The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  They were nearly there when she heard the harsh, guttural command terrifyingly close to her window before the carriage lurched to a halt, and the horses whinnied in terror.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Phoebe was flung forward, covering her face with her hands as she hunched in fright. Dear Lord, Wentworth must have come up the back way and cornered her, realizing all along this was what she had intended.

  Though her breath came hard and fast, she knew there was only one thing she could do. And that was run.

  Tugging open the door, she leaped to the ground, dragging her shawl behind her. Perhaps it was that which held her up for the crucial second, for suddenly his voice was only a yard away.

  “Stop! I swear I’ll shoot!”

  She had no doubt that he would. It was worth it to Wentworth to see her dead. He had to see her dead after what she’d witnessed. Oh God, and for all that she’d resisted, the truth was that she’d been a party to it.

  She covered the wide, open expanse as fast as her bare legs could carry her, but mercifully made it to the thicker part of the woods before she heard him galloping hard, just behind her. Hurling herself into the sanctuary of a copse of trees, she began her scramble toward a dip through which ran a small stream. The terrain would be too rough and difficult for a horse.

  Self-preservation was one thing, but there was also her dignity to safeguard. She’d spent long enough being the servant or plaything to men she did not love. Or respect. She’d not be slave or worse now, even if her only survival were to eke out the most pitiful existence. Life beat strongly in her. She wanted to live. She’d do whatever was required to live—as long as she could do so without being subjugated by a tyrant. Not Wentworth, and not in a prison cell waiting for the noose.

  “Stop, I say!” Clearly, Wentworth had too much to gain by her death, but Phoebe did not intend giving up now. He’d dismounted and got a bearing on her, leaping through the undergrowth in pursuit a short distance behind her. She could hear the crackle of small snapping twigs, his labored breath, the squelch of mud under boots. “Stop!”

  Only then did she realize the voice was not Wentworth’s. The realization provided a measure of relief, though not for long.

  Another villain who would do her harm? So he really was a highwayman, holding up Wentworth’s fine carriage in the hopes of rich booty.

  Well, that was just as much reason to flee.

  Her lack of clothing made her surprisingly agile. She couldn’t imagine achieving such speed in all the layers she was required to wear in her daily life, even though the fashions of the day offered so much more freedom than those worn by the previous generation.

  But to be wearing only a chemise was to be all but naked. If her pursuer saw her as a serving girl so scantily dressed he’d think he could do anything he liked with her. A highwayman was beyond the law, a desperate man without honor, who’d capitalize on such an opportunity since the jewels of the carriage occupant he’d expected were not forthcoming.

  Holding her aching side, Phoebe clung to an overhanging branch as she tried to gauge how far away he was. She couldn’t see him, but his labored breathing was audible; and then she glimpsed his bulk just a few yards behind her, clambering over a large fallen log.

  His head was bent, the lower part of his face obscured by a black handkerchief; a low-crowned felt hat pulled down over his brow. She could see the bulge of a pistol tucked into his waistband, and suspected he’d have no compunction either in killing or raping her. Well, she’d rather be dead in both instances—although how different was rape considering how she’d submitted with such reluctance so many nights since her forced marriage?

  Her assailant had just navigated the log, and locking eyes with her as she turned, lunged forward. Phoebe screamed as she leaped over the stream before losing her balance on an unstable, mossy rock on the other side. For a moment, she flailed helplessly before she was plunged into the icy water.

  Then, strong hands gripped her upper arm to drag her to her feet, though not for a moment did she give in to the inevitability of being a prisoner.

  She lashed out, kicking him in the shins, though this proved an ineffectual act as he laughed, remarking that he was still a great deal cleaner than she was, and certainly not as wet. To her surprise, his voice was cultured in contrast with the rough tones and style he’d used earlier.

  “I’ve no money an’ I’ll not yield without a fight, yer great villain,” she snarled, breathing heavily and adopting the accents of a peasant. Tonight she could not be Lady Cavanaugh to anyone. “Don’t ye dare touch me, sir, or I’ll bite it off! Ye see if I don’t.”

