The next morning, dressed in the voluminous gown of brown and gold wool that Mrs Withins had brought her, and with nothing to cover her hair, Phoebe sat on a chair by the fire in the little parlour and waited.

It had been well after midnight when she’d been shown to a spare bedchamber and she’d been too exhausted to even think about turning the key in the lock.

Now it was nearly midday and she had no idea what the terms of her protection would be. Or what kind of man Mr Redding really was.

She was still pondering her uncertain future when Mr Redding walked into the room and as she stood up and nearly tripped upon her too-long skirts, he laughed.

“Methinks Goodwife Miller and you differ a little in size.” He regarded her with interest as he half circled her then went to his writing desk where he sat down. “Still, a good wash has been transformative.”

It was certainly not a compliment but, as she inclined her head, she was conscious, once again, of his admiration, which he clearly wished to hide. Phoebe knew that men found her attractive. As a girl of seventeen about to embark upon her first season, she’d dreamed of clothes and handsome suitors, having enjoyed considerable attention at the local Assembly dances over a few short weeks.

But then, her father had reeled in Ulrick. Ulrick who had no interest in her beyond her ability to procreate but who, in her father’s eyes, was too great a catch to let go. Decades older than herself, Ulrick lived an almost hermit-like existence with—as it transpired—a reputation for cruelty and a vicious scorn for women.

Her father and his ally—Phoebe’s governess Miss Splint—had told her Lord Cavanaugh would make Phoebe a duchess. They’d rubbed their hands with glee, congratulating themselves on a fine piece of match-making that meant there was no need to spend money on a wardrobe for Phoebe to participate in London revels to catch a husband.

Emotion thickened her throat. At least, having had a father who’d shown her so little affection, Phoebe hadn’t had high expectations of her husband.

She picked up her skirts and carefully sat down again as she contemplated how far short of the life she’d once envisaged she’d fallen.

She wouldn’t deny that it was a relief that Ulrick was dead and she need never fear the lash of his belt or back of his hand, again.

But while she was free from the constant fear of physical violence and coercion, she needed to keep up her charade if she were to remain free in the eyes of the law. Without the right clothes, she was as much a prisoner as she’d ever been. She sighed. “I wonder ‘ow I’m ter walk out of that door an’ not cause tongues ter wag wearing this.”

“Is that your way of asking me to fund something for your own wardrobe before I return you to your single relative? A new dress at my expense, eh? Something you can wear in a magistrate’s court?”

That was the last place Phoebe wanted to think of being right now. “That mayhaps be some while, sir. I was thinkin’ of ‘ow I might present meself ter be useful ter ye since I can speak like a lady when I needs to.”

“You already owe me your life since, according to you, Wentworth would have killed you if he’d found you. As for a new gown, no doubt you’re thinking of something that would be more than you’d earn in two years of wages, eh?”

Phoebe’s outrage was a mixture of acting and the real. Mr Redding, seemed to take pleasure in needling her, with a pair of engaging brown eyes that could be serious one moment and twinkling with devilry the next. Well, she would have to work hard to make herself immune to both his barbs and his cajolery. No doubt he was like all the rest. A woman was a plaything, and a penniless one would be expected to dance to a rich man’s tune.

She wondered what a cheeky maid would say. She’d whip up the flirtation perhaps, holding back while suggesting more. So she plastered a smile on her face and put her head on one side. “If ye want ter barter, sir, I will…give ye a kiss on the cheek.” With mock severity, she added, “I ‘ope that’s all ye expect, Mr Redding ‘cause let me assure ye, I’d rather go naked than barter me only asset.”

“Your only asset?” He was mocking her now, a smile playing about his lips as he looked up from his writing desk. “And pray, what do you suggest is your only asset?”

Heat burned her cheeks. Her only asset had been bartered for a good marriage, and then she’d bartered it again at her husband’s behest—with a man who at the time she quickly grew to detest—in the hopes of an heir.

Oh, Wentworth, she thought with a pang of despair. Did I ever love you?

She was ashamed she could transfer her heart so easily. Wentworth was worthless, and yet she’d been taken in so easily. Why? Because Ulrick had exerted pressure. She had to cling to the defense that her adultery had been driven by the knowledge that without an heir, she’d lose the only home she had. Surely any other woman, even a decent, God-fearing one, would have acted as she had?

