The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  What were the color of her eyes? He glanced up again. A very pretty blue. Unwittingly, he found himself examining her lips. Even caked with mud he could see they were rosebud-shaped. Very kissable lips. Annoyed at the direction his thoughts were taking him, he returned to writing up the location where he’d met Phoebe, and what she’d told him while he wondered to what extent the girl used her very kissable lips to her advantage. He’d have to be on his guard.

  “That really depends on what you can tell me about this villain Wentworth.” His tone was grim. He must make it clear he’d not be a soft touch. He put his pen down and tapped the paper in front of him. “Let me be plain. I want Wentworth’s head on a platter, and I think you want that too. After all, he’s the reason you’re…homeless and friendless. While the servants draw your bath, let’s make the most of what you remember while it’s fresh in your mind. What were Wentworth’s precise movements in the time leading up to this terrible event?”

  “ʼIs movements…sir?”

  “Yes, I believe he’s a common visitor to Blinley Manor.” Hugh cleared his throat. “Though I’ve not been in the area for long, it wasn’t hard to learn the local gossip with regard to the peccadilloes your mistress enjoys with Mr Wentworth.”

  “How dare ye!”

  Despite himself, Hugh laughed at her outrage. She rose, hands on her slender hips as she thrust out her bosom. She looked as if another slanderous word would unleash her little hand in a stinging slap across his cheek. Hugh was uncomfortably aware of a frisson of excitement at the thought. Instead, he raised a supercilious eyebrow as he said, “If only we all had such loyal retainers, Phoebe. You do Lady Cavanaugh proud. Now, where do you suppose your fine mistress has fled? Perhaps she and Mr Wentworth planned this vile murder together. It’s the kind of thing clandestine lovers are wont to do—especially if the husband gets wind of the fact he’s being cuckolded.”

  Her eyes blazed, and she trembled with visible anger though seemed unable to offer a coherent reply.

  Hugh rose. “Into your bath, my girl. You are beyond filthy, I don’t need to tell you. It’s not necessary to fill it to the top, Withins. A couple of buckets are all that’s needed to get the dirt off.” When she began to protest he took pity on her. “All right, you can be like your lovely, sinless Lady Cavanaugh, just for tonight, and soak to your heart’s content. Withins!” He recalled his manservant. “More water, then. No, don’t look at me like that. I have to humor the lady if she’s to furnish me with the information I need on that rogue Wentworth.” Hugh rose and went to the door, opening it and bowing with a flourish. “And now, Phoebe, we will leave you to soak in private.”

  “Thank ye, sir.” Her tight-lipped response followed him into the passage, as Mrs Withins passed him from the opposite direction carrying a bundle of white linen underthings and a full, bulky, gown belonging to the venerable miller’s wife, a stocky creature who was about three times the girth of young Phoebe.

  It was an incongruous thought that Phoebe, whom Hugh had seen sheathed only in her chemise with her prettily turned ankles peeking out from just below, would soon be thoroughly covered up by the thick woolen garments that were all the miller’s wife seemed to have in her trunk. He’d been unwise to give in and allow her a full bath. Next, she’d be asking him to provide her with a new dress; though he shook his head as he wondered why he’d think such a thing. He’d only just met her, and he had no intention of being saddled with a wench on the make. Certainly, she’d be useful. There’d be a trial. There’d have to be if Phoebe was the witness she claimed and could testify against her mistress’s lover.

  The harsh smell of the tallow candles Mrs Withins had lit and placed in the candle sconces by each doorway, turned his thoughts to practicalities as he returned to the small room the miller used apparently for storage and writing letters, for it contained a deal table and chair. Aside from seeing to better quality fuel, he would need to expedite criminal proceedings. Surely the magistrate would be back in town if a murder had been committed at the manor.

