Hugh felt himself gaping just like that supposedly bigger fish Ada claimed his darling Phoebe was out trying to lure. Angrily, he shook his head. “You do her a grave injustice. Besides, she took no jewelry and nothing else of any value. No, she went out empty-handed to do your bidding, Ada. She went out seeking information upon your request, and something happened. That’s what I believe.”
“Well, I hope you’re right. I certainly thought she was very fond of you,” Ada conceded.
“Fond of me! She was more than that, I can tell you!” Hugh removed Ada’s hand. There was nothing to be gained from losing his temper. The truth was he was angry with himself, not Ada. He was responsible for Phoebe, and he’d promised to keep her safe. “It’s getting late, and you must call your maid and return to Aunt Alexa’s,” he muttered.
“Yes, so I can dress and attend a dinner where several MPs, including my charming Mr Xavier, will be in attendance,” Ada simpered. “Aunt Alexa introduced us three days ago.”
“Ah yes, so that’s my cue to quiz you on your beau.” Hugh tried to sound interested, but his mood was fearful and heavy. “My apologies for allowing myself to be distracted.”
“Don’t be churlish, Hugh. Phoebe will come back if she loves you as she says she does. And please be glad for me. Since you asked—or rather, didn’t in so many words—Mr Xavier is a widower with no children and no title but an adequate fortune and a fine Mayfair address, and Aunt Alexa says I’d struggle to do better. Fortunately, I find myself rather intrigued by Mr Xavier. He is very kind.”
“Very kind? And doddery? Oh Ada, don’t sell yourself short. You don’t need to settle for an old man.”
“I don’t plan to settle for anyone I don’t choose to ally myself to for the remainder of my days. Mr Xavier is fifteen years older, interesting, and well-connected.”
“Are you brave enough to risk—”
“Do you mean have I covered my tracks well enough to confidently entertain Mr Xavier’s attentions without fear of discovery of the fact that I’m no better than your Phoebe?”
“No need to bristle like a hedgehog, my dear Ada.” Hugh shook his head. “My, but you are not the meek and mild little sister I once knew.”
“That’s because I’ve seen Mr Wentworth win a fine estate and profit despite the crimes he’s committed against me. I will trouble myself no more with him, but if I cannot get my revenge in seeing him reduced in status and fortune, then my revenge will be in prospering in my own life. I will not be an unpaid companion to a crotchety aunt for the remainder of my days because of Mr Wentworth. I shall be the wife and hostess of a man of politics. I shall not be afraid, Hugh, for nothing can be as bad as that which I’ve endured already.”
“Fighting words, indeed,” Hugh said admiringly. “I wish you great success in your endeavors toward such ends. Meanwhile, I must return and decide what to do about Phoebe.”
“You can do nothing until she decides to return.”
Hugh looked at her sadly. “You truly believe she has left me?”
Ada smiled. “I also believe she will return to you, Hugh, when she grows tired of her pleasure-seeking and realizes no kinder, sweeter man existed. And you will take her back because you love her. It will end happily; I’ve no doubt. Now go to your club and stop mooning about like a lovestruck calf.”
17
It was just after midnight that Phoebe was roughly pushed into the withdrawing chamber of the receiving lackey on duty, who raised his grizzled head and looked at them blearily. He’d obviously been asleep in a chair before the grate.
In the disconcerting silence, she heard the time burst forth from the far-too-cheerful street caller just below the window, and shivered as the door opened to a stooped gentleman punctiliously adjusting his bagwig, his expression sonorous. His displeasure at seeing them was in contrast to Wentworth’s transparent satisfaction. He looked as if he’d been recalled from far more pleasurable pursuits.
“Lord Mayberry, I’d like to present Lady Cavanaugh, the woman who murdered her husband and my cousin. The woman all England has been looking for this past two months.”
Lord Mayberry wiped rheumy eyes with a handkerchief and peered at Phoebe, his gaze traveling critically from the dirt-encrusted hem of one of the secondhand gowns she’d acquired, and which was partly concealed beneath her faded black bombazine cloak. She was not dressed like a lady, she knew. Nor like a servant either.
Lord Mayberry squinted at her, and with horror, she realized she’d seen him earlier that night at Madame Plumb’s.
“She does not look like Lady Cavanaugh,” he muttered, no doubt confused by her appearance as he signaled over his shoulder to a hovering maid to pour them all a brandy.
“For Lady Cavanaugh, too,” he added. “She’ll need it.”
They sat down and the maid brought over the drinks, whispering something in her employer’s ear which he waved away with a flicker of irritation. “Reassure Margaret that all is well,” he told her. “And that I’ve been at home all evening, but that my sleep has been disturbed by an apprehended murderess. That’ll have her down in a trice, wanting to know this and that, never satisfied,” he muttered, though Phoebe was sure they were not intended to hear what he just said, just as she knew Lord Mayberry had not been in his own bed all night.
Fear had locked up her throat, but now she managed tightly, “I did not murder my husband.”
His lordship looked at her sharply. “Oh, so you admit you are Lady Cavanaugh then. That’s a pity. I’d thought to release you with a warning for solicitation and leave it at that.” He glared from her to Wentworth, then sighed, waving his empty glass in the air for his maid to collect. “Well then, we’d better get on with it, hadn’t we?”
In the dim chamber of elongated shadows, names and titles, alleged crimes and statements, were recorded by a tall, lanky young man with a prematurely-aged face and small pointed ears, who’d been summoned for the task. Then they were all on their feet again, and Wentworth was pressing himself close to Phoebe while Lord Mayberry and his secretary, heads bent close, discussed proceedings in a low murmur at the far end of the room.
Wentworth’s eyes glittered in his self-satisfied face.
“You thought you could best me, Lady Cavanaugh, but you were wrong.” His breath was sour; his voice thick with gloating. How well she remembered it. How could she ever have felt a spark of anything for the man? How could she not have been repulsed and riddled with mistrust and contempt? The thought that he’d savored her body like her darling Hugh had done—and that she’d given herself to each with equal abandon—sent the bile surging into her gullet.