth was pressing himself close to Phoebe while Lord Mayberry and his secretary, heads bent close, discussed proceedings in a low murmur at the far end of the room.

  Wentworth’s eyes glittered in his self-satisfied face.

  “You thought you could best me, Lady Cavanaugh, but you were wrong.” His breath was sour; his voice thick with gloating. How well she remembered it. How could she ever have felt a spark of anything for the man? How could she not have been repulsed and riddled with mistrust and contempt? The thought that he’d savored her body like her darling Hugh had done—and that she’d given herself to each with equal abandon—sent the bile surging into her gullet.

  Then she reminded herself that she’d only given herself to Wentworth because her husband had demanded it. No. She’d done it to save her own skin; she had to admit that. If Ulrick had died without an heir, she’d have been at the mercy of her husband’s half-witted brother who’d formed a very definitely expressed disgust of her, though she’d never understood why.

  With no other resources to fall back on, her life would have been intolerable.

  She shivered and turned her head away, addressing Wentworth coldly. “You used me as it pleased you, and then you discarded me when I could no longer be of use.”

  When he pushed his leering face into her line of vision, she was tempted to scratch his eyes out—if only it would have served its purpose.

  No, she was doomed, and not even her darling Hugh had the power to save her, if he even knew where she was. Her heart clenched at the thought of him. If she could send him a message…

  Lord Mayberry was in brief consultation with his secretary, bent over by the light. Wentworth took her shoulder and drew her attention away. “Ah, but I am clever, my dear Phoebe. Much cleverer than you would allow. You plotted and planned your own future comfort on the basis of the child you desired from me, just so that you could remain dowager Lady Cavanaugh in your poor dead husband’s fine house. Admit it! You’re no better than I am when all is said and done. It’ll all come out in court, and as your reputation is already worse than an opera dancer’s or a fair Cyprian’s plying her trade behind the Red Door, I’d say you had little chance of winning over even the most tenderhearted magistrate.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?” She turned back to face his malice. “What have I ever done to you that you would actually see me die—and by your own hand for that’s the truth of it.”

  She glanced at the door, half inclined to make a dash for it, but Wentworth’s fingers bit painfully into her wrist, and already Lord Mayberry was clearing his throat and shuffling back to them.

  Wentworth chuckled. “Because you thought you were too clever, but it’s my wife who’s the clever one. Ariane saw the danger you posed, and she’s not about to give up what we’ve waited so long for.”

&nb
sp; Phoebe put her hand to her throat, nearly felled by the image she conjured up of the angelic creature for whom she’d searched on Ada’s behalf. She’d imagined her a lost soul, frightened for her life and miserably discarded by an abusive husband. But Ariane was just waiting for Phoebe to be deposed so that she could emerge when the time was right as the new Lady Cavanaugh. Once again, Phoebe had been duped. She really wasn’t a very good judge of character; clearly.

  Lord Mayberry indicated for them all to stand, and a stab of fear made Phoebe cry out, “Please don’t leave me here, Wentworth!” despite the fact she wanted never to see him again. Yet he was all that was familiar, and only he had the power to change her fate. Yes, she would die if he’d not vouch for her.

  And admit culpability himself? Of course he’d never do that.

  “Please…I want to send a message.”

  The three men turned. Lord Mayberry’s expression was ameliorating, but immediately Wentworth blew the suggestion into the realms of the preposterous.

  “To her lover, no doubt, and then there’ll be no end of trouble as he beats upon your door in the early hours of the morning to interfere with the law. No, Lady Cavanaugh, you are a criminal and must be treated as one.”

  “Just one message,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, all other defense dying in her throat, for all she wanted was the kindness and reassurance of her darling Hugh. “Why should he not be allowed to help me? I am not guilty until proven so.”

  “You are a self-confessed murderess. You admitted so in your own words in this chamber.” Wentworth appealed to the two other men, both of whom looked momentarily undecided before Wentworth said, “And now who shall convey her to prison to languish with the other criminals?”

  Phoebe clutched the froth of black lace at her throat and stared in horror between Wentworth and Lord Mayberry. The extent of Wentworth’s loathing should not have come as such a shock.

  Lord Mayberry put up his hand for calm. And although his directive brought some comfort, there was scathing in his tone as he went to pull the bell rope.

  “Lady Cavanaugh’s character may be a matter of lively debate, but she is nevertheless the wife of a peer and will be tried as such. In the meantime, I shall house her here until she be removed to a place more suitable, after which she shall be tried as befits one of her station.” He cleared his throat then looked at Wentworth. “Lady Cavanaugh is innocent until proven guilty and is entitled to those items of her wardrobe and otherwise in her possession which set her apart from the lower echelons of society to which she has chosen to align herself while on the run.” He sent a critical look at her clothing. “That is, if she so wishes.”

  Hugh had never been more at his wits’ end. It was one thing for Phoebe to have vanished with not a word, but the fact she’d taken no objects of value when she’d been so determined to have a wardrobe befitting her aspirations suggested foul play. While the thought was horrifying, it lessened the likelihood of her simply having waltzed off with the first decent offer no sooner had Hugh departed.

  Ada obviously thought this the case. “Hugh, darling; I know your heart is bleeding, but it will mend,” she soothed him on his fourth evening home. She’d dropped her tatting onto the sofa and moved to kneel on the floor by his chair, resting her hand on his arm just as she’d done when she’d been a child. The words resonated for they were the very ones he’d used when Ada was about to be banished from all she knew and held dear after her terrible transgression with the evil, manipulative, Wentworth.

