The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

“Oh, so you’re well accustomed to transactions like this, yet you speak to me as if I’ve insulted you.” Hugh wasn’t sure if he was more needled by her accusations of insensitivity on his part, or the fact that Phoebe appeared used to having protectors shell out money for her charms.

He’d been going to reassure her before Mrs Withins entered the room of his honorable intentions with regard to setting her up nicely. He wanted her much more than he wanted a wife, and Phoebe, with her looks and prowess in the bedroom department, would be quick to look elsewhere unless Hugh got himself in order. He’d wanted to reassure her that he was madly in love with her, and it would be a while before he even got down to the serious business of finding a wife; that for the foreseeable future, she would be the focus of all his attentions.

Instead, he was silent as he watched her hand close over the money he gave her.

Cast out on the street was exactly what it felt like at first. And then the extraordinary sensation of freedom hit Phoebe like a sack of oats. She’d rarely left the confines of Blinley Manor without someone by her side, whether it was her aunt or Barbara, her lady’s maid.

Well, there was no one who’d have anything to do with her now, and the pin money she had in her pocket would hardly result in the number of parcels that would require another’s help to carry.

Phoebe had only occasionally visited this town that was somewhat larger than her own local village. It had a busy marketplace and quite a substantial high street. In her matronly garments with a hideous lace cap upon her head she’d go unrecognized, and while she might abhor the ugliness of her rig-out, she was soon enjoying the anonymity that plainness of appearance brought. She’d not left the miller’s cottage in two weeks.

The sun was high in a cloud-studded sky as she sauntered down the rutted road, her hand closed around the coin in her pocket. Ulrick rarely gave her so much for he insisted on sanctioning every purchase. Her father had negotiated a poor deal for her with regard to pin money when he’d signed the marriage contract on her behalf.

As her pique with Hugh abated, she began to see her surroundings with fresh eyes. Villagers scurried about their business carrying baskets laden with bread and vegetables; wheeled wagons rumbled down the street. Everything was a hive of activity, and no one seemed to give her a second glance.

Such an

onymity and freedom were intoxicating.

And this was her first real opportunity for purchasing those necessities that would augment the several gowns she’d need, such as gloves, a decent bonnet, and some shoes. She was a kept woman now. There was no coming back from that fact.

She’d heard Mrs Withins say the new lordship was ensconced while the search for Lady Cavanaugh continued. As Phoebe pored over a selection of kid gloves on a barrow down a narrow laneway, she welcomed the idea of moving to London with Mr Redding. She only had to look over her shoulder to see Blinley Manor perched upon the hill, and a deep chill permeated her bones.

Right now, Mr Redding was in love with her, but she knew how men behaved when they were weary of the women with whom they were saddled. The truth was that she, in turn, was deeply attached to Mr Redding, but her survival required her to think like a man. That meant she must take whatever opportunity she had to put together a few garments that would see her through the near future.

She could not allow sentiment to interfere with what she needed to do simply to prevent herself being shot through the heart by Wentworth—oh, and he’d do it, too!—or dangle from the end of the gallows.

“I ‘ear she did a runner with all ‘is jewels ‘an plate. Don’t blame ‘is new lordship fer wantin’ a piece o’ her. I ‘eard Lady Cavanaugh were an easy bit o’ muslin. Reckon she deserves what’s comin’ ter ’er. Won’t be long now. She can’t ‘ide forever.”

Horrified, Phoebe swiveled her eyes to see who was speaking. A man and woman were inspecting the goods of the secondhand barrow a few feet away, sifting through musty-smelling garments as they spoke first of domestic matters, and now of the on-dit that clearly continued to enthrall the locals.

She was about to turn away when unwittingly she caught the eye of the woman, a shifty-eyed creature with a rattish face and thin greying hair beneath her faded bonnet.

“Oi, ye!”

Phoebe froze with both fear and indignation. No one had ever addressed her in such a manner. Pure terror followed quickly. She surely couldn’t have been identified? The last two weeks had transported her into safety’s embrace, but now, suddenly, she felt the hard, rough rope of the noose tighten around her neck and thought she would faint.

With a panicked look toward the end of the alleyway, she assessed her options. She could flee, dive under the cart that was lumbering down the cobbled laneway for protection and hope to make her escape that way.

In fact, she was about to do this when the woman inquired pleasantly, “Where’d ye get that cap? From this barrow? It’s right ‘andsome, it is. Ain’t it, Jonas?”

Phoebe’s mouth, if anything, dropped ever lower. She put her hand to her brow and touched the hideous headpiece. Handsome? Was this woman testing her?

Dry-mouthed, she shook her head and muttered something in the way of a denial and thanks before she sidled away. But the words the woman had uttered just before her dubious compliment lingered. Did everyone really think she was guilty? That Lady Cavanaugh was the harlot Wentworth portrayed her to be? That she’d driven in the knife that had killed her own husband? Did even her own maid, Barbara, think it? How loyal was she, really? Right now, Phoebe’s only sanctuary was Hugh.

Despair weighed heavily on her shoulders as she left the barrow without making a purchase. How would she ever clear her name? Well, she would not. She’d already accepted she’d never have a fair trial; that her only chance of survival was to hope she was never discovered; that she’d be condemned to spend the rest of her days as a servant.

She swallowed again. As mistress to Mr Hugh Redding? Was that the best she could hope for?

Phoebe continued her shopping expedition, spending all the money Mr Redding had given her, most of it on a morning dress she’d found at the secondhand shop. It had probably belonged to someone with pretentions to grandeur, for the cut would have been stylish two years previously though the material was not of high quality. Still, it was flattering and the best of a bad lot.

The moment she returned, going through the servants’ back entrance to the small room allotted to her now that Ada was here—thank the good Lord she wasn’t sharing with Mrs Withins as Mr Withins was away for a night—she slumped down on her pallet bed and put her head in her hands; the dress draped across her lap.

Once, she’d been fired up by the possibilities of clearing her name. She’d been fired up by Mr Redding. Just thinking about him now made her tingle inside, and set in motion a strange roiling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

But for how long would she really be satisfied, knowing he regarded her as no better than a servant, and the real Lady Cavanaugh as a murderer?

For a start, she’d have to accept being banished the moment a ‘real’ lady in the form of his sister appeared.