The Duchess and the Highwayman Read online

  “Well, Phoebe, if you’re so inclined, you can ask Mrs Withins about the local dressmakers. Perhaps we can set you up so you don’t look quite like a stout burgher’s wife. I’d certainly like that.”

  7

  A new dress was essential. After a wander about the gardens, keeping out of sight, Phoebe had nothing else upon which to concentrate her mind than the ugly, ostentatious, and overlarge gown she wore. Her agitated pacing from one boundary to the other had strengthened her determination that one day she’d assume her rightful status. Of course, her new gown could not be of the style she might have chosen had she been Lady Cavanaugh. That was too dangerous. A spasm of utter wretchedness gripped her. When might she ever resume her rightful status? When would she be a free woman again? Would she ever be free again?

  At least she felt safe in Mr Redding’s house. She’d never felt safe in her own.

  She rested her head against the rough bark of a crab apple tree and closed her eyes as she breathed in its heady perfume. Suddenly she was back in her own garden, a child again, secure in her mother’s love, if not her father’s.

  What she wouldn’t give to have her mother to advise her, comfort her. Tell her she would have some small say in her destiny. But her mother would have been too afraid to have voiced any opinions. She’d have counselled Phoebe to obey for it was the men in this world who held the power. Her mother was another abject example of how little charge a woman had over her own life. Phoebe’s father had shown her mother as little consideration and respect as Ulrick had shown Phoebe.

  Which brought Phoebe’s mind back to the bargaining she would need to do in order to get not one, but two gowns if she were to make the most of her opportunities.

  A simple, muslin gown and a serving maid’s print gown and apron would be essential in case she needed to flee suddenly for who knew when Sir Roderick would come knocking or Wentworth would learn her whereabouts. No one would question a poor woman alone, but they certainly would if she were in silk and lace, though Phoebe doubted Mr Redding would be ready to expend that kind of largesse upon her. She was a means to an end. He was a man, after all, no doubt thinking of little beyond his own comfort. Men were like that.

  She ran her hand down the rough trunk of the tree. What would she do for funds if matters didn’t turn out well for her under Mr Redding’s roof? She’d always been kept short of pin money by Ulrick, but she did have her jewelry. Sadly, she had none with her. Not even her rings. They were all in her dressing room.

  She returned to the house, no longer feeling the ebullience she had when Mr Redding had complimented her on her housekeeping abilities. In the parlor, she stared through the window, up at the hillside. Blinley Manor would be less than an hour’s walk, but what was the possibility of eliciting the help of the only person likely to speak in her defense, her lady’s maid Deborah? The estate would be swarming with potential informers. Wentworth was the new heir, and if Sir Roderick were to be believed, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Lady Cavanaugh had murdered her husband.

  Her word would never be believed against his.

  Mrs Withins entered with a scowl and asked Phoebe her business, adding with a glance up at the manor on the hill, “Poor, murdered Lord Cavanaugh. I ‘ope they find ‘is wicked faithless wife soon, fer let me tell ye, I’ll be right there when they light the first faggot.”

  “They ‘aven’t burned a woman at the stake fer thirty years,” Phoebe muttered as she left to go to her own chamber. No one, it seemed—not even Mr Redding—questioned the rumors that painted Lady Cavanaugh as the cuckolding wife who’d committed murder to be free of her husband’s yoke.

  A woman’s lot was fraught, she thought, throwing herself upon the bed. Regardless of where she was born on the social scale, freedom and independence of choice were virtually unobtainable. No wonder the fairer sex had a reputation for cunning when salvation lay in courting the affections of those upon whom they depended for their very lives.

  Right now, Mr Redding was that man. He’d unwittingly stepped into her life just when Wentworth was on a mission to destroy it. That meant, feelings aside, she had to court Mr Redding’s kind offices so he’d protect her. Perhaps he would develop some real affection for her so that he’d champion her if she found herself in any greater danger. Such as if Wentworth found her and dragged her before the courts.