  His expression betrayed a flicker of incomprehension followed by an easing of his facial muscles, and when he laughed again, he looked quite pleasant she noted with the benefit of the pale moonlight that filtered through the interlaced branches above them.

  “I have no intention of hurting you. I’m just after your master. The man whose carriage you are inexplicably occupying dressed in nothing but your….” His expression turned to one of disbelief as he took in her garments, and as Phoebe looked down, she saw she was covered in more blood than she’d thought.

  “Oh my, a murder, eh? Well, I hope you’ve done away with your Master Wentworth and saved me the trouble. No, don’t try to kick me again. You’ll only bruise your toe and you look already to be in quite a good deal of discomfort. This isn’t the way you usually deport yourself, is it? Who are you?”

  Phoebe tossed her head, then quickly adjusted her posture. No need to advertise that she was lady of the manor. Clearly, in the dark with her wild hair and mud-streaked face, he’d not recognize her. Not that she recognized him. His accent was not of these parts and she’d not seen him before.

  She stayed the haughty rejoinder that came naturally, working to broaden her vowels. The lady’s maid. Yes, that would do for now. It could be helpful to her cause, in fact, especially if this man had a bone to pick with Wentworth; and now she really could show the fear and terror that she’d bottled up, and use it to her advantage. Covering her face with her hands, she collapsed upon the fallen log as she wept, “Might yer really be ‘ere to save us from that madman? M’lady were set upon by the villainous Wentworth after ‘e’d done away with ‘is lordship. I were on me way ter bed when I ‘eard the screamin’ an’ I dashed inter the room as he ‘ad the knife raised ter do ‘er in.”

  “Good God!” The villain, who now didn’t seem nearly so villainous, steadied himself against the trunk of a large tree while he regarded her with an expression of compassionate horror. “Was her ladyship injured? Is this her blood?”

  “No, ‘tis Lord Ulrick’s, sir. Lord Cavanaugh’s, I mean. He ain’t never comin’ back what with so much lifeblood spattered upon me.” She began to tremble. “Now Wentworth’s after me.”

  “Wentworth? After you?”

  She nodded fiercely. “I seen too much, I ’ave, and now I ain’t got no one ter protect me.” She sent him an appealing look.

  Dubiously he looked her up and down. “I daresay I should get you indoors and warm and dry. You’ll catch your death. But Wentworth is after you?”

  She was astonished this man believed her story. She had no idea who he could be or why he had a bone to pick though, but suddenly he offered her salvation.

  His mouth was set in a grim line. “First we must rescue the duchess!” He gazed out through the trees while Phoebe shook her head, alarmed.

  “No, no, she’s fled already. Yer don’t want ter go back ter Blinley Manor where there’s just Lord Ulrick, dead in ‘is chair. Mr Wentworth will kill ye too. ‘E’s a murderer.”

  The man angled a glance down at Phoebe, who found her legs were not doing a very good job at holding her up. She gripped the tree branch by her head to haul herself up as the man muttered, “It’s true I want Wentworth—away from Blinley Manor where it’s just him and me, man to man. But are you telling me the truth? You saw him commit a murder?”

  “’E�
�‘e murdered Lord Cavanaugh right in front of me. That’s why I ‘ave so much blood on me.” Phoebe couldn’t bear to look down at the crimson testament to the horror she’d more than just witnessed.

  The man appeared to deliberate. He took a step toward her. “I’m sorry we met at the point of a pistol. I’m more gentleman than highwayman, though I’ve been spoiling to have it out with that blackguard, Wentworth.” A shadow crossed his face. “That will have to wait for another night. I daresay I have no choice but to do as you suggest: take you home with me. I’m new to these parts, but we’ll have to find the magistrate.”

  “No!” Phoebe shook her head wildly. “I mean, of course, if the magistrate were in town we would ‘ave to see ’im….”

  The man raised one eyebrow. “You’re happy to come home with me but not to see the magistrate?” He inclined his head. “Mr Redding is my name. Where’s your family, lass? Surely I should deposit you with them?”

