The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  Whatever the case, clearly he deeply regretted this marriage, but fact was that his wife was entitled to share in the spoils resulting from his elevation in status.

  Pulling on her gloves and tying the ribbons of her bonnet, Phoebe went down the stairs and into the darkened street. She’d told her maid she was going out and not to wait up for her. Hugh had taken the carriage, so Phoebe hailed a hackney, and pulling down her veil when she was inside, prepared for an evening that, even if she felt somewhat guilty about, promised to be a good deal more interesting than spending another evening at home, alone.

  Despite persuading herself she was doing no wrong, her heart beat rapidly as she paid the hackney then watched it disappear around the corner, leaving her standing on the pavement by the iron railing of a somewhat ordinary four-square house. The blinds were drawn, but she could see the glow of lamplight behind as she was forced to step aside for two ladies elegantly attired but veiled, and then two gentlemen in evening dress. If this was the right address, it looked benign and ordinary.

  A little maid greeted her at the door with far more confidence than the usual menial given the girl’s tender years. “Welcome, ma’am, if ye’d like ter follow me to the refreshments’ room. Ye’ve not bin here afore.”

  Phoebe did so and soon found herself in an elegantly furnished room with a table heaped with jellies, blancmanges, thinly sliced ham, tarts and plover’s eggs, around which milled more than a dozen ladies and gentlemen. The sound of a fine alto sung by a woman with a deep, clear voice issued from beyond, and Phoebe wondered why Ada had said her aunt would not deign to step over the threshold. It all looked perfectly respectable to her.

  Nevertheless, she felt dreadfully exposed being on her own though her veiling gave her confidence. Some ladies had pushed theirs back, but Phoebe noticed others wore masques or were entirely shrouded.

  “Good evening, are you looking for someone?” The fact that the question was asked by a kindly looking matron was comforting, especially when the woman introduced herself as Mrs Plumb.

  Phoebe nodded, and Mrs Plumb patted her on the shoulder. The woman was stout and grey-haired with no veiling or masque to add mystery or concealment. She was neither plain nor handsome. “No cause to look so anxious, my dear; discretion is what we pride ourselves on. Just tell me what kind of gentleman pleases you, or point him out if he’s here, and I shall effect a proper introduction.”

  Phoebe drew in her breath, startled at what she interpreted as a great vulgarity and affront to good breeding before remembering to what she’d been reduced. “I’m not interested in any gentleman, but rather a woman,” she said quickly.

  “Ah.” Mrs Plumb nodded sagely, running her hands the length of her cerulean sarcenet skirts. “You want a woman. Well, there are plenty of lovely ladies here who also have no interest in the gentlemen, and I’m certain I can introduce you to just the right soul mate, if that is your heart’s desire.” She smiled. “Mrs Plumb’s Salon is where wishes are granted, and no dream is too strange to come true.”

  Emphatically, Phoebe shook her head. “I’m looking for one lady in particular. I was told she came here on a Thursday.” She paused and lowered her voice. “I don’t know what name she might go by other than Mrs Wentworth for I was told only that Mr Wentworth’s wife works here.”

  A flash of surprise registered in the depths of Mrs Plumb’s expression. “Who would like to know? I keep a safe house, my dear.”

  “So she is here? There is a woman known by that name?”

  Mrs Plumb hesitated. “Possibly.”

  “Please, I do need to speak to her. It’s about her husband.”

  Mrs Plumb jerked back her head, her eyes widening. She glanced about her quickly, before whispering, “He’s not dead, is he?”

  Phoebe bit her lip. “He’s not, but I think Mrs Wentworth should be given the chance to decide whether she wants to talk to me or not.”

  Mrs Plumb inclined her head. “Wait here,” she ordered, turning on her heel and disappearing through a curtained doorway.

