The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  Closing her eyes, her mind ran over the soft, sensual touch of his hands upon her limbs, soothing, caressing. She smiled reluctantly. What worth had her life ever really had? She’d not been born into a position of power or influence. She’d been a pawn for her father to use to better his family’s social and financial position. As Ulrick had married her for convenience, not love, she’d never had any power over him.

  Wentworth had professed to love her, but how ironic was that?

  As for Hugh, well, he had realised his love was based on a lie.

  A waxing moon hung heavily in the sky, and she stared at it. Wondering how many moons she’d ever stare at again.

  The court case had been a farce from the start. Hugh could scarcely believe the smoothness with which Wentworth’s bald-faced lies tripped off his tongue. He knew Phoebe was none of the things Wentworth had called her. Not that he even wanted to think about what had been said by others. Men and women no doubt in the pocket of Wentworth.

  It was even probable that Lord Coulson was in some measure in collusion with Phoebe’s vile and undeserving relative by marriage. Hugh would not allude to the fact she’d been his former mistress. That was so irrelevant now.

  He’d tried every trick he could manage to speak a few words to the magistrate before the two-faced man of the law had donned his wig and taken the stand, but Lord Coulson had waved him away each time.

  Desperate now, Hugh bowed before the rotund gentleman during a rare moment he was alone. In his robes he looked very regal, standing amid a room of fawning acolytes. His word was law. He was the keeper of the rule of law, the minister of justice, arbiter of all that was right.

  “My Lord, a quick moment if you please.” Hugh spoke rapidly, assessing the crowd, realizing his time was short. “I’ve come to beg clemency for the prisoner,” he responded when the magistrate inclined his head.

  Lord Coulson let out an unregal guffaw. “In an hour, justice will be done and your pleas will be answered.”

  “But my Lord, she is innocent.”

  “And if she is, judgment will reflect that.”

  “I don’t believe judgment will do justice to the truth.”

  Lord Coulson stiffened. “You insult me, sir!”

  “Hear me out just one moment, my Lord, for we have met before.” He spoke hurriedly, watching the hand that snaked upward to beckon for assistance to usher Hugh away. “Yes, under very unusual circumstances. Do you not remember it?”

  Lord Coulson’s eyes slid upward to Hugh’s face, assessing him, clearly trying to place him.

  “You are mistaken. We have not met.” His tone was suspicious. “Do you not think I know all the tricks there are? My word is law, and I cannot be bought. I could have you thrown in jail.”

  “You must do what you know is right. Lord Cavanaugh—Mr Wentworth who was—is not being honest in his account of what happened the night his cousin was murdered.”

  Lord Coulson sighed. “We have endured two long sitting days to ensure that there can be no conjecture on that score. Now you’ve had your time. Leave.”

  “Don’t you wish to know who I am?”

  Lord Coulson stiffened and he turned, his nose raised to the air. Hugh shot out a hand to grip his arm, and instantly Lord Coulson swatted it away; face mottled with indignation.

  “In the cushions at Mrs Plumb’s last night. I was the man invited in to observe your antics.” Hugh spoke rapidly, pausing to watch the magistrate turn the color of thin gruel. Triumphantly, he went on, “Your illegal antics, my Lord, and I have witnesses who were at the peephole.”

  “The hole was shuttered.” Lord Coulson spoke quickly and without thinking, for no sooner were the words out than he realized his error.

  “The hole which I slid open as I left.” Hugh was fabricating this last though there was no proof either way. Lord Coulson would have to decide whether to take him at his word. He certainly was taking a moment to decide his next move.

  Cornered, he began to walk away. Hugh was confused until he realized Lord Coulson was moving to somewhere they could speak in private.

  “What do you want?” the older man hissed, careful to keep his features under control as he pretended to consult a paper in his hand.

  “The prisoner’s freedom.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “She’s not guilty. You know that.”

  Snake eyes stared out from beneath Lord Coulson’s wig. “There’s nothing I can do.” His words sounded dead.

