The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

Phoebe gasped and instinctively put her hand out toward him. “Oh Wentworth, I’m so sorry.”

Ignoring her, Wentworth pulled on his breeches and shirt and pushed past Barbara. Phoebe ran after him as he strode down the corridor, down the stairs, his footsteps loud and determined before he burst into the drawing room.

Ulrick was hunched in his chair, his eyes slits from the reflection of the fire. “Terrible accident, Wentworth.” He was properly awake now and holding out a letter which Wentworth snatched from his grasp and scanned quickly.

Phoebe felt the tug of sympathy at the shock on his face and wished she’d not been so harsh earlier. She took a step toward him, but he avoided her outstretched hand, the shock on his face increasing as he jerked up his head.

“By God, both of them? Both my brothers are dead.” He stabbed at the letter. “The imbecile was driving. Why, the other’s as imbecilic to let him take the reins and now they’ve both plunged to their deaths.”

“A great shock, Wentworth,” Ulrick muttered. “Changes everything, of course.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened at the implication. She gasped. “You’re Ulrick’s heir, Wentworth.” She felt a wave of relief and nearly laughed aloud, so filled with joy was she that she need not have to suffer Wentworth’s attentions ever again.

Casting herself at her husband’s feet, she rested her cheek upon his knees. “Now you can rest in peace, Ulrick, though it’s a terrible thing to rejoice in another’s death.” She took his bony hands in hers and began to chafe their papery backs. “We will mourn as is proper, yet it’s the truth, my husband. Your worries about the succession are over.”

“Unless you are carrying my child.”

Phoebe glanced up, shocked at the blaze of anger that marred Wentworth’s expression. Unconsciously, she put her hand to her belly. “I…I don’t believe so, Wentworth,” she said cautiously. And nor did she. She’d only suggested such might be the case to try and deflect his advances earlier this evening.

“But you may be now. As of five minutes ago, my angel.”

It was no endearment. Phoebe stared up at Ulrick to gauge his reaction, but he was obviously in great pain; his eyes glazed with it.

“Then we’ve no choice but to wait and see,” she whispered, her mouth dry though she forced herself to hold his angry glare. “We shall make the best of whatever we have done.”

“We shall make the best of a badly done deal now.” Wentworth’s voice was frighteningly calm as he stepped forward.

Phoebe recoiled as she squeezed Ulrick’s hand. “Ulrick, can you hear me?” she pleaded. “You must reassure Wentworth, if only for my sake.”

Her husband breathed heavily. It was often thus in the evenings when the pain came down strong and hard.

Wentworth gave a mirthless laugh. “He’s not long for this world, my dear. You can see it; the doctor says it. He’s suffering. See how he suffers.” And all the time Wentworth was moving closer, while Phoebe drew farther back against her husband, who would not help her when he was in good health and would not help her now.

“A dutiful wife would put him out of his misery, wouldn’t she?” He’d picked up the paper knife from the escritoire settled in the enclave by the tasseled curtain. It was a slender, chiseled, and elegant instrument. Deadly.

“No, Wentworth.” Her teeth chattered. She tried to get to her feet and run, but Wentworth’s arm shot out and his hand gripped hers, forcing the paper knife into her grasp, forcing her forward. She tried to resist, tried to snatch her hand back, the sharp blade catching on the skin on the back of her hand, drawing a thin, instant incision that filled with blood.

“No, Wentworth! This is madness!” she cried out, flailing in his relentless grip as with merciless intent, he drove her hand forward, overpowering her with his strength—his evil intent. She’d never fought so strongly to preserve the life of the man she hated as much as Wentworth, but he was too strong, seizing her throat, holding her hand around the knife, forcing her to pierce her husband’s chest with the deadly blade, neatly between the ribs and directly into her hated husband’s heart. She heard the hiss of air as his lung deflated, saw his glazed incomprehension turn to wide-eyed horror in his final moment, and she screamed as the crimson lifeblood spattered her face.

The door was thrust open and two maids ran into the room. Phoebe stared at the knife in her hand, looked down at her blood-stained chemise and then at the horror on the servants’ faces before Wentworth pushed her and snarled, “Get out and summon help, both of you. Fetch Sir Roderick, the magistrate. Your mistress has just murdered the master.”

Phoebe dropped the knife which fell soundlessly onto the Aubusson carpet.

“It’s not true. You can’t say that, Wentworth. I’ll tell them the truth.” Shock and horror made her voice thin and weak as the maids scurried out of the room, but Wentworth was entirely self-composed.

“And they may choose to believe you, or they may not. They may convict, and then you’ll plead the belly.” He shook his head; his lip curled. “Plead the belly because you’ll say you’re carrying Ulrick’s child. His heir. No, I can’t have that, Phoebe.”

Terror froze her to the spot. Her legs refused to move as he advanced a second time, bending to pick up the knife that lay at her feet.

He gazed at her coldly. “The maids have gone to summon help, but you’ll have seen the error of your ways before they return. They saw you drive the knife into Ulrick’s heart. They’ll understand perfectly why you’d choose to end your life rather than face the hangman’s noose, my dear.”

Realization of his intentions snapped her into action as the distance closed between them. In the recesses of her mind, she knew he would be too quick for her. He’d catch her, or one of the servants would. Death was certain, either way.

The only tiny possibility of reprieve was in flight. Phoebe ran for the casement, thrusting it open before hurling herself through the cavity.

And as she dropped through the dark and chill night air, she barely wondered if she were consigning herself to a death more terrible than the one Wentworth had in mind for her.

For nothing could be worse than the fate Wentworth intended for her.