The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

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.

Flinging around, she brought her apron to her face. “Jest like Mr Wentworth ye are! Thinkin’ ye can take yer pleasure just ‘cos I’m only a lowly servant, an’ no doubt thinkin’ ye can force me inter what I says no to.”

When he didn’t grab her, or shout, she lowered her apron to find him contemplating her.

He stood, resting against the back of the sofa. “It’s rather sobering to be compared to a blackguard like Wentworth.” He held up his palms in a gesture of supplication. “And I had rather taken your previous words to be an invitation.” He shrugged, and half turning, indicated the door. “You must be tired, Phoebe. And overwrought. Go and walk in the garden for a bit. The weather is fine and there is no one about. I have some work to do, not least of which is deciding what is to be done with you. I can’t send you back to Blinley Manor, can I?”

She was unable to hide her terror, which, for some reason made him laugh—although that was perhaps because she tripped on her overlong skirts again and was only saved from falling to her knees when he gripped her elbow to steady her.

“Deftly executed, Miss Phoebe. I see how anxious you are to reinforce to me how ill the dress fits you—indeed, a health liability. Now,” he waved her to the door, “off you go! Mrs Withins can give you something to eat which you might want to take into the garden.”

“You’ve had luncheon, sir?” she asked, only realising her mistake when he looked at her, curiously, and replied, “I dine at two.”

Of course, he’d hardly expect her, a mere servant, to join him. Phoebe lowered her eyes. She’d have to make sure she didn’t a similar mistake that might cost her the freedom she was at such pains to protect.

After a lonely afternoon and a chilly reception in the kitchen as she’d eaten her dinner with Mr and Mrs Withins, Phoebe climbed the stairs to her room, wondering how long she’d be living this half life. Mr Redding did not intend spending more time with her than necessary while the servant couple clearly despised her.

The cramping she’d felt earlier had returned, so she was glad to be able to lie down. She knew the signs well. In another ten days she would bleed, and there would be no child. No heir for Blinley. No cargo she must carry on behalf of her late husband. She was, as ever, redundant.

Wearily, she lay down, still in the ugly round dress, not bothering to put on her nightrail. She needed a plan to get her out of the danger she was in.

She needed Mr Redding’s protection, and continuing her charade as a servant increased her chances of remaining beneath anyone’s notice. Wentworth would have wasted no time eliciting every local yeoman and servant in the area to search for the murdering mistress of Blinley.

Huddled beneath the musty covers of a strange bed, Phoebe realized how carefully she must orchestrate the coming few days.

Without money or clothes, she could go nowhere. She wasn’t afraid that Mr Redding would cast her out. He wanted her to testify against Wentworth and she’d do it—though not until Mr Redding had ensured Wentworth was properly charged with his crime, and Phoebe could try and find someone who would uphold her version of events. She dashed away the tear that trickled down her cheek. The servants had seen her with the paper knife—the instrument of death—in her hand. There was no evidence more damning than that. She needed to find someone who would affirm that Phoebe was of good character, a dutiful wife, and that Wentworth was a master manipulator.

But who?

As she buried her head in the pillow she thought of the risk she ran in going out in public where she might be recognized. Really, she was much a prisoner here, in Mr Redding’s house, as she had been at Blinley Manor.

She must have been just drifting off to sleep when she was woken by the sound of heavy pounding on the front door. Terrified, she threw back the covers and ran to check that her door was locked before going to the casement which was slightly ajar. She could hear voices below, and when she glanced into the distance was horrified to see, in the fading light, Sir Roderick’s carriage.

Voices floated up to her from the portico. “No sign of Lady Cavanaugh, then? We’ve had our men scouring the countryside.”

Phoebe strained to hear Mr Redding’s response, the sweat tickling the back of her neck as his considered response stretched out in the silence.

“Murder? Is Lady Cavanaugh in danger?”

“In danger from the noose!”

Phoebe flinched. Did Sir Roderick despise her so much for rejecting him? Surely he could not believe Wentworth’s version of affairs?

“Good Lord, pray elaborate!”

Mr Redding put on a good show of ignorance. Well, at least that augured well for Phoebe. He had no idea of Phoebe’s true identity, and she intended to keep it that way.

Phoebe couldn’t see Sir Roderick, but she could imagine the pugnacious stance he’d be adopting right now. His voice dripped with salacious glee as he recounted the morbid details. “She pierced her husband through the chest like a stuck pig before running off with her lover. We’re looking for both of them.”

“Lady Cavanaugh has killed her husband?”

“And escaped with her lover. Or one of them.” Sir Roderick’s laugh sent shivers down Phoebe’s spine. “She’s not discriminating.”

“Can you give me a description of Lady Cavanaugh and her lover?”