  But what did Phoebe have that Mr Redding might desire? She buried her face in the pillow. The usual fare: her body, her looks, fortunately unmarred by age or Wentworth’s brutality. There was little else in her favor other than a fierce determination that she would not be charged for a crime she did not commit.

  She was the rightful mistress of Blinley Manor.

  A sob erupted from the depth of her being. No, she wasn’t. Without an heir, she could no longer inhabit Blinley Manor. Her new home was the dower house at the end of the driveway of…Wentworth’s new estate.

  She began to cry in earnest now. The truth was, Lady Cavanaugh was entirely dependent upon Wentworth’s charity for her survival.

  And Wentworth didn’t want her survival.

  And Phoebe the maid was entirely dependent upon Mr Redding’s charity.

  Tears were pointless. Action was needed. With great determination, she rose and went into the hall where she called for Mrs Withins, who appeared from one of the rooms with a look of indignant inquiry upon her face.

  “I need a dressmaker from the village to attend me as soon as possible,” Phoebe said, using the polite but authoritative tones she’d normally employ in such a situation, especially when her mind was occupied.

  Phoebe only realized her mistake when Mrs Withins put her hands on her ample hips, lifted her chin and said with calculated derision, “Is that so…madam? An’ who’s goin’ ter pay fer this dressmaker? Is it Mr Reddin’, mayhaps?”

  The housekeeper looked Phoebe up and down as if she were no better than a common doxy aping her betters and bartering her body—which is what Phoebe realized was the role she was playing.

  “I’ll take me orders from Mr Reddin’, thank ye,” the woman added when Phoebe didn’t reply. She turned on her heel and swept down the passage.

  Enraged and embarrassed, Phoebe immediately went in search of Mr Redding and found him poring over a map in the parlor.

  “If I am ter ‘elp ye bring Mr Wentworth ter justice, I need a new dress, sir! Several in fact, an’ in great ’aste,” she added, not caring what he made of her. The only way to prevent herself from crying was to turn her recent humiliating exchange with Mrs Withins into indignant self-justification.

  He turned his head and said mildly, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t quite understand your demanding tone, Phoebe, since that is just what I have sanctioned.”

  “Well, then ye must tell Mrs Withins ‘erself that this is what I need an’ that she must send fer the village dressmaker.” Phoebe’s own dressmaker did not live in the local village.

  Mr Redding straightened in his chair. “Ah…” he said slowly. Phoebe felt a slow blush spread over her face. Mr Redding had just deduced what had happened. She hoped he’d spare her the indignity of putting it into words.

  He did not.

  “So, Phoebe, the lady’s maid, has offended Mrs Withins by assuming the airs of a lady.” He chuckled. “I’d heard that distinctions of rank are just as important to the lower classes. Well, Phoebe, since you want a dress dreadfully badly—”

  Rudely she cut in, “An’ ye want Wentworth an’ I promise ye shall ‘ave ‘im, but ter do that I need ter be properly clothed. I need two gowns that befit me station, sir.”

  “The station to which you’d like to be elevated and which you are currently doing an admirable job of emulating.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, it’s two now, is it. And how might I benefit from my generosity since you refuse to speak to Sir Roderick? If I tell Mrs Withins to send for a girl to fit you for two dresses, I’ll want some enjoyment for doing it.” His mouth quirked and his voice thickened. He was, of course, li
ke any other man playing with her, only right now she found the experience more entertaining than frightening. With Ulrick and Wentworth, she’d had as much free will as one of the butterflies in their collection. But in no way was she bound to Mr Redding. She could leave at any time. It would have been a liberating thought if she’d had anywhere to go. “Just how much do you want a new dress, Phoebe?”

  Phoebe assessed him with equal interest as his eyes raked her body. She took in his highly polished Hessian boots with their fashionable tassels into which were tucked buff riding breeches. Riding breeches which clung to his shapely, muscled, thighs as if they’d been painted on. She pursed her lips as her eyes traveled north, lingering on his groin which, before her very eyes, began to show the obvious signs of pleasure at her interest.

