Hugh was aware of every movement and twitch of Phoebe’s expression. He’d grown to know her better than he’d realized as he watched her inner thoughts flit across her face like a chart only he could read. He knew something momentous was coming, and he was not wrong.
“He had every reason to fear my ability to stand in his way, since I was carrying—and still carry—my husband’s child.”
A gasp rustled through the assembled room. Hugh’s was added to it as his mouth dropped open. Could it be true? He thought rapidly. He’d given it no thought, but he could not remember when she’d last bled.
With an angry roar, Wentworth leaped to his feet. “Liar!” he spat. And then over the top of the din, “The lady is a liar!”
“You cannot disprove what will inevitably come to pass: the birth of my husband’s child and, if it is born a boy, then you will no longer have claim to my husband’s estate and assets for which you murdered.” She spoke with passion, but not unseemly hysteria. Hugh had to admire her for that.
“If you are with child, then it will not be your husband’s!” screamed Wentworth. “Everyone knows that!”
Phoebe looked at him calmly. “How can you prove that, Mr Wentworth?”
Shaking, Phoebe left the courtroom for an adjournment, refusing the assistance of the turnkeys who flanked her. She had a sudden urge to be ill, but knew she could not give into weakness now. She’d succeeded in knocking the wind from Wentworth’s sails, and that was a small victory that would have to sustain her for now.
As a lady, she had not been housed with the common prisoners as Wentworth had been so insistent should happen. Small mercy, indeed. Instead, she occupied her own pleasant chamber by the turnkey’s cottage where the turnkey’s wife waited upon her with an air of quiet outrage, and to where she was now led.
“Ye’re enough to fill an old woman with horror at what ye done,” the woman hissed, as she thrust a plate of food in front of her prisoner before she left Phoebe to the silence she’d become used to.
But it was Phoebe who felt the horror in its full force when a gentle tap upon the door did not herald the arrival of her evening meal but instead, Hugh.
Her first reaction was to hurl her arms about his neck and give into a cathartic bout of weeping, but his stiff stance did not encourage this. Nor had she expected their possible reunion would be sweetness and exoneration. He’d have heard every damning piece of evidence against her.
“You were in the courtroom?” There was no need to ask, but still, her mind raced over all the defamatory statements about her that he’d be digesting right now.
He nodded, his eyes bleak as he looked past her. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She indicated a chair by the fire, but he shook his head. “I won’t stay long. I just wanted to satisfy myself that you were well and…” he frowned, unable it seemed to continue.
“To ask why I lied to you?” she supplied.
“Why did you?”
“Oh Hugh….” Phoebe sucked in a breath, “…I cannot expect you to understand why I made any of the decisions I did. I cannot expect you to begin to know what it was like living with Ulrick—”
“Many women live with violent husbands, but that’s no excuse to—”
Horrified she cut him off. “You, too, believe I killed Ulrick? That it was planned?” She put her hands to her face then said more calmly, “Well, you have your answer. You are like all the rest: judging that which you can’t possibly know. That’s why I did not reveal to you who I really was.”
“And who are you really, Phoebe?” Hugh’s face contorted as he gripped her arm. “The girl I knew was honest and brazen and fearless. A maidservant with a fierce loyalty to her mistress accused of murder. I admired the fact she would risk so much to raise her voice and testify to her belief that her mistress was innocent.”
Phoebe said nothing.
“Now I find that you’re that mistress. Mistress to maidservant Phoebe who doesn’t exist, and mistress to the evil Wentworth who seduced my sister. And every fortnight you went with him willingly?”
Phoebe dropped her eyes before giving him a searching look. “Did your sister not go willingly too? Ask your Ada if Wentworth was not compelling? That he had the charm to woo with honeyed words a vulnerable female.” She swallowed. “I was vulnerable because I needed to provide Ulrick with an heir. Not an easy matter when he was impotent. Wentworth had been laying on the charm thickly for years, but finally it was Ulrick who directed me to lie with his cousin in order that Wentworth’s eldest feeble-minded brother would not inherit.”
Hugh stared at her. “You and Wentworth acted as one in your attempts to beget Ulrick’s heir. What about Ulrick’s murder? You claim your hand was forced. Yet the two of you had been united in everything else.”
“Now do you see why I did not wish to be caught?” It was hard to swallow. “You cared for me enough to make me your mistress, you came to know me better than a
nyone, yet you consider me guilty. Just like everyone else.” She managed a breath though panic tore at her. “And now I’m going to die for a crime that was brilliantly executed by Wentworth. How clever he is,” she added bitterly.
“Are you really carrying Wentworth’s child?” She saw the effort his question cost him and managed a smile.
“Definitely not Wentworth’s. How terrified I was that I might be when I fled the manor. After news had been delivered that Wentworth’s older brothers were dead, and he was now heir, it was my taunt that, in fact, I was with child—meaning he’d not inherit after all—that tipped Wentworth over the edge. He lunged at me when I said that, clasped my hand around the handle of the paper knife, and forced it into Ulrick’s chest.” She started to shake, recalling the horror of her helplessness. “And then he tried to murder me. That’s why I fled with nothing but the chemise I was wearing.”
“But you were Wentworth’s…paramour. Why taunt him?”