The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

“Yes, I believe he’s a common visitor to Blinley Manor.” Hugh cleared his throat. “Though I’ve not been in the area for long, it wasn’t hard to learn the local gossip with regard to the peccadilloes your mistress enjoys with Mr Wentworth.”

“How dare ye!”

Despite himself, Hugh laughed at her outrage. She rose, hands on her slender hips as she thrust out her bosom. She looked as if another slanderous word would unleash her little hand in a stinging slap across his cheek. Hugh was uncomfortably aware of a frisson of excitement at the thought. Instead, he raised a supercilious eyebrow as he said, “If only we all had such loyal retainers, Phoebe. You do Lady Cavanaugh proud. Now, where do you suppose your fine mistress has fled? Perhaps she and Mr Wentworth planned this vile murder together. It’s the kind of thing clandestine lovers are wont to do—especially if the husband gets wind of the fact he’s being cuckolded.”

Her eyes blazed, and she trembled with visible anger though seemed unable to offer a coherent reply.

Hugh rose. “Into your bath, my girl. You are beyond filthy, I don’t need to tell you. It’s not necessary to fill it to the top, Withins. A couple of buckets are all that’s needed to get the dirt off.” When she began to protest he took pity on her. “All right, you can be like your lovely, sinless Lady Cavanaugh, just for tonight, and soak to your heart’s content. Withins!” He recalled his manservant. “More water, then. No, don’t look at me like that. I have to humor the lady if she’s to furnish me with the information I need on that rogue Wentworth.” Hugh rose and went to the door, opening it and bowing with a flourish. “And now, Phoebe, we will leave you to soak in private.”

“Thank ye, sir.” Her tight-lipped response followed him into the passage, as Mrs Withins passed him from the opposite direction carrying a bundle of white linen underthings and a full, bulky, gown belonging to the venerable miller’s wife, a stocky creature who was about three times the girth of young Phoebe.

It was an incongruous thought that Phoebe, whom Hugh had seen sheathed only in her chemise with her prettily turned ankles peeking out from just below, would soon be thoroughly covered up by the thick woolen garments that were all the miller’s wife seemed to have in her trunk. He’d been unwise to give in and allow her a full bath. Next, she’d be asking him to provide her with a new dress; though he shook his head as he wondered why he’d think such a thing. He’d only just met her, and he had no intention of being saddled with a wench on the make. Certainly, she’d be useful. There’d be a trial. There’d have to be if Phoebe was the witness she claimed and could testify against her mistress’s lover.

The harsh smell of the tallow candles Mrs Withins had lit and placed in the candle sconces by each doorway, turned his thoughts to practicalities as he returned to the small room the miller used apparently for storage and writing letters, for it contained a deal table and chair. Aside from seeing to better quality fuel, he would need to expedite criminal proceedings. Surely the magistrate would be back in town if a murder had been committed at the manor.

As he lowered himself into the little wooden chair that was surely too spindly to support a man of the miller’s girth, he mused upon relations between Phoebe and her master and mistress. Was she telling the truth? Had Wentworth killed Lord Cavanaugh? Would he recognize his lover’s maid? Wentworth was a man who took advantage where he could, so Hugh would have to ask the question. Several men with whom he’d shared an ale at the local tavern had suggested the local lady of the manor and her lover had eyes only for one another. The Blinley Manor servants said Wentworth was renowned for incarcerating himself in his lover’s salon for days at a time; an observation that suggested he had little interest in the underlings of his own household.

Hugh pushed open the casement window and stared at the starry sky above. Far in the distance, he could see Blinley Manor, a single twinkling light burning. He felt foolish now, imagining he could have forced Wentworth out of his carriage at pistol point in order to gain the satisfaction he needed. The truth was that red-hot fury had fueled his wild ride to this part of the world the moment Ada had reluctantly given her brother the name he’d hounded her to reveal.

But with Phoebe as his new ally, a far more sophisticated and effective plan was going to win the day. One that would ensure justice for Hugh’s sister without Hugh having to dirty his hands.

A sound in the bushes below caught his ear. Instantly he was on the alert, tensing as he withdrew his head and snuffed out the candle while he peered into the darkness.

With a murder having recently occurred up at the manor and Wentworth no doubt on the run, who knew what characters were about? Quietly, Hugh slipped into the corridor and exited through the scullery and into the kitchen garden. He allowed himself a moment to get used to the darkness before moving silently around the ivy-clad walls, glad of his dark clothing. When he reached the casement of the front parlor, he rested the back of his head against the panes and strained his eyes for a sign of movement in the bushes that bordered the grounds. But only the soft sighing of the breeze through the leaves emitted any sound. He moved forward to begin an investigation deeper into the garden, when the muted splash of water within reminded him that, just inside, Phoebe was having her bath.