  As he lowered himself into the little wooden chair that was surely too spindly to support a man of the miller’s girth, he mused upon relations between Phoebe and her master and mistress. Was she telling the truth? Had Wentworth killed Lord Cavanaugh? Would he recognize his lover’s maid? Wentworth was a man who took advantage where he could, so Hugh would have to ask the question. Several men with whom he’d shared an ale at the local tavern had suggested the local lady of the manor and her lover had eyes only for one another. The Blinley Manor servants said Wentworth was renowned for incarcerating himself in his lover’s salon for days at a time; an observation that suggested he had little interest in the underlings of his own household.

  Hugh pushed open the casement window and stared at the starry sky above. Far in the distance, he could see Blinley Manor, a single twinkling light burning. He felt foolish now, imagining he could have forced Wentworth out of his carriage at pistol point in order to gain the satisfaction he needed. The truth was that red-hot fury had fueled his wild ride to this part of the world the moment Ada had reluctantly given her brother the name he’d hounded her to reveal.

  But with Phoebe as his new ally, a far more sophisticated and effective plan was going to win the day. One that would ensure justice for Hugh’s sister without Hugh having to dirty his hands.

  A sound in the bushes below caught his ear. Instantly he was on the alert, tensing as he withdrew his head and snuffed out the candle while he peered into the darkness.

  With a murder having recently occurred up at the manor and Wentworth no doubt on the run, who knew what characters were about? Quietly, Hugh slipped into the corridor and exited through the scullery and into the kitchen garden. He allowed himself a moment to get used to the darkness before moving silently around the ivy-clad walls, glad of his dark clothing. When he reached the casement of the front parlor, he rested the back of his head against the panes and strained his eyes for a sign of movement in the bushes that bordered the grounds. But only the soft sighing of the breeze through the leaves emitted any sound. He moved forward to begin an investigation deeper into the garden, when the muted splash of water within reminded him that, just inside, Phoebe was having her bath.

  He turned, and felt a jolt of shock and something he was immediately unable to identify, as through the diamond-paned windows, he took in the startlingly erotic sight of a young woman with slender, milky limbs, and long ripples of golden-brown hair standing in a bathtub, reaching down to soap her thighs. Her face was no longer streaked with mud, and as she raised her chin, Hugh felt guilt and fascination in equal measure; topped with a large degree of astonishment. The girl was a beauty.

  He turned away, uncomfortably conscious that his hatred of Wentworth stemmed from that man’s disregard for the dignity of a woman. Hugh did not want to be compared. But as he took a step back toward the house, he felt softness beneath his feet and then the startled shriek of Mrs Withins’s deaf and blind cat which flew at him with bared claws.

  His last glimpse before he hurried back into the safety of indoors was confirmation that Phoebe’s body was indeed goddess-like perfection, her waist tiny, her breasts full and tipped with two tiny pink rosebud nipples. Trying not to deny the effect of such a sight, he closed the door to the outside behind him and took the stairs, two at a time, to his room.

  Dipping the sponge into the water and wringing it out, Phoebe looked about her for the usual accouterments that made bathing a pleasure. The bath salts? The scented oils? And that piece of rag…was that supposed to be the linen she dried herself with? It looked more like something the scullery maid would use to scour the bottom of the cooking pot.

  A scullery maid? Mr Redding thought her little better.

  She stood up, allowing the water to drip all over the floor while fear flooded her anew. What was she doing here? In a strange man’s house?

  And why, oh why, had she used her Christian name? She let the sea sponge fall into the water and put her han
ds to her face. There was little danger of Mr Redding associating her with the supposedly guilty Lady Cavanaugh, but what were Phoebe’s choices? Where could she go? She had nowhere but here.

  The shock seemed to be abating, but in its place came the familiar misery overlaid with panic. She balled her fists before bending to steady herself on the side of the tub as she closed her eyes. She could not let fear and despair get the better of her. She knew how to hold them at bay. Years of living with Ulrick, and then suffering at the hands of Wentworth following the truth of her girlish delusions, had forced her to develop ways to cope and survive. Now it was even more important to stay strong.

