The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

Mr Redding made a noise of frustration. “If only she had. Instead, my sister went into a deep abyss of solitude. I had no idea of her involvement with Wentworth, whom I’d earlier warned her off, until it was…too late.”

Phoebe drew in her breath. “There were consequences?”

She saw the fiery hue that precluded the need for him to reply.

Phoebe sighed. “Your poor sister.”

“She went away for a while, and I’d hoped the matter was finally laid to rest. Until recently, she refused to divulge the name of the man. Now she lives with an aunt, quietly, but greatly altered in disposition.” He scowled. “I need not remind you that I rely upon your discretion.”

“Oh, you have that. I’m a woman, sir, and very mindful of the fact that your sister is fortunate enough to have family who can ensure no shame attaches to her. It sounds like she pays for her crimes of credulity every day. I don’t envy her.”

“I’m very close to my sister,” he said softly. “I do not condemn her.”

“Perhaps her father does? Her mother too, because she must step in line with the politics of shame. So that is your argument with Mr Wentworth.” She frowned. “I must say, trying to accost him at pistol point was rather extreme, if I might say so myself, sir.”

“It is not your place to make comment on how I choose to conduct myself or exact revenge from Wentworth!”

“No need to react so hotly, sir; I was just remarking that I’d have thought a more subtle yet more damaging approach would have been more effective.” She put her head to one side. “Like taking away what Mr Wentworth wishes for most in this world.”

“And what would that be?”

“His newly acquired title and estates.”

Mr Redding laughed out loud. “And how do you suppose I might manage that? I’m not the Prince Regent. No, Phoebe, you really have no idea how to approach this from a logical point of view, and there’s no need to look at me like that. I’m not being insulting. For all that you know how to string words together to sound like a lady—and I’ll grant you are an impressive mimic—you are a servant with, I’m sure, a good and faithful heart, but you cannot begin to understand the complexities of such a thing.”

Phoebe offered him a respectful curtsey before turning on her heel. Oh, I know exactly how it could be done, she thought. But divesting Wentworth of his estates and title could only be achieved if there were another contender for the title: an heir produced by Ulrick’s widow within a conceivably acceptable time of Ulrick’s death. It didn’t leave much time, and Phoebe was not one to barter her body for a dress, but she’d do so if it meant Wentworth had no claim on Ulrick’s title. Yes, she might be unsuccessful in convincing a magistrate of her innocence, and she may yet die for a crime she did not commit, but if she could prevent Wentworth inheriting what he’d murdered to lay claim to, it would be some consolation.

At the doorway, she looked over her shoulder. “I’ll ask Mrs Withins to attend to you, shall I, sir? So you can talk to her about summoning a dressmaker from the village,” she added in response to his questioning look.

Hugh stared after her, and when he’d regained his senses, he found he was unconsciously touching his mouth with the fingertips of his right hand.

Damn, but she’d taken him by surprise with that kiss of hers. Even still his lips were burning.

At the window, he gripped the sill and stared down the modest drive that led from the cottage to the road.

She’d asked him what he’d hoped to achieve by accosting Wentworth at pistol point. Honor for his sister. Yes, it had been rash, but he’d been in his cups when he’d come up with the plan to prove to Ada that not all men were smooth-talking confidence tricksters who led vulnerable women down the road to ruin.

There was also the small chance of exacting some retribution from the man. A marriage proposal had been his ultimate aim, though when he’d confidently told Ada he’d ensure Wentworth did the honorable thing, she’d burst into tears and said she’d not marry him if he were the last man on God’s earth.

Well, Hugh didn’t much fancy Wentworth for a brother-in-law either, but he did love his sister exceedingly, and surely marriage was better than ruin or the convent, as Ada had at one stage desired.

And contrary to what Phoebe believed, he and Ada had grown up without a mother, and Hugh had had a more than usual guiding influence on his young sibling which was why’d felt Ada’s failure was somehow his.

He fingered the scar on his wrist, sustained during a childhood show of chivalry on behalf of his sister’s honor. Phoebe’s talk of just now had unleashed a veritable storm of emotions. Surprisingly, her talk about exacting retribution in the form of depriving Wentworth of what he most wanted kept replaying itself in his head.

She’d sounded so confident, but what could a maidservant know about exacting retribution from a man like Wentworth? Who was she really? A village child born in some humble hovel? Her beauty had no doubt opened a number of doors. Could she have had a noble protector who’d left her to slide back into servitude? Is that where she’d learned to speak and act like a lady?

He touched his finger to his lips once more. Ha, that precious innocence of hers for which she’d not barter a dress was a tall tale. Only a woman experienced in the ways of men would have been so bold as to plant a kiss like the one she’d given him. A woman used to being paraded and feted by a gentleman.

Perhaps, as she claimed, she could be useful to him.

But she’d need a little coaching. He couldn’t afford for her to embarrass them both by proving her low birth during an unguarded moment.

He smoothed back his hair and regulated his breathing. Yes, he would take Phoebe in hand and teach her how to be a lady.

Then he’d make her his mistress, and she could have all the gowns she chose, within reason.

8