The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

1

It was an evening like any other: dull, with a hint of menace and tension so thick, Phoebe imagined slicing a neat hole in it and disappearing magically into a new life.

Any would do.

The company had retired to the dim, close drawing room, gentlemen included, following a gluttonous dinner. By the fireplace, Phoebe worked at her embroidery, glad to be ignored though she knew that wouldn’t last for long.

The reprieve was even briefer than she’d anticipated. Brutus exhaled on a shuddering snore truncated by a yelp as he chased rabbits in his dreams; this caused James the footman, who was stooping over Ulrick in the act of offering his master a drink, to jump in fright and deposit a snifter of brandy upon her husband’s waistcoat. Not that it would concern Ulrick, who was snoring more loudly than Brutus and whose waistcoat was already stained with drool.

The footman cast the mistress a sideways glance as he unwound his lordship’s stock and dabbed at the sticky mess, but Phoebe held her tongue and made do with a dispassionate look. She’d never liked James. She was certain he’d conspired with Ulrick on more than a few occasions to put her on the back foot and to tarnish her name belowstairs. Despite her obvious disdain, she was afraid of the power he wielded.

“That will be all, James.” She rose with a dismissive wave and the rustle of silken skirts. “I’ll attend to my husband. Please see Mr Barnaby and Sir Roderick out.”

Sir Roderick, that most unwelcome of neighbors, appeared before her, bony and wraithlike; malevolent as ever. “I believe your dog needs more attention than Lord Cavanaugh.” His thin mouth turned up in a parody of amusement as he wafted a fastidious hand about his nose, indicating Brutus’s greater guilt than his master’s snoring.

Phoebe offered Sir Roderick a cold smile. On the other side of the room, Ulrick’s two other guests conversed in low voices by the window.

She inclined her head as she ignored his attempt at levity. “Good night, Sir Roderick.”

Sir Roderick straightened his spare, weedy frame, which she saw trembled with suppressed outrage at being so summarily dismissed by the lady of the house.

Phoebe refused to turn away from his challenging gaze. Sir Roderick was another who couldn’t wait until the doors of Blinley Manor were closed against her the moment Ulrick breathed his last. She’d offended his honor, having bitten his lip and kneed him in the groin six months before when he’d accosted her in a dimly-lit corridor, and suggested in lewd terms how he might assist in the creation of an heir for the already ailing Ulrick. An heir who would ensure Phoebe kept a roof over her head.

Ulrick stirred to wakefulness with a grunt but Phoebe ignored him.

“My husband is attempting, with the limited faculties yet available to him, to wave you farewell, Sir Roderick.” She struggled to keep the acid from her tone. Sir Roderick was a powerful neighbor. He was also the local magistrate and self-proclaimed arbiter on acceptable behavior; not a man she’d have willingly chosen to cross. She bowed her head. “His strength is exhausted and I need to see him to bed.”

Sir Roderick flicked a glance toward Wentworth and Mr Barnaby then pushed his skull-like head, which reminded Phoebe of an oddly-shaped mushroom sprouting some form of fungus, into her face.

“You’ll be sorry—after your husband is gone—if you don’t take advantage of the kindness I’m still prepared to offer you, Lady Cavanaugh.” His thin fingers dug into her wrist as he all but dribbled down her cleavage, and Phoebe, icily composed until now, whipped her head around with a gasp but met only amusement in her husband’s dull, onyx eyes as he regarded the scene.

She breathed in despair and exhaled on resignation. Although Ulrick could barely communicate these days, he was still more cognizant of what was going on around him than most people believed. But he would never champion her. He never had and he’d not start now.

Phoebe hoped he didn’t hear the fear in her whisper. “I would rather copulate with an adder, Sir Roderick.” It was an unwise response, though being blunt had to be better than a ladylike dismissal which might encourage him to repeat his predatory behavior.

Sir Roderick glanced over her shoulder, no doubt to ensure they remained out of earshot of the remaining two guests still conversing by the window. “You may discover some day, Lady Cavanaugh, that my bite is far more dangerous.” His nostrils flared as he pinched her hand before releasing it. “Indeed, I’ll ensure you rue the day you threw my kindness back in my face.”

Kindness? “Good night, gentlemen.” With a rustle of her skirts that hinted at the outrage more eloquently than Phoebe could put into words, she turned her back on the company and swept over to Ulrick’s side. Her heart beat painfully as she rearranged his pillows, and the closing of the door on the last of their neighbors to leave offered only a small measure of relief. There was still Wentworth to deal with.

“The doctor doubts Ulrick will make Michaelmas.” The lazy drawl of her husband’s cousin punctuated the silence as Phoebe resumed her position in an armchair by the fire.

Wentworth raised his cut-glass tumbler to the light as he sighed in appreciation of Ulrick’s best brandy. He took a sip and smacked his lips, meeting Phoebe’s eye across her sleeping husband, whom she’d made more comfortable in his large leather armchair with the tasselled cushion Phoebe had embroidered to support his neck.

The odious creature could not help but interpret Phoebe’s critical expression correctly, but there was no defensiveness in his tone as he chuckled. “The old bastard can’t enjoy his riches when he’s gone.” His teeth were white; sharp and wolfish beneath his black mustache and Phoebe looked away, pretending concentration on her handiwork while her stomach clenched with revulsion and fear. She would not dignify Wentworth’s grasping remarks with a response.

For a few minutes, Ulrick’s wheezing, rattling cough and the hiss of the fire broke the silence. The harsh caw of a raven in the darkness made Phoebe jump, but she kept her fingers busy with her embroidery and her head averted from Wentworth’s hard stare.

Tonight? Would Wentworth insist on claiming her tonight, with Ulrick so very ill and likely to need her?

Wentworth drained his glass, placing the empty vessel clumsily upon the low table beside him. Empty vessel. It’s what she’d always been made to feel as Ulrick’s wife. “Ulrick was always mean with his liquor. A good supply for his heir then, eh, Phoebe?” Ulrick’s heir. Wentworth imbued the word with the disgust he’d always felt for the fact that he was not Ulrick’s heir. It was hardly better than the reproach that had

always hardened Ulrick’s tone in the days he could speak, when he implied that Phoebe had failed in providing him with a son to continue the family line.