  Phoebe stared at the food while she slanted a surreptitious glance at the odd assembly. She noticed a slender, elegantly-attired young woman in an elaborate, feathered masque take the arm of a gentleman and disappear through a doorway behind a tapestry she’d not noticed before. Could half these people be prostitutes? she suddenly wondered, shocked. Surely innocent Ada would not have sent her to such a place like.

  “Would madam like to view the paintings in the blue room?”

  A rather distinguished gentleman, somewhat older and with gray peppering his hair, proffered his arm but Phoebe stepped away. “Thank you but I’m meeting someone,” she said quickly, and with a nod he slipped into the crowd.

  More couples disappeared into chambers hidden behind paintings or plinths. Phoebe heard a smattering of clapping as the singer finished her song, and then was loudly congratulated by an admirer. “Madame Zirelli, our songstress of the evening, has now concluded her art. Please show your appreciation once more, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Peeping past the curtains, Phoebe observed a tall, handsome woman of middle years dressed in a slightly shabby gown of cerulean blue. She’d heard the name before, and remembered that Madame Zirelli had been a singer of some renown who’d passed through the towns of the north when she’d been a child.

  “Would Madame like some refreshment? I’m told you are looking for someone, and I am here to lead you to satisfaction.”

  Phoebe glanced around and found herself looking into the eyes of a beautiful young woman dressed in diaphanous robes with an impish smile. Her long, golden hair was unbound though held in place with a circlet of flowers, and her gaze was the purest blue Phoebe had ever seen.

  The young woman smiled again and held out her hand. “I’m Ariane. Come with me.”

  Unresistingly, Phoebe followed the girl down a passage and into a darkened room filled with a strange scent of musk, and the soft singing of four similarly dressed maidens who swayed in time to their lovely chant.

  The door closed behind them, plunging them into semidarkness, but rather than feel fear, Phoebe was mesmerized, unthinkingly bringing the goblet that was placed in her hands to her lips. Its contents tasted like mead, the honey and strange herbs astringent but pleasant against the back of her throat. Smoke scented with the same herbs drifted into her nostrils, stinging the back of her throat, but the sight of the four young girls on a dais surrounded by candles in the center of the dim, smoke-filled room, swaying and softly chanting, was too transfixing for her to step away.

  Ariane put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and drew her to a velvet throne in the corner of the room. “Would you like to watch?”

  Phoebe blinked a few times. The smoke and odd scent were making it difficult to concentrate. “I’m looking for Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered. “You said you’d take me to her.”

  Had she asked for Mrs Wentworth earlier? she wondered, but before she could recall, the young woman smiled, tracing the curve of Phoebe’s lips with her forefinger. “I am Mrs Wentworth,” she said softly.

  Phoebe jerked out of her caress and blinked stupidly.

  Ariane laughed gently while behind her the vestal virgins swayed, heads together, eyes closed, expressions rapturous.

  “You are Mrs Wentworth? But…”

  “But I do not live with my husband? No, that is correct.” Ariane looked amused as she bade Phoebe be seated, then lowered herself into the velvet banquette beside her. “I worked here before I met him, and now I am back here where Mrs Plumb takes care of me and I am surrounded by kindness. I have no complaints.” She stroked Phoebe’s hair. “But I am curious. How do you know my husband, or perhaps I should not delve too deeply into that question? I suspect he knows many women, not all of whom are happy to have known him.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Bitterness and fear rose up in Phoebe’s throat. “How do I know him? I wish I didn’t. I…” she floundered, wishing also that she’d not drunk the mead so quickl
y for she was aware of less clarity in the workings of her brain than she would like. “Let me assure you, Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered, “I do not judge you for having left your husband.”

  “He was not good to you?” Mrs Wentworth’s smile did not lose its sweetness. “Oh, that does not surprise me at all. I am sure you have many questions, otherwise you would not have sought me out, my dear, but first I would like to know your name.”

  “Phoebe.” Her Christian name only. That would suffice. She was fortunately clear-headed enough to know how to protect herself.