  Her first priority would be to maintain the fiction of her identity and then flee to the safety of her aunt’s cottage in remote Norfolk. Of course, she couldn’t stay there. Her aunt would not welcome her for more than a duty visit, and nor did she have the means to support another mouth to feed—or two. If Phoebe were with child—oh Lord, it would buy her the time she needed to bring a case against Wentworth—she would be spared the hangman’s noose, for now. Wentworth would do all he could to condemn her, but if she were seen to be carrying Ulrick’s heir, she’d have time she might not otherwise have had to build up her own case regarding her innocence.

  She just needed time.

  She clenched her hands at her sides and took a deep breath. By God but Wentworth would pay for his treachery. Ulrick had not been a kind husband, and Phoebe would not pine in widow’s weeds, but he did not deserve to die at the hand of a dagger. No, not even a dagger. A paper knife wielded by his cousin.

  She reached for the rough piece of linen as she stepped out of the bathtub and onto the hearthrug, soft and welcoming beneath her feet.

  It was some consolation that this handsome gentleman hated Wentworth with a similar passion. Phoebe had no idea of the nature of Mr Redding’s grievance, and while the gentleman upheld such a low opinion of Lady Cavanaugh, she could not reveal her identity. But the realization of how the common folk spoke of her made her sick to the stomach.

  Still, this man offered her the greatest chance of escape from the rough justice that Wentworth no doubt had in mind for her.

  She shuddered—this time in disgust rather than fear—as she picked up the voluminous garments she was lucky enough to be loaned to replace her bloodstained chemise. They were an abomination, but nothing compared to the knowledge that Mr Redding thought the mistress of Blinley Hall a harlot and in all likelihood in collaboration with Wentworth. She’d have to tread a fine line to see how it was possible to save her neck through working the situation—and Hugh Redding—to her advantage.

  He liked a pretty face. She’d not missed the flare of unguarded interest when he thought he was being dismissive. Well, Phoebe had spent enough time balancing a tightrope with Ulrick and Wentworth to know how to play men. If she were to survive Wentworth’s determination to see her hang for his crimes, she had no choice but to court Mr Redding’s interest. He wanted Wentworth to face the law, and she wanted Mr Redding as an ally in her own quest.

  As she pulled the chemise over her head, and then the bulky gown, dispensing with the stays which would have slipped over her hips, even with the tightest lacing, she wondered how she ought to model her behavior. She’d always had to think before she addressed Ulrick. He’d well and truly snuffed out her propensity for impulsiveness when he’d married her on her seventeenth birthday.

  How she hated play-acting but she could see little alternative. Wearily, she put her mind to the task at hand.

  A lowly maid with ideas above her station would be a trifle flirtatious and eager perhaps, though she’d have to be careful not to give him too many ideas. Phoebe needed Mr Redding on the end of a string. A very carefully tensioned one.

  Cramping pain made her abdomen contract, and she put her hands to her stomach, her mind roiling with disappointment as she recognized the signs.

  No, she was not with child.

  Not only that, she was once against forced into pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  5

  The next morning, dressed in the voluminous gown of brown and gold wool that Mrs Withins had brought her, and with nothing to cover her hair, Phoebe sat on a chair by the fire in the little parlour and waited.

  It had been well after midnight when she’d been shown to a spare bedchamber and she’d been too exhausted to even think about turning the key in the lock.

  Now it was nearly midday and she had no idea what the terms of her protection would be. Or what kind of man Mr Redding really was.

  She was still pondering her uncertain future when Mr Redding walked into the room and as she stood up and nearly tripped upon her too-long skirts, he laughed.

  “Methinks Goodwife Miller and you differ a little in size.” He regarded her with interest as he half circled her then went to his writing desk where he sat down. “Still, a good wash has been transformative.”

  It was certainly not a compliment but, as she inclined her head, she was conscious, once again, of his admiration, which he clearly wished to hide. Phoebe knew that men found her attractive. As a girl of seventeen about to embark upon her first season, she’d dreamed of clothes and handsome suitors, having enjoyed considerable attention at the local Assembly dances over a few short weeks.