  “All London shall know in the morning what you are guilty of, sir.” Hugh nearly spat the words. “Then we shall see what justice is really about.”

  “I can’t do it else Lord Cavanaugh will exact his own pound of flesh. I’m in an impossible situation. It flies in the face of every bit of testimony heard to exonerate the prisoner.”

  “You should have thought of that before you played in your cushiony dell with such inappropriate bedfellows.”

  Lord Coulson tapped his fingers on the document he was holding. Finally, he said, “There is but one concession I can make.”

  Hugh stilled. He put his head closer to Lord Coulson’s and did not draw back from his foetid breath. For though unpalatable, what he offered was better than Phoebe’s assured death.

  Ravens were common enough, but the ravens at the tower were huge. After days of being unable to eat, Phoebe’s stomach seemed to have folded in on itself. She wondered if she would make a tasty morsel for the flesh-eating birds if she were allowed to wander the battlements or gardens.

  No point in such foolishness, she thought as she was led onto the waiting barge.

  For a moment, Phoebe just stood on the deck, staring out across the mud and silt and the detritus left by the tide; wondering how soon before she would hear carpenters making the gallows.

  “Reckon me old lady’d be right impressed wiv the week’s sport. A feeble woman killin’ a man. An’ then gettin’ her jest desserts.” One of the prison guards laughed loudly as he scratched at a sore on his cheek before picking up his oars. “The beautiful assassin they calls yer.” He winked at his friend. “Reckon no one would know if we ‘ad us a piece of the beautiful assassin afore she’s an assassin an’ beautiful no more, if yer gets me meanin’.”

  Again they both guffawed, and Phoebe put her head over the side of the barge, fearing she was about to be sick.

  “Wait! One minute before you push off!”

  They turned at the shout of a young man dressed in the robes of a court official. He strode down the embankment and pushed a document into the hands of the closest of the two prison guards, stabbing at a signature and a wax seal.

  “You’re to surrender the prisoner into my care. I shall accompany her on her final journey downstream.”

  The guards exchanged looks of surprise, but made no objection as the man put his hand on Phoebe’s shoulder after he’d stepped into the boat. “Sir Gawain at your service, my Lady.”

  Phoebe stared, confused, asking, “And what service do you render me? I am to die, by order of the king.”

  “I am to ensure that justice is done.”

  His voice was without emotion, but for some reason, Phoebe felt a stab of hope as the vessel was navigated into the middle of the current. Softly, she repeated, “Sir Gawain? Of the Round Table?” Then she giggled, shocked at the hysteria she heard in the sound. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to focus into the gloom of the bridge underpass that was coming up.

  He stooped a little, and she glanced up to see his lips close to her ear. “Whisking hapless maidens from the very depths of despair is my job. You are not the only one but you must trust me if I am to help me.”

  A shiver ran through her. “Is that what you’re doing now? Helping me?”

  The temperature had dropped several degrees now that they were beneath the bridge. The sluggish river lapped at the embankment against which the ferry now abutted as it drew into a landing stage. An official in red and black was waiting to hand her onshore, and Phoebe leape
d nimbly onto the quay to avoid her shoes getting wet, slipping a little so that the man hurried forward to grip her elbow, holding it a moment longer than was seemly, and whispering, “Saving hapless females from danger is not only Sir Gawain’s job today.”

  “Hugh!” Phoebe gasped, but he shook his head, indicating the prison guards.

  `“Nearly came a cropper, m’lady,” he said loudly, “but never fear, I’ve got you safe now.”

  Phoebe glanced from Sir Gawain, now conducting an official handover of his prisoner to Hugh, before turning back towards the road while the unquestioning guards returned to their ferry and pushed back into the current.

  In the grey light, Phoebe stared at Hugh, unable to believe her eyes. They were alone at last.

  And she was free? A strange feeling, half disbelief, half hysteria, clawed its way up her throat, releasing itself in a great sigh of relief.

