“Mr Wentworth murdered Lord Ulrick...I mean, Cavanaugh. Is there really a distinction when ‘e used ‘is far greater strength ter force me lady, strugglin’ ter drop the knife yet ‘e used ‘is power ter drive it in, with ‘er as ‘is instrument, weepin’ all the while ter stop?” Angrily, Phoebe flung around. “A woman is the weaker vessel ‘an she is powerless when a man decides she’s useful fer something. Such as murder.”
“So you truly assert that Wentworth is the murderer of your mistress’s lover?” He snatched at her wrist and pulled her back, gripping her shoulders so he could look at her.
“‘Ow many times do I ‘ave ter say it, Mr Reddin’? That’s why ye can’t throw me ter the wolves once ye’ve ‘ad yer fill of me, ter put it crudely. Mayhap no one will believe me, but I know what ‘appened ‘an I could convince any magistrate—other than Sir Roderick—who chose to look at the case with an open mind. But if ye cast me out an’ Mr Wentworth or Sir Roderick found me, believe me; I might as well be dead.”
He dropped his hands and turned upon a sigh. “Send Mrs Withins to me, and I’ll have her arrange for the village dressmaker. Perhaps we can find a couple of secondhand gowns which she can remodel for the various occasions you’ll require a different wardrobe. Ladies of fashion are expensive, but you’ll have to temper your desires to become one of them. I’m not a rich man.”
“I jest need one gown that’s—”
“That’s what, Phoebe? In the first stare, so you can ape your betters? What are you really planning?”
She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t safe to parade herself as Lady Cavanaugh might have done. There were subtle distinctions. A lady’s maid was too much beneath her. Coarse homespun would hardly answer if she were to launch herself into the world given the first opportunity. Perhaps a respectable companion in her mistress’s two-seasons-old castoffs. She supposed that would do.
“I don’t mind a made-over gown, sir. ‘Tis not as if I’m not used ter wearin’ me mistress’s from the year afore last. Jest so long as it fits.”
“And where do you plan on being seen?”
“Wherever it’s ter advantage. Maid or mistress.” She smiled and affected a look of coyness. “Though I reckon I deserve better’n coarse cotton.”
“Y
es, I am aware that you have aspirations above your station, but I’ve warned you that saving your life won’t lead to my making you my wife.”
“But ye’re payin’ fer a new dress, sir, an’ I can be more ‘elpful to yer with a couple of ‘em. Cotton print for a serving maid…” She pushed back one shoulder and looked him in the eye, adopting the perfectly cultured tones that were her own as she added, “and one for a lady so I can seek out those witnesses from both below and above stairs who will attest to Mr Wentworth being Lord Cavanaugh’s killer.”
“Do you truly believe you can pull off being a lady without embarrassment or endangering us both?” He’d not admitted to admiration, but it was clear by the short, surprised pause that preceded his question.
“You don’t have much faith in me, sir.” Riled, she determined that, forthwith, she would only speak as a lady. “Just listen to me and you shan’t be disappointed.”
He gave her a searching look and murmured softly, “I’m gaining greater faith all the time in your ability to secure what you really set your mind on, Phoebe. All right, you shall have one print cotton dress and one dress in the first stare so you can gain admittance to the right places, though I don’t know what help that’ll be when I haven’t promised to take you anywhere, and since you say you’re afraid Wentworth will recognize you.”
“Then if you’re so skeptical why would you grant me that, sir?”
“Because I rather fancy my chances of what you might grant me, Phoebe, were I to satisfy sufficient of your venal wishes.”
Phoebe looked at him askance. “You do have a fine opinion of yourself, sir.”
“And I do wonder at the value of funding a gown that will cost me an arm and a leg, unless it’s to show off to your friends the fact you’ve weaseled a new gown out of a credulous gentleman without giving him anything in return.”
“I gave you a kiss,” she said hotly.
The expression on his face changed. In fact, he looked quite uncomfortable, and she noticed that he shifted a little, before he began to pace.
“And might I ask, Mr Redding, what is your interest in Mr Wentworth?”
At the wooden desk beneath the window he turned, his expression grim.
“Mr Wentworth seduced my sister.”
Phoebe cocked her head. “Seduced? Then she was a willing party? I’m sure Mr Wentworth has seduced many an innocent. You are an unusual man if you do not blame her rather than Mr Wentworth.”
“I know my sister’s character, and she is not cheap, Phoebe,” he snapped.
Phoebe acknowledged this with a slight nod. “I hope I didn’t infer that she was. I just have observed that whenever there is wrongdoing between a man and a woman that it is always the woman whose reputation is smeared. Take my mistress, for instance. She’s not cheap, either.”
Mr Redding shrugged, staring down at the parchment on the desk. “I hope I’m fair enough not to judge one way or another, not knowing the lady in question. But we were talking about my sister. If you knew her, you’d understand. She’s sweet and innocent, and she believed him when he promised he’d marry her.”
“Then why does she not file a suit?”