The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

“The kind of looks that’d make a man drop his breeches if she crooked her finger—which is what she’s done too many times. Not that I want to say more for the sake of his poor, departed lordship.”

“Sounds quite a piece.” Phoebe heard Hugh laugh, and felt like crying. “And were you so fortunate, Sir Roderick?”

There was a pause before Sir Roderick answered peevishly, “I am a married man, Mr Redding. I made it clear to Lady Cavanaugh that I was not one to make overtures to. That put her in place, so to speak, not that she didn’t try her lures again. Thought she could make me another of her conquests….”

Phoebe shuddered at the memory of the occasion to which Sir Roderick alluded. Each time she’d passed through the lonely passage where he’d accosted her, she was assaulted by the memory of his brandy-soaked breath as he’d pushed her against the wall and slurred that he would be eagerly awaiting a quick tumble in the storeroom the moment she could extricate herself from her hostessing duties. That he’d heard he’d not be the only one, other than her husband, to enjoy her favors.

Phoebe cringed at the memory of the night she’d gone from being the faithful wife of an abusing husband, to the lover of a man who proved to be even crueler than Ulrick.

What had Wentworth told Sir Roderick and others about their affair? Why would Sir Roderick have tried to force himself on her, using the words he had?

Clearly, he was now determined to be avenged for her dismissal of him, and he would win. He was the magistrate.

Her heart was in her mouth as she waited for the spiel that would instantly make it clear to Hugh that Phoebe was, in fact, Lady Cavanaugh, the woman they were looking for, but to her surprise, Sir Roderick’s description of an uncommonly handsome woman with a haughty bearing and a crown of golden hair had rung no bells with Hugh.

Haughty? Phoebe felt quite indignant at the word. She was not haughty. She was terrified.

She turned back from the window, expecting to hear Sir Roderick take his leave and get back in his carriage. Instead, to her horror, Hugh Redding’s pleasant voice could be heard inviting Sir Roderick indoors.

Phoebe ran back to the bed, put on her nightrail and dived under the covers where she lay, shivering with terror as she wondered if she were to be dragged from her bed and brought before her neighbor to give her account of the story. After all, Mr Redding knew she had witnessed the murder.

The vulnerability of her position was as stark as ever. Mr Redding thought he could use her to entrap Wentworth for his own reasons, but what would he do when he discovered who she really was?

Presently, she heard a soft tread upon the staircase, but to her relief no turning of the doorknob.

Yet even though it was apparent Mr Redding had passed her bedchamber door, the horror of what might unfold in the very near future continued to disturb her much-needed rest until she thought of a new tack.

She must make herself valuable. Mr Redding was a bachelor living a simple existence. Phoebe would have to show him how much more comfortable it was having her around.

6

“Good mornin’, Mr Reddin’.” Phoebe looked up from her chair at the dining room table as her rescuer—or host, or the man holding her prisoner until she’d proven her use to him in apprehending Wentworth—slanted her a look of surprise as he entered the room.

“I’ve organized breakfast.” She smiled pleasantly. “Obviously ye’ve not been a resident ‘ere fer long. Ye certainly don’t know ‘ow ter order yer servants around.”

His initial wonder at seeing her dressed, her hair done as best she could under the circumstances, was almost comical. Just as Phoebe was silently congratulating herself on having produced such a response, she was highly indignant when he burst out laughing.

“Oh my, but it’s Lady Phoebe is it, to be sure?” He swept her an exaggerated bow. “A rather fetching effect, I might add, since I can’t decide whether you look more like a burgher’s wife or a schoolroom miss playing dress-ups.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s true I could do with a woman about the place. A housekeeper would do well enough. A bit ‘o muslin would be my preference.” He quirked a playful smile over one shoulder as he went to the sideboard, adding, “But not a wife, Phoebe my dear. I could lead you a merry dance, of course, and make you believe that I had honorable intentions; however, I’m not a liar.”

Phoebe tugged at her lip with her teeth. She’d gone through every tactical alternative, and decided that her best course of action was appealing to the fact that Mr Redding admired her as much as he hoped to profit by her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Mr Reddin’, why didn’t ye tell the magistrate that I was ‘ere when ‘e came ter the cottage last night?”

Mr Redding took a seat opposite, looking surprised. “Sir Roderick? Were you eavesdropping?”

“I ‘eard ‘im from me casement. I couldn’t ‘elp it, ‘e’s such a loud…” She left the sentence hanging, letting her expression make it clear what she thought of him.

Mr Redding sent her a level look as he picked up his knife and fork, closing his eyes in brief appreciation of the aroma of streaky bacon.

Thoughtfully, he said, “I remembered your distrust of the man, and I own, there was something about him that didn’t sit well with me.” He shrugged. “I should, of course, have brought you downstairs to give your account. I don’t know why I didn’t since it was only delaying the inevitable. He’s investigating the murder and the disappearance of Lady Cavanaugh, and you know more than any of us.” He paused, heavily, “Don’t you, Phoebe?”

“Did ‘e say anythin’ ’bout…the murder?” Phoebe felt lightheaded just asking the question.

Mr Redding speared another piece of bacon. “Of course. What else do you think brought him here? Naturally, I invited him in, and he told me that immediately after she’d dropped the murder weapon, Lady Cavanaugh threw herself out of a window, leaped into Mr Wentworth’s carriage, and disappeared into the night.”

He finished his mouthful. Now he stared long and hard at Phoebe.

A great whooshing sensation rushed through her. So this was it, the inevitable unmasking. Mr Redding was playing with her. He knew very well that he was seated across from the woman who’d fled the scene of the murder—Lady Cavanaugh.