And yet she was still going to lose her home; her life, even, if Wentworth had his way.

Mr Redding looked at her with amusement, not ready to let the topic go. “The way you’re blushing suggests you lost your only asset a long time ago.” He rose and took a few steps towards her. “No, don’t strike me when I was only going to take you up on your offer of a kiss.”

He stopped a foot from her but instead of swooping to kiss her, gently touched her cheek. His smile was very warm. “I like you, Phoebe. And the look in your eye suggests you more than like me. But are you really that bold? What if I called your bluff?”

Was she that transparent? Yes, she did like him, but it was ungentlemanly of him to say so and unladylike for her to show it. Indignation powered through her, and before she could stop herself, she’d slapped him soundly across the face before realizing the foolishness of her behavior when this man was the only person in any position to aid her.

Flinging around, she brought her apron to her face. “Jest like Mr Wentworth ye are! Thinkin’ ye can take yer pleasure just ‘cos I’m only a lowly servant, an’ no doubt thinkin’ ye can force me inter what I says no to.”

When he didn’t grab her, or shout, she lowered her apron to find him contemplating her.

He stood, resting against the back of the sofa. “It’s rather sobering to be compared to a blackguard like Wentworth.” He held up his palms in a gesture of supplication. “And I had rather taken your previous words to be an invitation.” He shrugged, and half turning, indicated the door. “You must be tired, Phoebe. And overwrought. Go and walk in the garden for a bit. The weather is fine and there is no one about. I have some work to do, not least of which is deciding what is to be done with you. I can’t send you back to Blinley Manor, can I?”

She was unable to hide her terror, which, for some reason made him laugh—although that was perhaps because she tripped on her overlong skirts again and was only saved from falling to her knees when he gripped her elbow to steady her.

“Deftly executed, Miss Phoebe. I see how anxious you are to reinforce to me how ill the dress fits you—indeed, a health liability. Now,” he waved her to the door, “off you go! Mrs Withins can give you something to eat which you might want to take into the garden.”

“You’ve had luncheon, sir?” she asked, only realising her mistake when he looked at her, curiously, and replied, “I dine at two.”

Of course, he’d hardly expect her, a mere servant, to join him. Phoebe lowered her eyes. She’d have to make sure she didn’t a similar mistake that might cost her the freedom she was at such pains to protect.

* * *

After a lonely afternoon and a chilly reception in the kitchen as she’d eaten her dinner with Mr and Mrs Withins, Phoebe climbed the stairs to her room, wondering how long she’d be living this half life. Mr Redding did not intend spending more time with her than necessary while the servant couple clearly despised her.

The cramping she’d felt earlier had returned, so she was glad to be able to lie down. She knew the signs well. In another ten days she would bleed, and there would be no child. No heir for Blinley. No cargo she must carry on behalf of her late husband. She was, as ever, redundant.

Wearily, she lay down, still in the ugly round dress, not bothering to put on her nightrail. She needed a plan to get her out of the danger she was in.

She needed Mr Redding’s protection, and continuing her charade as a servant increased her chances of remaining beneath anyone’s notice. Wentworth would have wasted no time eliciting every local yeoman and servant in the area to search for the murdering mistress of Blinley.

Huddled beneath the musty covers of a strange bed, Phoebe realized how carefully she must orchestrate the coming few days.

Without money or clothes, she could go nowhere. She wasn’t afraid that Mr Redding would cast her out. He wanted her to testify against Wentworth and she’d do it—though not until Mr Redding had ensured Wentworth was properly charged with his crime, and Phoebe could try and find someone who would uphold her version of events. She dashed away the tear that trickled down her cheek. The servants had seen her with the paper knife—the instrument of death—in her hand. There was no evidence more damning than that. She needed to find someone who would affirm that Phoebe was of good character, a dutiful wife, and that Wentworth was a master manipulator.

But who?

As she buried her head in the pillow she thought of the risk she ran in going out in public where she might be recognized. Really, she was much a prisoner here, in Mr Redding’s house, as she had been at Blinley Manor.