  “Phoebe. Well, I hope I can help you. As you can see,” she waved a hand about her, “I have safety and freedom and a measure of security and happiness. I would not live the life of a conventional married woman again, let me tell you.”

  “Mrs Plumb looks after you?”

  “And I dance for her clients in return.” Ariane looked satisfied as she added, “It is perfectly respectable. Mrs Plumb has a legion of vigilant servants to ensure any unwanted overtures are summarily dealt with. Now, what else would you like to know?” She reached across the table laden with grapes and other fruits and refilled her goblet from a flask which she handed to Phoebe. “Let me start from the beginning, shall I? Perhaps recount my miserable childhood as the seventh daughter of an innkeeper, and my equally unhappy marriage to the fine gentleman, Mr Wentworth, who used to break his journey at our inn at regular intervals. We both soon regretted our impulsiveness.”

  “And then you went your separate ways? Oh, but I can see why!” Phoebe put down her now empty goblet and clasped her hands. “He’s a cruel man. But he’s also a very wealthy one now. I am sure you cannot know that else you’d not be content to remain here, in all but poverty, when he could be furnishing you with all that to which a lady like you is entitled.”

  “A lady like me?” Ariane smiled. “I am as much a lady as Mr Wentworth is a gentleman.”

  “But a lady is what you are. A titled one on account of Mr Wentworth having inherited the estate of Lord Cavanaugh, his second cousin, following the unexpected deaths of his two brothers.” Phoebe knew she was growing too excited without perhaps explaining matters properly since Ariane did not appear to be either believing her, or overjoyed at her new lot in life.

  “Well, that’s hardly going to benefit me if it means I have to live with the man.” She shrugged. “I’d rather forgo all the riches in the world.”

  “Oh, I can well imagine it,” Phoebe declared warmly. “But if it’s revenge you’re after, then I know exactly how to achieve it. We suspected Mr Wentworth had married but was keeping it secret so he could make another more advantageous marriage.”

  Ariane raised an eyebrow, and Phoebe went on; her tongue unleashed as if she could not have maintained discretion for all the world. “To me, in fact. He wished to marry me once my husband was dead. I can’t give you all the reasons, but I will tell you this: Mr Wentworth is not only a brutal man to any innocent female with whom he has any dealings, but he is also a murderer!”

  “A murderer!”

  Phoebe wiped her brow. The exertion of her strong declarations was making her feel weak and addleheaded. At least she had Ariane’s attention. “I know how to expose him, or if not expose him, then make him acknowledge you so that he receives the justice he is due.”

  “Expose him?” Ariane shifted closer to Phoebe on the seat. She seemed confused.

  “First, though, you’ll need to produce evidence to show you both are legally married.” Phoebe wiped her sweating brow once more, gratefully accepting another glass Ariane poured for her. The closeness of the room was almost unbearable. Though the lamps cast only the dimmest light in order to show the dancers in their pale, sheer clothing to best advantage, the glow still seemed too bright.

  Ariane looked skeptical. “And how would that profit me? Would Wentworth not wish me harm if he knew I was doing this?”

  Suddenly, it seemed of the utmost importance to convince her. “It could be done in secret,” said Phoebe. “If you provided me with evidence, we—or rather you—could go to the authorities. Wentworth would then be forced to acknowledge you as his wife.”

  Phoebe swayed, her head suddenly feeling too heavy for its stem. Mrs Wentworth was still looking skeptical.

  “Perhaps the wife of such a brutal fiend would prefer to remain hidden. Or not wish to be acknowledged as such in view of the fact her husband was apparently a murderer.”

  Phoebe tried to raise her head from where she’d rested it on Ariane’s shoulder, but for some reason couldn’t. She wished she’d thought better how to address such reasonable fears. “I’d help you,” she said, finding it difficult to articulate her words. “You needn’t come out of hiding. I have another friend who also has had experience of Mr Wentworth. It was she who suggested the idea. Wentworth said he’d marry her, and then she realized he was already married. He needs to be exposed.”