He turned, and felt a jolt of shock and something he was immediately unable to identify, as through the diamond-paned windows, he took in the startlingly erotic sight of a young woman with slender, milky limbs, and long ripples of golden-brown hair standing in a bathtub, reaching down to soap her thighs. Her face was no longer streaked with mud, and as she raised her chin, Hugh felt guilt and fascination in equal measure; topped with a large degree of astonishment. The girl was a beauty.

He turned away, uncomfortably conscious that his hatred of Wentworth stemmed from that man’s disregard for the dignity of a woman. Hugh did not want to be compared. But as he took a step back toward the house, he felt softness beneath his feet and then the startled shriek of Mrs Withins’s deaf and blind cat which flew at him with bared claws.

His last glimpse before he hurried back into the safety of indoors was confirmation that Phoebe’s body was indeed goddess-like perfection, her waist tiny, her breasts full and tipped with two tiny pink rosebud nipples. Trying not to deny the effect of such a sight, he closed the door to the outside behind him and took the stairs, two at a time, to his room.

Dipping the sponge into the water and wringing it out, Phoebe looked about her for the usual accouterments that made bathing a pleasure. The bath salts? The scented oils? And that piece of rag…was that supposed to be the linen she dried herself with? It looked more like something the scullery maid would use to scour the bottom of the cooking pot.

A scullery maid? Mr Redding thought her little better.

She stood up, allowing the water to drip all over the floor while fear flooded her anew. What was she doing here? In a strange man’s house?

And why, oh why, had she used her Christian name? She let the sea sponge fall into the water and put her han

ds to her face. There was little danger of Mr Redding associating her with the supposedly guilty Lady Cavanaugh, but what were Phoebe’s choices? Where could she go? She had nowhere but here.

The shock seemed to be abating, but in its place came the familiar misery overlaid with panic. She balled her fists before bending to steady herself on the side of the tub as she closed her eyes. She could not let fear and despair get the better of her. She knew how to hold them at bay. Years of living with Ulrick, and then suffering at the hands of Wentworth following the truth of her girlish delusions, had forced her to develop ways to cope and survive. Now it was even more important to stay strong.

Her first priority would be to maintain the fiction of her identity and then flee to the safety of her aunt’s cottage in remote Norfolk. Of course, she couldn’t stay there. Her aunt would not welcome her for more than a duty visit, and nor did she have the means to support another mouth to feed—or two. If Phoebe were with child—oh Lord, it would buy her the time she needed to bring a case against Wentworth—she would be spared the hangman’s noose, for now. Wentworth would do all he could to condemn her, but if she were seen to be carrying Ulrick’s heir, she’d have time she might not otherwise have had to build up her own case regarding her innocence.

She just needed time.

She clenched her hands at her sides and took a deep breath. By God but Wentworth would pay for his treachery. Ulrick had not been a kind husband, and Phoebe would not pine in widow’s weeds, but he did not deserve to die at the hand of a dagger. No, not even a dagger. A paper knife wielded by his cousin.

She reached for the rough piece of linen as she stepped out of the bathtub and onto the hearthrug, soft and welcoming beneath her feet.

It was some consolation that this handsome gentleman hated Wentworth with a similar passion. Phoebe had no idea of the nature of Mr Redding’s grievance, and while the gentleman upheld such a low opinion of Lady Cavanaugh, she could not reveal her identity. But the realization of how the common folk spoke of her made her sick to the stomach.

Still, this man offered her the greatest chance of escape from the rough justice that Wentworth no doubt had in mind for her.

She shuddered—this time in disgust rather than fear—as she picked up the voluminous garments she was lucky enough to be loaned to replace her bloodstained chemise. They were an abomination, but nothing compared to the knowledge that Mr Redding thought the mistress of Blinley Hall a harlot and in all likelihood in collaboration with Wentworth. She’d have to tread a fine line to see how it was possible to save her neck through working the situation—and Hugh Redding—to her advantage.

He liked a pretty face. She’d not missed the flare of unguarded interest when he thought he was being dismissive. Well, Phoebe had spent enough time balancing a tightrope with Ulrick and Wentworth to know how to play men. If she were to survive Wentworth’s determination to see her hang for his crimes, she had no choice but to court Mr Redding’s interest. He wanted Wentworth to face the law, and she wanted Mr Redding as an ally in her own quest.