  Hugh stroked his sister’s fair hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring Wentworth to justice,” he murmured. “A good brother would have chased him to the ends of the earth as a matter of honor. I set off to do what I could but—”

  She cut him off. “There was nothing you could do without dragging my good name into the muck. Remember, it’s only thanks to you I can still hold my head up and pretend to be as good as all the other misses who parade themselves around the dance floor in the hopes of a good marriage.”

  “And you have an admirer, Ada.” Hugh ignored the implication that she wasn’t, in fact, as good as her competitors. In his eyes, she was as pure as she always had been. It was Wentworth who had used trickery and cajolery to make her rebel against the careful manner in which she’d been brought up. “And a good man at that. I’m delighted!” Hugh tried to shift his mood. For the first time these past few days, Ada had been in joyful spirits. She’d introduced Hugh to her new admirer, and Hugh had been impressed. Mr Xavier seemed an upstanding chap with a genuine regard for his sister.

  “And,” Ada continued, “you rescued Phoebe from goodness knows what terrible situation. I know she’s gone again,” she added quickly, “but it proves that you still have a heart capable of tenderness when I was afraid you were never going to fall in love again.” She stood, smiling fiercely. “And if I can fall in love again, so can you.”

  But he wasn’t sure he really could. Every breath was painful. It was as if Phoebe’s loss had dragged the spirit from him. And yet he must retain his fortitude. He had to find out what had happened to her, even if it were only to prove her the venal creature Ada was happy to paint her, and that he feared she may be.

  “You will, of course, attend the trial of Lady Cavanaugh, won’t you?” Ada clarified suddenly. “If there’s anywhere you’re likely to find Phoebe, it’ll be there. You saw how fiercely she defended her mistress every time it was suggested Lady Cavanaugh was guilty of anything.”

  Hugh shook his head. He’d contemplated it, but he had business that clashed with the court hearing, though the truth was he didn’t want to encourage Ada while his mind was still churning over what to do. He tapped his fingers on the chair arm. “Phoebe was too afraid to see the magistrate or Wentworth. I doubt she’d have the courage to show her face in a place where she might be recognized.”

  “Oh, but you must go!” Ada cried. “It’s all anyone is talking about. I mean, a duchess murdering her own husband! She’ll be tried in the Lords, but I hear she has few friends of any importance who are likely to be sympathetic.” Ada sat down in a chair opposite and picked up her tatting. “Aren’t you interested just to see what Lady Cavanaugh looks like, knowing what kind of woman she is? I am. Beautiful and calculating, they say, and prepared to do anything to make a man bend to her will. She cuckolded her husband for years with an endless number of lovers. Will she play the injured wife whose hand was forced, or appear with more defiant countenance?”

  Hugh sent his sister a shocked look. He was about to ask what she knew of such matters but thought better of it. Ada was far more worldly than she ought to be, but they themselves had a charade to maintain in order to preserve the pretense that she really was the unblemished virgin she must present to the world in order to marry well. Before he had a chance to interject, Ada sighed and said, “Of course, I wouldn’t have dreamed of showing my face where you know who would be strutting about, but without my even bringing up the subject, Mr Xavier said he believes it would not be a delicate thing for any lady to hear the particulars in view of the dastardliness of Lady Cavanaugh’s crime, and that he presumes I’d not even think of attending. Those were his words, more or less.” She dimpled. “If he’s afraid for my delicate sensibilities, then I’m not about to prove that they’re not very delicate at all.” She giggled. “You see how I’m made bold and able to talk about Mr Wentworth—there! I said his name—because I now have Mr Xavier.”

  She sent her brother a look of entreaty. “Please go, Hugh. I’m dying to hear all the details.”

  Hugh knew he’d have gone anyway. Anything that might possibly yield Phoebe was a chance he’d chase, but Ada’s insistence had him nodding his head, while his heart beat wildly at the thought of ever seeing Phoebe again.

  18

  So that’s how he found himself at a special court session on a chilly afternoon, shivering in his caped coat, though the temperature was rising rapidly with so many heated bodies packed in to see England’s most sensational f
emale criminal show her face.

  Not that Hugh was especially interested in Lady Cavanaugh. The gossip surrounding her suggested a vain and self-centered woman who traded on her beauty to achieve her venal ends. Such women held no interest for Hugh. The possibility that Phoebe, however, might have slipped into the courtroom, disguised, to observe her beloved mistress, was his inducement for cancelling his other engagement; one of considerable potential importance too, since it involved discussion about a sinecure which, if awarded to him as had been hinted, he hoped would establish him on the political scene.

  Yet he was not going to throw away his best chance of locating Phoebe; darling Phoebe whom he’d fondly accused of being venal in her attempts to cajole him into providing her with the clothing and other accounterments she required to better herself. But she had loved him. Certainly, she had for a while. It was impossible that she could have feigned such physical reactions toward him.

  Hugh bowed his head. Why had she left him? Her timing could not have been more unexpected, though she had hinted at the possibility, telling him she would accept no man as her master.

  He might not have liked what she’d said, but at least Phoebe was transparent, open, and honest. Unlike her mistress. Hugh could not imagine the horrors of being wed to a conniving, unfaithful wife like Lady Cavanaugh, who deceived and plotted murder.

  A small group entered the courtroom, and surreptitiously, Hugh scanned each face. Both women were veiled, but the way they carried themselves was enough for Hugh to dismiss them in an instant. Phoebe had such a regal carriage.

  The benches had quickly filled for the most notorious court case in years, and when no more people were allowed through the door, Hugh settled back in disappointment. Phoebe did not appear to be here, after all.

  A sea of wigs belonging to the older gentlemen, and a sprinkling of bonnets on all sides of him; people chattering; all made him feel very alone, reinforcing how much he missed Phoebe’s bright and lively chatter.