  “There’s none in these parts, sir. I ‘ave an aunt in the north, ‘bout a day’s travelin’. No one else.” She spoke the truth. Ulrick had brought her far from home and the few friends she’d had since childhood. He’d distanced her from everything familiar as he’d poured his energies into ensuring she fulfill the one important duty for which he’d traded her—her ability to provide him an heir.

  She touched her belly and felt again the now familiar spasm of fear. If she were with child, would that save her, or sacrifice her to a life of endless misery, her life in danger until the cargo was birthed—if she managed to live that long? Yet if she were not with child, she’d still be in danger from the man she thought once had harbored feelings for her. She’d seen too much.

  She looked over Mr Redding’s shoulder and glimpsed through the dense forest the patchwork of fields that stretched endlessly to places she’d never been.

  If he left her here, she’d have her freedom but not much else. With Ulrick dead and with no heir, she was penniless and homeless. The terms of her marriage contract were not favorable to her in widowhood. They’d hinged upon providing Ulrick with the son whom he desired more than anything else.

  To her surprise, she gulped on a sob. She was not inclined to easy tears, but the shock of her stark situation was suddenly more than she could bear. If he didn’t take her, where could she go? Tonight? Tomorrow? For the rest of her life?

  “Are those tears real?” Mr Redding cleared his throat. “You really were fleeing Wentworth and nothing else? You weren’t caught stealing the sugar?”

  “I seen ‘im kill ‘is lordship!” Phoebe repeated with some heat.

  Mr Redding sighed again. “I suppose I’ll have to take you home with me if you really are as friendless as you say. Don’t worry; I won’t hurt you,” he reassured her when she flinched away from him. “I’ll have to find you clean clothes, of course. And then I’ll have to feed and protect you from Wentworth…but I will do so only on one condition.”

  She slanted a narrow-eyed look up at him and he gave a laugh. “No, I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of serving wenches. You’ll be safe with me.”

  “I am not a servin’ wench, sir.”

  “A lady’s maid. I beg your pardon. Yes, I can hear your tones are far more refined when you put the effort into it. And no, my condition is quite simple and one that is clearly in your interests.” He regarded her again with that strangely unsettling stare of his, and in the moonlight, she thought that the eyes that bored into her from above the handkerchief he now removed were bright with intelligence. “I want you to give me all the information you have that would ensure justice for Wentworth. You know already that my mission tonight was to extract my own form of justice upon the man I despise above all others, but now you have the means to help me see him face a far more robust accounting.”

  Phoebe nodded, more than ready to have him lead her out of the woods and to his own dwelling. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere safer right now, though of course she knew she was too trusting for her own good. Hadn’t she believed Wentworth when he’d professed to love her? Just for now, though, she needed to believe there was kindness in the world and a single human being who would protect her.

  She took the arm he offered her, as if she were the fine lady she was by birth and not the blood-spattered, undressed servant she pretended for her own safety. “I swear that justice fer evil, wicked Wentworth is me greatest goal also,” she whispered.

  4

  Once back at his small manor house near the village, Hugh removed his hat as his manservant opened the door, the old man’s eyebrows shooting north as he took in the unlikely spectacle.

  Hugh had covered Phoebe in his greatcoat so that her liberal spattering of blood should not cause comment, and now he pondered what to do with her as he led her to dry in front of the fire. She might be his greatest weapon in his quest to avenge his sister, but she was also an encumbrance, though his frisson of frustration was tempered by another quick glance in her direction. Acting as her protector for a few days would not be a complete hardship. The curves of her lithe young body had been impossible to ignore when she’d been pressed against him clad only in a chemise.

  He forced away the uncomfortable recollection of his too virile initial physical response to her, giving what he’d intended to be a reassuring, fatherly pat on the shoulder before he left her to go to his writing desk. He was not a blackguard, and she’d obviously endured a great deal.

  She slanted a wary look at him before her lips turned up into a pert smile, causing two charming dimples to pop out in her cheeks. In the light, she looked bolder. Saucier. Obviously, time would tell how she chose to act upon her good fortune in finding a protector such as himself, thought Hugh, wondering if her awareness of him was on a level with his.