  Shocked and embarrassed, she tore her eyes away with a gasp, the heat burning her cheeks as his mocking laugh rang in her ears.

  “A bold miss you are, to be sure.” His voice had the consistency of treacle, and the smooth assurance that he would have what he wanted, but he was enjoying the process of bending her to his will.

  The reflection, coming so soon after her confidence that she held the upper hand, made her thrust out her chin and declare angrily, “Ye want Mr Wentworth? I’m not askin’ fer much. Jest somethin’ decent ter clothe me, sir. Ye insult me if ye think I’ll…”

  She might have bartered her body for her husband, for Wentworth, but she was still enough of a lady to be ashamed to put into words the baseness of what they were negotiating.

  “…You’ll what, Phoebe?” He rose slowly, the humor just beneath the surface, and it riled her.

  “A kiss fer a garment that will aid yer aims, sir!” she ground out, stepping forward and thrusting herself into his arms, twining her arms around his neck and closing her mouth over his.

  She felt his surprise as his body reacted, first with a ripple of defense at her suddenness, then with a flare of something else—a different kind of surprise. A surprise that emulated hers, as his arms went around her, and he pulled her against him with a sudden movement that belied his mocking humor of earlier.

  Her immediate thought had been that she would make him enjoy this. Yes, for once she would be in charge. And then, without warning, something extraordinary happened. Heat filled her, a slow, mesmerizing sensation that first curled lazily through her body, then fired her senses as it powered through her groin, twined through her heart, and snapped at her nerve endings.

  She took a shallow breath as he deepened the kiss, his tongue breaching her first line of defense: the portcullis of her teeth that she’d intended would keep him at bay.

  But as his tongue began to explore the inside of her mouth which unthinkingly, wantonly, she opened to give him greater access, she found herself pushing herself against him, her body flowering with willingness while he too showed every sign of being equally enthralled.

  A brief kiss. That’s all it should have been. A kiss to show that she had what he wanted, but would withhold it.

  That this was a business transaction, that was all.

  And yet, it was enslaving. Euphoric. Her head swam, and moisture heated her inner thighs. She should push him away, but as he continued to plunder her mouth, and his hands roamed over her body, she was his slave.

  He now had her back arched over the back of the sofa.

  “By God, you’re a vixen, Phoebe.” His breath thrummed against her lips. She felt his hands grip the bulky wool of her skirts, pushing them up past her thighs while he pressed more heavily against her.

  He thought he had her acquiescence.

  He did not!

  “I said a kiss!” She tore herself out of his grip, angry now. Angry at herself as much as him for taking such liberties. “If ye think I’m so cheap as ter barter me body fer a mere dress, then ye can think again, Mr Reddin’.”

  He looked shocked and surprised. At himself? “I’ve insulted you, Phoebe,” he muttered, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ye have.” It was foolish to allow herself to succumb to tears. She was stronger than that. Still, the disappointment ran deep. He was just like any man. He’d take what he could and damn the consequences. She was a servant. Below him…she didn’t matter.

  Yet wasn’t every man just the same, and hadn’t she led him on? He’d push for what he could get. Men were like that.

  She shrugged off his placating hand on her shoulder. When she glanced up, she could almost imagine she saw genuine contrition. She sniffed. “I s’pose most men don’t apologize. Wentworth didn’t.”

  Now he looked truly mortified. “He…really tried to force you?”

  “Ha!” Her lip curled, and she put her hands to her face. “Didn’t I say? Wentworth took what ‘e could get an’ pushed fer what ‘e believed ‘e were entitled to. Most men believe they’re entitled ter whatever they wish fer.” She stopped, caution screaming in her head. She mustn’t confess. But she could give him some of the truth. She rubbed her hand across the back of her eyes. “‘Tis not a kind world fer women. But then, what would ye know ‘bout that, Mr Reddin’? Ye’re a man, an’ a wealthy one ter boot. Ye’d know little of what it is ter be vulnerable to the desires of others.”

