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.
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?”
“'Is movements…sir?”