The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

She rested her head against the rough bark of a crab apple tree and closed her eyes as she breathed in its heady perfume. Suddenly she was back in her own garden, a child again, secure in her mother’s love, if not her father’s.

What she wouldn’t give to have her mother to advise her, comfort her. Tell her she would have some small say in her destiny. But her mother would have been too afraid to have voiced any opinions. She’d have counselled Phoebe to obey for it was the men in this world who held the power. Her mother was another abject example of how little charge a woman had over her own life. Phoebe’s father had shown her mother as little consideration and respect as Ulrick had shown Phoebe.

Which brought Phoebe’s mind back to the bargaining she would need to do in order to get not one, but two gowns if she were to make the most of her opportunities.

A simple, muslin gown and a serving maid’s print gown and apron would be essential in case she needed to flee suddenly for who knew when Sir Roderick would come knocking or Wentworth would learn her whereabouts. No one would question a poor woman alone, but they certainly would if she were in silk and lace, though Phoebe doubted Mr Redding would be ready to expend that kind of largesse upon her. She was a means to an end. He was a man, after all, no doubt thinking of little beyond his own comfort. Men were like that.

She ran her hand down the rough trunk of the tree. What would she do for funds if matters didn’t turn out well for her under Mr Redding’s roof? She’d always been kept short of pin money by Ulrick, but she did have her jewelry. Sadly, she had none with her. Not even her rings. They were all in her dressing room.

She returned to the house, no longer feeling the ebullience she had when Mr Redding had complimented her on her housekeeping abilities. In the parlor, she stared through the window, up at the hillside. Blinley Manor would be less than an hour’s walk, but what was the possibility of eliciting the help of the only person likely to speak in her defense, her lady’s maid Deborah? The estate would be swarming with potential informers. Wentworth was the new heir, and if Sir Roderick were to be believed, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Lady Cavanaugh had murdered her husband.

Her word would never be believed against his.

Mrs Withins entered with a scowl and asked Phoebe her business, adding with a glance up at the manor on the hill, “Poor, murdered Lord Cavanaugh. I ‘ope they find ‘is wicked faithless wife soon, fer let me tell ye, I’ll be right there when they light the first faggot.”

“They ‘aven’t burned a woman at the stake fer thirty years,” Phoebe muttered as she left to go to her own chamber. No one, it seemed—not even Mr Redding—questioned the rumors that painted Lady Cavanaugh as the cuckolding wife who’d committed murder to be free of her husband’s yoke.

A woman’s lot was fraught, she thought, throwing herself upon the bed. Regardless of where she was born on the social scale, freedom and independence of choice were virtually unobtainable. No wonder the fairer sex had a reputation for cunning when salvation lay in courting the affections of those upon whom they depended for their very lives.

Right now, Mr Redding was that man. He’d unwittingly stepped into her life just when Wentworth was on a mission to destroy it. That meant, feelings aside, she had to court Mr Redding’s kind offices so he’d protect her. Perhaps he would develop some real affection for her so that he’d champion her if she found herself in any greater danger. Such as if Wentworth found her and dragged her before the courts.

But what did Phoebe have that Mr Redding might desire? She buried her face in the pillow. The usual fare: her body, her looks, fortunately unmarred by age or Wentworth’s brutality. There was little else in her favor other than a fierce determination that she would not be charged for a crime she did not commit.

She was the rightful mistress of Blinley Manor.

A sob erupted from the depth of her being. No, she wasn’t. Without an heir, she could no longer inhabit Blinley Manor. Her new home was the dower house at the end of the driveway of…Wentworth’s new estate.

She began to cry in earnest now. The truth was, Lady Cavanaugh was entirely dependent upon Wentworth’s charity for her survival.

And Wentworth didn’t want her survival.

And Phoebe the maid was entirely dependent upon Mr Redding’s charity.

Tears were pointless. Action was needed. With great determination, she rose and went into the hall where she called for Mrs Withins, who appeared from one of the rooms with a look of indignant inquiry upon her face.

“I need a dressmaker from the village to attend me as soon as possible,” Phoebe said, using the polite but authoritative tones she’d normally employ in such a situation, especially when her mind was occupied.

Phoebe only realized her mistake when Mrs Withins put her hands on her ample hips, lifted her chin and said with calculated derision, “Is that so…madam? An’ who’s goin’ ter pay fer this dressmaker? Is it Mr Reddin’, mayhaps?”

The housekeeper looked Phoebe up and down as if she were no better than a common doxy aping her betters and bartering her body—which is what Phoebe realized was the role she was playing.

“I’ll take me orders from Mr Reddin’, thank ye,” the woman added when Phoebe didn’t reply. She turned on her heel and swept down the passage.

Enraged and embarrassed, Phoebe immediately went in search of Mr Redding and found him poring over a map in the parlor.

“If I am ter ‘elp ye bring Mr Wentworth ter justice, I need a new dress, sir! Several in fact, an’ in great ’aste,” she added, not caring what he made of her. The only way to prevent herself from crying was to turn her recent humiliating exchange with Mrs Withins into indignant self-justification.

He turned his head and said mildly, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t quite understand your demanding tone, Phoebe, since that is just what I have sanctioned.”

“Well, then ye must tell Mrs Withins ‘erself that this is what I need an’ that she must send fer the village dressmaker.” Phoebe’s own dressmaker did not live in the local village.

Mr Redding straightened in his chair. “Ah…” he said slowly. Phoebe felt a slow blush spread over her face. Mr Redding had just deduced what had happened. She hoped he’d spare her the indignity of putting it into words.

He did not.

“So, Phoebe, the lady’s maid, has offended Mrs Withins by assuming the airs of a lady.” He chuckled. “I’d heard that distinctions of rank are just as important to the lower classes. Well, Phoebe, since you want a dress dreadfully badly—”

Rudely she cut in, “An’ ye want Wentworth an’ I promise ye shall ‘ave ‘im, but ter do that I need ter be properly clothed. I need two gowns that befit me station, sir.”