The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

Phoebe nodded, and Mrs Plumb patted her on the shoulder. The woman was stout and grey-haired with no veiling or masque to add mystery or concealment. She was neither plain nor handsome. “No cause to look so anxious, my dear; discretion is what we pride ourselves on. Just tell me what kind of gentleman pleases you, or point him out if he’s here, and I shall effect a proper introduction.”

Phoebe drew in her breath, startled at what she interpreted as a great vulgarity and affront to good breeding before remembering to what she’d been reduced. “I’m not interested in any gentleman, but rather a woman,” she said quickly.

“Ah.” Mrs Plumb nodded sagely, running her hands the length of her cerulean sarcenet skirts. “You want a woman. Well, there are plenty of lovely ladies here who also have no interest in the gentlemen, and I’m certain I can introduce you to just the right soul mate, if that is your heart’s desire.” She smiled. “Mrs Plumb’s Salon is where wishes are granted, and no dream is too strange to come true.”

Emphatically, Phoebe shook her head. “I’m looking for one lady in particular. I was told she came here on a Thursday.” She paused and lowered her voice. “I don’t know what name she might go by other than Mrs Wentworth for I was told only that Mr Wentworth’s wife works here.”

A flash of surprise registered in the depths of Mrs Plumb’s expression. “Who would like to know? I keep a safe house, my dear.”

“So she is here? There is a woman known by that name?”

Mrs Plumb hesitated. “Possibly.”

“Please, I do need to speak to her. It’s about her husband.”

Mrs Plumb jerked back her head, her eyes widening. She glanced about her quickly, before whispering, “He’s not dead, is he?”

Phoebe bit her lip. “He’s not, but I think Mrs Wentworth should be given the chance to decide whether she wants to talk to me or not.”

Mrs Plumb inclined her head. “Wait here,” she ordered, turning on her heel and disappearing through a curtained doorway.

Phoebe stared at the food while she slanted a surreptitious glance at the odd assembly. She noticed a slender, elegantly-attired young woman in an elaborate, feathered masque take the arm of a gentleman and disappear through a doorway behind a tapestry she’d not noticed before. Could half these people be prostitutes? she suddenly wondered, shocked. Surely innocent Ada would not have sent her to such a place like.

“Would madam like to view the paintings in the blue room?”

A rather distinguished gentleman, somewhat older and with gray peppering his hair, proffered his arm but Phoebe stepped away. “Thank you but I’m meeting someone,” she said quickly, and with a nod he slipped into the crowd.

More couples disappeared into chambers hidden behind paintings or plinths. Phoebe heard a smattering of clapping as the singer finished her song, and then was loudly congratulated by an admirer. “Madame Zirelli, our songstress of the evening, has now concluded her art. Please show your appreciation once more, ladies and gentlemen.”

Peeping past the curtains, Phoebe observed a tall, handsome woman of middle years dressed in a slightly shabby gown of cerulean blue. She’d heard the name before, and remembered that Madame Zirelli had been a singer of some renown who’d passed through the towns of the north when she’d been a child.

“Would Madame like some refreshment? I’m told you are looking for someone, and I am here to lead you to satisfaction.”

Phoebe glanced around and found herself looking into the eyes of a beautiful young woman dressed in diaphanous robes with an impish smile. Her long, golden hair was unbound though held in place with a circlet of flowers, and her gaze was the purest blue Phoebe had ever seen.

The young woman smiled again and held out her hand. “I’m Ariane. Come with me.”

Unresistingly, Phoebe followed the girl down a passage and into a darkened room filled with a strange scent of musk, and the soft singing of four similarly dressed maidens who swayed in time to their lovely chant.

The door closed behind them, plunging them into semidarkness, but rather than feel fear, Phoebe was mesmerized, unthinkingly bringing the goblet that was placed in her hands to her lips. Its contents tasted like mead, the honey and strange herbs astringent but pleasant against the back of her throat. Smoke scented with the same herbs drifted into her nostrils, stinging the back of her throat, but the sight of the four young girls on a dais surrounded by candles in the center of the dim, smoke-filled room, swaying and softly chanting, was too transfixing for her to step away.

Ariane put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and drew her to a velvet throne in the corner of the room. “Would you like to watch?”

Phoebe blinked a few times. The smoke and odd scent were making it difficult to concentrate. “I’m looking for Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered. “You said you’d take me to her.”

Had she asked for Mrs Wentworth earlier? she wondered, but before she could recall, the young woman smiled, tracing the curve of Phoebe’s lips with her forefinger. “I am Mrs Wentworth,” she said softly.

Phoebe jerked out of her caress and blinked stupidly.

Ariane laughed gently while behind her the vestal virgins swayed, heads together, eyes closed, expressions rapturous.

“You are Mrs Wentworth? But…”

“But I do not live with my husband? No, that is correct.” Ariane looked amused as she bade Phoebe be seated, then lowered herself into the velvet banquette beside her. “I worked here before I met him, and now I am back here where Mrs Plumb takes care of me and I am surrounded by kindness. I have no complaints.” She stroked Phoebe’s hair. “But I am curious. How do you know my husband, or perhaps I should not delve too deeply into that question? I suspect he knows many women, not all of whom are happy to have known him.” She raised an eyebrow.

Bitterness and fear rose up in Phoebe’s throat. “How do I know him? I wish I didn’t. I…” she floundered, wishing also that she’d not drunk the mead so quickl

y for she was aware of less clarity in the workings of her brain than she would like. “Let me assure you, Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered, “I do not judge you for having left your husband.”