  But then, her father had reeled in Ulrick. Ulrick who had no interest in her beyond her ability to procreate but who, in her father’s eyes, was too great a catch to let go. Decades older than herself, Ulrick lived an almost hermit-like existence with—as it transpired—a reputation for cruelty and a vicious scorn for women.

  Her father and his ally—Phoebe’s governess Miss Splint—had told her Lord Cavanaugh would make Phoebe a duchess. They’d rubbed their hands with glee, congratulating themselves on a fine piece of match-making that meant there was no need to spend money on a wardrobe for Phoebe to participate in London revels to catch a husband.

  Emotion thickened her throat. At least, having had a father who’d shown her so little affection, Phoebe hadn’t had high expectations of her husband.

  She picked up her skirts and carefully sat down again as she contemplated how far short of the life she’d once envisaged she’d fallen.

  She wouldn’t deny that it was a relief that Ulrick was dead and she need never fear the lash of his belt or back of his hand, again.

  But while she was free from the constant fear of physical violence and coercion, she needed to keep up her charade if she were to remain free in the eyes of the law. Without the right clothes, she was as much a prisoner as she’d ever been. She sighed. “I wonder ‘ow I’m ter walk out of that door an’ not cause tongues ter wag wearing this.”

  “Is that your way of asking me to fund something for your own wardrobe before I return you to your single relative? A new dress at my expense, eh? Something you can wear in a magistrate’s court?”

  That was the last place Phoebe wanted to think of being right now. “That mayhaps be some while, sir. I was thinkin’ of ‘ow I might present meself ter be useful ter ye since I can speak like a lady when I needs to.”

  “You already owe me your life since, according to you, Wentworth would have killed you if he’d found you. As for a new gown, no doubt you’re thinking of something that would be more than you’d earn in two years of wages, eh?”

  Phoebe’s outrage was a mixture of acting and the real. Mr Redding, seemed to take pleasure in needling her, with a pair of engaging brown eyes that could be serious one moment and twinkling with devilry the next. Well, she would have to work hard to make herself immune to both his barbs and his cajolery. No doubt he was like all the rest. A woman was a plaything, and a penniless one would be expected to dance to a rich man’s tune.

  She wondered what a cheeky maid would say. She’d whip up the flirtation perhaps, holding back while suggesting more. So she plastered a smile on her face and put her head on one side. “If ye want ter barter, sir, I will…give ye a kiss on the cheek.” With mock severity, she added, “I ‘o
pe that’s all ye expect, Mr Redding ‘cause let me assure ye, I’d rather go naked than barter me only asset.”

  “Your only asset?” He was mocking her now, a smile playing about his lips as he looked up from his writing desk. “And pray, what do you suggest is your only asset?”

  Heat burned her cheeks. Her only asset had been bartered for a good marriage, and then she’d bartered it again at her husband’s behest—with a man who at the time she quickly grew to detest—in the hopes of an heir.

  Oh, Wentworth, she thought with a pang of despair. Did I ever love you?

  She was ashamed she could transfer her heart so easily. Wentworth was worthless, and yet she’d been taken in so easily. Why? Because Ulrick had exerted pressure. She had to cling to the defense that her adultery had been driven by the knowledge that without an heir, she’d lose the only home she had. Surely any other woman, even a decent, God-fearing one, would have acted as she had?

  And yet she was still going to lose her home; her life, even, if Wentworth had his way.

  Mr Redding looked at her with amusement, not ready to let the topic go. “The way you’re blushing suggests you lost your only asset a long time ago.” He rose and took a few steps towards her. “No, don’t strike me when I was only going to take you up on your offer of a kiss.”

  He stopped a foot from her but instead of swooping to kiss her, gently touched her cheek. His smile was very warm. “I like you, Phoebe. And the look in your eye suggests you more than like me. But are you really that bold? What if I called your bluff?”

  Was she that transparent? Yes, she did like him, but it was ungentlemanly of him to say so and unladylike for her to show it. Indignation powered through her, and before she could stop herself, she’d slapped him soundly across the face before realizing the foolishness of her behavior when this man was the only person in any position to aid her.