  Well, she should not get ideas, and neither should he, he counseled himself sternly as he sat down, pulling out a piece of parchment and opening the inkwell. That said, he was not averse to having a bit of fun with her to see how easily she’d be needled if he slighted her precious consequence.

  Even walking the short distance between the stables and the cottage, she’d walked with the dignity of the lady born, assuming she should enter through the front door and no doubt be properly introduced. There was bound to be a battle of wills between the surly servant couple he’d inherited with the cottage, though Lord knew he needed some diversion after the lonely and fruitless week he’d endured trying to find a solution to poor Ada’s woes. Though he never intended his sister to know it, it was on her account he’d rented the cottage from a miller and his wife who’d gone to London.

  Mr Withins, still in the guise of butler, was shaking off the water droplets from Hugh’s hat, his eyes boring into Phoebe as if he couldn’t make head nor tail of her.

  Hugh smiled as he dipped his pen into the ink. “Aye, Withins, you might well look at the fine baggage I picked up in the street, but once she’s cleaned up she’ll be fit company for you and me.”

  A disdainful sniff from Withins turned Hugh’s amusement to regret. His sister would have flown at him for speaking in such an ungentlemanly fashion about anyone, and she’d have considered it unforgivable for him to have publicly denigrated an underling under such circumstances. Well, she would have torn strips off him in the old days. Wishing the words unsaid, he sent Phoebe a rueful smile as atonement before turning back to address his servant once more. “Ask Mrs Withins to rummage in the wooden trunk of the guest room and see if she can find anything suitable for the lass to wear. And fill a tub of water in front of the fire, please.”

  He saw the young woman blink rapidly as she took this in before she stammered, “’Ere, sir? In this room?” She looked about her as if she’d never bared her limbs in public. “Wot about me privacy?”

  Her words dispelled his humor. He’d been on the hunt for days and so close to coming face to face with Wentworth. Yet all he had for his pains was responsibility for a young woman who looked likely to be more trouble than she was worth. It was all very well
if she’d witnessed Wentworth’s crime, but her obvious capacity for embellishing the truth, and her pretentiousness, would not go down well in court—for that’s where Hugh intended seeing Wentworth. Of course, not a whisper would connect Wentworth with his sister, and nor did Hugh intend for Wentworth to make the connection.

  He tapped his fingers on the parchment in front of him and sighed. “I’m not about to have the tub lugged upstairs to a private bedchamber, Phoebe. Even if you are a lady’s maid.”

  She gritted her teeth, he noticed, and her whole body shook. If Hugh weren’t so weary he might have been more amused as she all but hissed, “I am used ter a good deal more respect than ye seem to think, sir, though I thank ye for the offer of a ‘ot bath an’ clean clothes. That is indeed kind.”

  “I thought so. Now tell me your name. Your real name.” Her determination to set herself on a higher perch than the one to which she was entitled needled him. He was not going to be taken advantage of, regardless of her plight.

  Yet despite his best intentions, he could not ignore the quickening interest he felt each time she looked his way. Leaning back into his chair, he raised his candle. It was hard to tell if she were comely or not under all that mud.

  “Lady—” She broke off abruptly, and he quirked an eyebrow, before she added with a haughty sniff, “Lady Cavanaugh’s maid, Phoebe...Cooper.”

  “Well, Phoebe, I’m sorry we met under such circumstances. I promise you will be well treated while in my care.”

  She sent him a narrow-eyed look. “I ‘ope I’ll not ‘ave to impose upon ye fer too long, sir.”

  Hugh was about to say he hoped not too, but he wanted to make up for his ungentlemanly manners of before, so he remained silent. He had no doubt the girl intended milking the situation to her advantage. What lowly servant wouldn’t? he thought as he scratched her particulars onto the piece of paper that would form part of the inevitable investigation. He could see it in the worldly look in her eye, for it was usual for a servant who knew her place to drop a demure gaze to the floor when a superior addressed her.