  She stopped when she saw he was staring at her in some amazement. “You should be on the stage, my dear, reciting that perfect piece of prose in such ladylike tones. “You’d know little of what it is to be vulnerable to the desires of others. Are you parroting your mistress?”

  Phoebe gave herself a mental shake as she prepared her answer. “My mistress and I were…close,” she whispered.

  “And where do you suppose your mistress has gone now? She murdered a man. She has good reason to fear for her life.”

  “Mr Wentworth murdered Lord Ulrick...I mean, Cavanaugh. Is there really a distinction when ‘e used ‘is far greater strength ter force me lady, strugglin’ ter drop the knife yet ‘e used ‘is power ter drive it in, with ‘er as ‘is instrument, weepin’ all the while ter stop?” Angrily, Phoebe flung around. “A woman is the weaker vessel ‘an she is powerless when a man decides she’s useful fer something. Such as murder.”

  “So you truly assert that Wentworth is the murderer of your mistress’s lover?” He snatched at her wrist and pulled her back, gripping her shoulders so he could look at her.

  “‘Ow many times do I ‘ave ter say it, Mr Reddin’? That’s why ye can’t throw me ter the wolves once ye’ve ‘ad yer fill of me, ter put it crudely. Mayhap no one will believe me, but I know what ‘appened ‘an I could convince any magistrate—other than Sir Roderick—who chose to look at the case with an open mind. But if ye cast me out an’ Mr Wentworth or Sir Roderick found me, believe me; I might as well be dead.”

  He dropped his hands and turned upon a sigh. “Send Mrs Withins to me, and I’ll have her arrange for the village dressmaker. Perhaps we can find a couple of secondhand gowns which she can remodel for the various occasions you’ll require a different wardrobe. Ladies of fashion are expensive, but you’ll have to temper your desires to become one of them. I’m not a rich man.”

  “I jest need one gown that’s—”

  “That’s what, Phoebe? In the first stare, so you can ape your betters? What are you really planning?”

  She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t safe to parade herself as Lady Cavanaugh might have done. There were subtle distinctions. A lady’s maid was too much beneath her. Coarse homespun would hardly answer if she were to launch herself into the world given the first opportunity. Perhaps a respectable companion in her mistress’s two-seasons-old castoffs. She supposed that would do.

  “I don’t mind a made-over gown, sir. ‘Tis not as if I’m not used ter wearin’ me mistress’s from the year afore last. Jest so long as it fits.”

  “And where do you plan on being seen?”

  “Wherever it’s ter advantage. Maid or mistress.” She smiled and affected a look of coyness. “Though I reckon I deserve better’n coarse cotton.”

  “Y
es, I am aware that you have aspirations above your station, but I’ve warned you that saving your life won’t lead to my making you my wife.”

  “But ye’re payin’ fer a new dress, sir, an’ I can be more ‘elpful to yer with a couple of ‘em. Cotton print for a serving maid…” She pushed back one shoulder and looked him in the eye, adopting the perfectly cultured tones that were her own as she added, “and one for a lady so I can seek out those witnesses from both below and above stairs who will attest to Mr Wentworth being Lord Cavanaugh’s killer.”

  “Do you truly believe you can pull off being a lady without embarrassment or endangering us both?” He’d not admitted to admiration, but it was clear by the short, surprised pause that preceded his question.

  “You don’t have much faith in me, sir.” Riled, she determined that, forthwith, she would only speak as a lady. “Just listen to me and you shan’t be disappointed.”

  He gave her a searching look and murmured softly, “I’m gaining greater faith all the time in your ability to secure what you really set your mind on, Phoebe. All right, you shall have one print cotton dress and one dress in the first stare so you can gain admittance to the right places, though I don’t know what help that’ll be when I haven’t promised to take you anywhere, and since you say you’re afraid Wentworth will recognize you.”

  “Then if you’re so skeptical why would you grant me that, sir?”

  “Because I rather fancy my chances of what you might grant me, Phoebe, were I to satisfy sufficient of your venal wishes.”

  Phoebe looked at him askance. “You do have a fine opinion of yourself, sir.”