  Behind Hugh, the riverbank sloped downwards, to meet the landing stage and fast-flowing water. Dozens of vessels bobbed upon the river. It would be so easy to slip away and disappear into the seething metropolis on either bank. She had nothing to lose, after all.

  But what about Hugh? He’d come to save her but she couldn’t let him risk or even sacrifice his future for her.

  Tears stung her eyelids as he stepped towards her, his arms outstretched, joy lighting up his face. When he registered her retreat, the hurt in his eyes cut her to the quick.

  “You saved my life, Hugh, but I must leave you, now,” she said, brokenly. “Please…you know there is no future happiness for us together if my only guarantee of safety is to live in exile. I would not ask that of you.”

  He dropped his arms. “You’ve asked nothing of me, Phoebe—beyond a new gown… Do not presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t sacrifice. Do you love me?”

  “You know it very well.” She exhaled on a sob. “Too much to let you sacrifice your ambitions.”

  “And I love you too much to let you go.”

  Phoebe brushed away a tear. The wind off the river was cold and she shivered. “You protected me when I needed protection. I used you and I abused your trust. Surely you see I am not a woman who should be trusted? If you don’t think it now, the time will one day come when you will. And I can’t bear that!”

  She took a step backward up the incline. No, this would be her moment of sacrifice when she’d show Hugh how much he really meant to her. He might not thank her now, but he would.

  “Phoebe! Please!” he entreated.

  She shook her head, opening her mouth to deliver the terms that would sever them; she, by leaving and he by offering her the final proof of his love: the means to begin a modestly independent life somewhere on the Continent.

  But instead of dry, emotionless business matters issuing forth, she exhaled upon a shrill scream. Danger! She’d been primed for it all these long weeks she’d been poised to flee for her life. Now, the coiled up energy she’d stored found expression in a swift lunge forward.

  Behind Hugh, stepping out of the boat that had just drawn up at the landing, was the man she loathed and feared above all others: the murderer Wentworth. How could she not have noticed him approaching? But she had not amidst the general traffic on the river.

  He was straightening up, one foot still in his boat, the other upon the landing, and Hugh, with his back still to him, registered only confusion as Phoebe leapt forward, pushing him out of the way just as Wentworth extended his arm to curl around Hugh’s neck.

  Such was the force of Phoebe’s battering ram action that even her slight body had enough momentum to knock Wentworth off balance so that his legs parted and before he could right himself, either in the boat or on dry land, he came crashing down.

  Hugh swung round, arm outstretched, but not within range to catch either of them before they plunged into the water with a shared scream of terror and rage.

  “Phoebe!” he cried, so loudly it hurt his lungs, as he ran to the water’s edge.

  They were wedged between the boat and the landing but Wentworth had the advantage. With one hand clinging to an iron spike, his other held Phoebe’s head below the surface of the water. As he watched Hugh loom above him, his lips curled up into a rictus of a snarl.

  With a choke of laughter he hauled Phoebe up by a hank of hair to taunt, “You thought I loved you once and by God it was amusing to see you beg for crumbs of my regard when you were nothing to me! And then I killed your husband for you and what thanks do I get? You thought you’d escape me, did you?”

  Coughing and spluttering, Phoebe cried out in terror while Hugh lunged at Wentworth, raising his heel to bring down upon Wentworth’s fingers. The other man just laughed and found another metal spike to hold, slamming Phoebe’s head against the side of the landing before dragging it beneath the water once more.

  “Watch your whore die, Redding!” he shouted. “And then I’ll come after your sister since she knows my secret, too.” Wentworth laughed again while Hugh’s stomach curdled at the blood that had streaked his beloved’s forehead before she’d been pulled under again.

  Desperately, he searched about him for a weapon of sorts. Hugh was still holding down Phoebe’s head. Time was running out. Every time Hugh tried to deliver a blow to Wentworth’s fingers, he deftly moved his hand and bobbed just out of reach to cling to the boat which was secured by a yard of mooring rope.