  Phoebe felt Ariane stiffen. “Who else knows my secret?” She sounded fearful for the first time, and Phoebe almost confessed the reason for her own hatred of Wentworth except that her anonymity was as important to her as Ariane’s seemed to be to herself.

  In a moment of clarity, she thought that perhaps she should leave now. She’d explain to Ada that Ariane didn’t want it made public she was Wentworth’s wife because it put her entirely back into his power. No doubt she’d kept her location secret all these years, and was so terrified at the prospect of finding herself in Wentworth’s clutches again, that not all the trappings his new position afforded were worth the danger.

  Phoebe rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on Ariane’s face as she answered Ariane’s question. “My friend, Ada, asked me to come here and find you. She was badly used by Mr Wentworth too.”

  “Ada?”

  “I won’t reveal her full name, but she was concerned for you.”

  “Just as I am concerned about you, Phoebe.” Ariane patted Phoebe’s shoulder and pushed a pillow under her neck as she rose and went to the bell pull. A young servant answered quickly, curtseying after she’d received Ariane’s instructions.

  “Now, let us take refreshment,” Ariane said with forced brightness, indicating the other dancers who appeared oblivious to them. Phoebe stared, wondering how they could appear so vacantly happy all this time. She rubbed her eyes again. The room really was swimming. “Please, may I have some water?” she asked. The back of her throat was burning.

  Ariane bent to pour her a glass from the other decanter on the table before stepping away and beginning to pace. “I really cannot understand how my whereabouts were discovered,” she mused. “I was so careful.”

  “Please don’t be concerned, Mrs Wentworth. Neither Ada nor I would dream of revealing your whereabouts if it were against your wishes. We’d simply thought you needed to know. And that we could help you.” Phoebe stopped, closing her eyes, and Ariane said quickly, her voice warm in her ear, “Goodness, you don’t look at all well, Phoebe. Perhaps you should go. This is not the kind of place I think you are familiar with. The strange vapors are affecting you.”

  Phoebe tried to rise but couldn’t. She mumbled, “You must expose him, though if you do not wish to be found by Wentworth, I can arrange that.”

  “Can you indeed?”

  A moment before, Phoebe had been half asleep. Now the familiar honeyed tones jerked her into terrified awareness. The voice came from the doorway which had just opened to admit a tall gentleman in evening clothes who was now rising from his elaborate bow, a familiar leer marring his handsome features.

  “My, my Lady Cavanaugh, this is an unexpected surprise,” he purred. “I am sure you have no idea how hard I’ve been searching for you. The last place I expected to stumble upon you was here.”

  He took a few steps toward Phoebe, staring between her and his wife. The scantily-clad vestal virgin stood like a vision of purity hiding her betrayal—for wasn’t that was it was?—in the center of the room gazing at Phoebe with a curious expression, while a dull fear lodged
in the pit of Phoebe’s stomach. With the greatest effort, she forced herself to remain calm as she straightened.

  Wentworth was here and Wentworth intended to see her dead.

  Slowly, her mind became clearer. She had to get out of here. All the self preserving tactics she’d adopted screeched to the forefront of her mind. If she didn’t leave in the next few moments she had no chance of doing so. Ever.

  Wentworth was blocking the doorway. She sucked in a deep breath. If he would only take a couple more steps into the room, she’d seize her chance and run. Despite the mind-numbing drug she realized she’d been given, her body suddenly pulsed with life. She shifted forward, her limbs feeling sluggish but her mind racing.

  “Oh, I know you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “I heard the gossip, all of which branded me a murderess when it was your hand which drove in the knife that killed my husband.”

  He chuckled. “You must admit, it’s a fine thing to commit the act but to have a legitimate scapegoat. Your hand was around the handle of the paper knife, my dear. I just elicited a little more force to drive it home.”

  “Drive it home? I was nowhere near Ulrick when you seized me and used all your strength to make me the unwilling instrument of the murder you committed.” She turned toward Ariane, expecting to see shock.