She must have been just drifting off to sleep when she was woken by the sound of heavy pounding on the front door. Terrified, she threw back the covers and ran to check that her door was locked before going to the casement which was slightly ajar. She could hear voices below, and when she glanced into the distance was horrified to see, in the fading light, Sir Roderick’s carriage.

Voices floated up to her from the portico. “No sign of Lady Cavanaugh, then? We’ve had our men scouring the countryside.”

Phoebe strained to hear Mr Redding’s response, the sweat tickling the back of her neck as his considered response stretched out in the silence.

“Murder? Is Lady Cavanaugh in danger?”

“In danger from the noose!”

Phoebe flinched. Did Sir Roderick despise her so much for rejecting him? Surely he could not believe Wentworth’s version of affairs?

“Good Lord, pray elaborate!”

Mr Redding put on a good show of ignorance. Well, at least that augured well for Phoebe. He had no idea of Phoebe’s true identity, and she intended to keep it that way.

Phoebe couldn’t see Sir Roderick, but she could imagine the pugnacious stance he’d be adopting right now. His voice dripped with salacious glee as he recounted the morbid details. “She pierced her husband through the chest like a stuck pig before running off with her lover. We’re looking for both of them.”

“Lady Cavanaugh has killed her husband?”

“And escaped with her lover. Or one of them.” Sir Roderick’s laugh sent shivers down Phoebe’s spine. “She’s not discriminating.”

“Can you give me a description of Lady Cavanaugh and her lover?”

“The kind of looks that’d make a man drop his breeches if she crooked her finger—which is what she’s done too many times. Not that I want to say more for the sake of his poor, departed lordship.”

“Sounds quite a piece.” Phoebe heard Hugh laugh, and felt like crying. “And were you so fortunate, Sir Roderick?”

There was a pause before Sir Roderick answered peevishly, “I am a married man, Mr Redding. I made it clear to Lady Cavanaugh that I was not one to make overtures to. That put her in place, so to speak, not that she didn’t try her lures again. Thought she could make me another of her conquests….”

Phoebe shuddered at the memory of the occasion to which Sir Roderick alluded. Each time she’d passed through the lonely passage where he’d accosted her, she was assaulted by the memory of his brandy-soaked breath as he’d pushed her against the wall and slurred that he would be eagerly awaiting a quick tumble in the storeroom the moment she could extricate herself from her hostessing duties. That he’d heard he’d not be the only one, other than her husband, to enjoy her favors.

Phoebe cringed at the memory of the night she’d gone from being the faithful wife of an abusing husband, to the lover of a man who proved to be even crueler than Ulrick.

What had Wentworth told Sir Roderick and others about their affair? Why would Sir Roderick have tried to force himself on her, using the words he had?

Clearly, he was now determined to be avenged for her dismissal of him, and he would win. He was the magistrate.

Her heart was in her mouth as she waited for the spiel that would instantly make it clear to Hugh that Phoebe was, in fact, Lady Cavanaugh, the woman they were looking for, but to her surprise, Sir Roderick’s description of an uncommonly handsome woman with a haughty bearing and a crown of golden hair had rung no bells with Hugh.

Haughty? Phoebe felt quite indignant at the word. She was not haughty. She was terrified.

She turned back from the window, expecting to hear Sir Roderick take his leave and get back in his carriage. Instead, to her horror, Hugh Redding’s pleasant voice could be heard inviting Sir Roderick indoors.

Phoebe ran back to the bed, put on her nightrail and dived under the covers where she lay, shivering with terror as she wondered if she were to be dragged from her bed and brought before her neighbor to give her account of the story. After all, Mr Redding knew she had witnessed the murder.

The vulnerability of her position was as stark as ever. Mr Redding thought he could use her to entrap Wentworth for his own reasons, but what would he do when he discovered who she really was?

Presently, she heard a soft tread upon the staircase, but to her relief no turning of the doorknob.

Yet even though it was apparent Mr Redding had passed her bedchamber door, the horror of what might unfold in the very near future continued to disturb her much-needed rest until she thought of a new tack.

She must make herself valuable. Mr Redding was a bachelor living a simple existence. Phoebe would have to show him how much more comfortable it was having her around.