  There was no other way than to do as Phoebe had done and hope he were as lucky in his timing to catch Wentworth by surprise. Hugh was not a strong swimmer but he would rather die trying to save Phoebe than watch her life snuffed out in front of his eyes.

  With a great roar of fury he launched himself into the inky abyss of fast-running water.

  His speed and accuracy caught Wentworth by surprise and as Hugh’s spread-eagled body covered his, he let out a bellow of shocked anger before they all dipped below the murky depths.

  21

  Blackness swirled about Phoebe’s frantically open eyes. She’d accepted long ago that she was going to die.

  But she’d not expected it to be by Wentworth’s own hand in the icy waters of the River Thames.

  Still, she was not going to give in without a struggle, so even though her lungs were fit to burst as he toyed with her, dragging her head up to taunt her before plunging her down again, she kicked and flailed with all her might.

  When she caught the back of his hand with her teeth, he hit her head against the side of something hard and what little orientation she had left almost deserted her.

  So, this would be it. This would be the moment she’d lose consciousness and it would all be over. She’d go to her maker and he’d pass judgement on her sins.

  The fact that it wouldn’t be the magistrate, Lord Coulson, influenced by Wentworth’s poison, who’d consign her to eternity, was some consolation, though, regardless, she was not yet ready to die.

  But then, some large and unexpected object landed in the water beside her. She felt Wentworth’s grip release suddenly at the same time as she was thrust even deeper. Legs and arms appeared to be flailing all around her, the water seething and frothing while her vision blackened.

  Yet there was still strength in her.

  Struggling, she broke the surface, gasping for air and instantly was swept up by the current, borne swiftly away from her nemesis, the hateful Wentworth, but away, too, from the man she loved, who had saved her and who may this moment be facing his own death.

  Phoebe had quite lost all sense of orientation by the time she was brought up short. She was wedged against a large pylon holding up a jetty further down the river, she discovered, as she used her final reserves of strength to cling to the first anchor point that presented itself.

  With her skirts and petticoats dragging her down, it was an effort almost beyond her meagre reserves to extricate herself and pull herself onto shore. There she lay, panting with exertion for several minutes, before she staggered to her feet.

  At first she couldn’t even tell from which direct
ion she’d come. And then, shading her eyes, she saw in the far distance, near the water’s edge just where she’d left them, the shadows and frothing waters that indicated two fighting men.

  Stumbling towards them, gasping in sustaining breaths and exhaling on chocking sobs, she tripped on a piece of detritus, an old driftwood plank that she had barely strength enough to lift.

  At last, she reached the point where Hugh and Wentworth were trying to strangle each other in the muddy waters.

  They were well matched, and their snarls and oaths curdled her blood. Summoning up a final burst of energy, Phoebe raised the plank into the air and brought it down hard, crushing the sneering face of the man who had tried so hard to kill her first.

  Exhausted, she fell backwards, staring at the sky, until a shadow fell across her face.

  Perhaps this was the moment she would die.

  Instead, Hugh dropped to the ground beside her and gathered her in his arms.

  “By God, you are a remarkable woman,” he muttered into her ear before he kissed her.

  22

  A ferry took them downriver where they transferred to a coach for the journey to the channel. Wrapped warmly in a hooded black cloak and other concealing clothing Hugh had organized, Phoebe surrendered without too many questions to what was being done on her account. Then she’d surrendered to sleep.

  Waking up properly in a tiny French town with the aroma of baking croissants wafting into her nostrils, and the cozy enveloping warmth of Hugh’s body warming hers as if they were made to be a set, she wriggled closer, though it were barely possible, and opened heavy eyelids.

  They’d spoken in convoluted sentences, too exhausted to begin from the beginning and end at the end. Now Phoebe asked another of the disjoined questions that seemed to randomly enter her mind.

  “How did you see that I was released into your care?” She touched her forehead, then winced.