Hugh ran his fingers through his curls and tried again, gripping the back of the wooden chair as he prepared to rephrase his explanation in language less calculated to set up Phoebe’s bristles. This was not going well.

Angrily, Phoebe faced him across the room. “Let me understand this, sir,” she whispered tightly, holding herself up with all the dignity she could clearly muster. “You’ve just had news your sister is arriving unexpectedly, and now, suddenly I am relegated to the servant’s quarters. Yesterday you were very happy to take what I offered, but now, like a discarded toy you’ve grown weary of, I am to be sent back to where I came from.”

He crossed the room in a few strides and gripped her hands.

“Please don’t be hurt. You make it sound as if I regard you as a novelty when nothing could be farther from the truth.” Kissing her knuckles, he was filled with dismay. He’d never expected this, but then, perhaps she thought this was a precursor to him being rid of her. Perhaps this is how her last protector had let her down. He tried to reassure her. “Phoebe, you’ve bewitched me and that is the truth! But my sister is a gently-reared young woman who cannot possibly know you. No gentleman would introduce his…”

She raised an eyebrow at his want of the right word. “Doxy?” she supplied.

He shook his head vigorously, and a strange and unexpected sensation filled him from his boots upward. Not lust. Well, not that alone. “Mistress,” he whispered. His mouth parted slightly, and he held her back from him. “You’re my mistress, Phoebe. Do you know, I’ve never taken a mistress? Yes, I’ve had women and liaisons that have entertained me for weeks at a time. But I’ve never…”

“Kept a woman as you would a wife only without offering her the security of a marriage contract.”

He shook his head in frustration. “You really do have ideas above your station, don’t you? You know as well as I do that gentlemen do not marry lady’s maids.” He moved to wrap his arms about her, but she remained stiff.

“How much time do you anticipate I will continue to amuse you, sir?”

He pushed her resisting hands down to her sides and gently sprinkled kisses along her jawline. “I could be honest and say that I forsee a long future of love and happiness before us. Or I can vex you, since you are determined to be vexed, it would appear, and say, who can tell when you constantly surprise me with your sweet charm, Phoebe love.” A tentative hand upon her shoulder met with no resistance, and when he closed the distance between them she fell into his arms.

He touched her cheek then, unable to help himself, slid his hand down into her bodice. “You know I will do what is right by you, but also what is right by my sister,” he whispered as the mere feel of her, and her awareness of him, began to take possession. He chuckled when she shuddered slightly, in clear anticipation of what might come next. “Ah, but you do still like me, even if I’ve made you cross.”

To his surprise, she kissed him then, with a need for reassurance that instantly fired his senses.

In three backward steps, he had her against the sideboard, and she was making no attempt to stop him as he rucked her skirts up past her thighs. “You could not feign desire like this were you the most accomplished actress on Drury Lane.”

“No, I could not,” she acknowledged, slackening in his embrace as he played her like a violin and her breathing accelerated. “But we must not do this here for Mrs Withins could enter at any moment.”

“Not before I do, sweet Phoebe,” he quipped, quickly unbuttoning his trouser flap. God, he wanted her again. He’d never experienced the lust and need that fired him so unexpectedly whenever she was near. He was not the kind of man who rutted like a bull, or even had the desire to, like some of his compatriots. Nor was he one to take his fill with lightskirts either. No, he’d enjoyed women of his station with a roving eye who crossed his path from time to time but, as he’d told her, he’d never taken a mistress. Not when he was half on the lookout for a wife. He liked the idea of domesticity and children. He wanted a woman he could love and be proud of. One who loved him back.

“You are wicked, Mr Redding,” she gasped into his hair as he slid his hands under her bottom and hitched her up, so she had her back against the wall and her legs wrapped about his waist. “Making an innocent girl like me want to go to the devil for my sins.”

“Ah, not to the devil, Phoebe…but to Heaven and back.”

“What a honeyed tongue you have, Mr Redding.”

“All the better to know you with, my dear Phoebe,” he muttered, enjoying her surprised gasp as he drove into her.

“Not expecting that so soon, were you?”

“No…sir.”

She was wet and hot and smooth, and Hugh was almost ashamed by his lack of self-control were he not having such an astonishingly good time. Her soft little moans in his ear spurred him on as with each thrust his need ratcheted up.

“Quick, I hear Mrs Withins coming!” Phoebe’s horrified whisper drove him to the edge within a second, and then the door was thrust open, and Phoebe slid to the floor before they turned guiltily toward the housekeeper who was bearing down upon them like an avenging bull.

“Sir, yer sister’s jest bein’ admitted through the front door. I wanted ter warn ye now so’s ye could get this…piece out of ‘er way.” She raked Phoebe with narrowed eyes and curled lip.

“Where am I to go, sir? Downstairs?”

Guilt needled him. If he didn’t know better, she could pass for a lady except for the ghastly gown, another belonging to the wife of the miller which had been retrieved from an old trunk. Clearly, it was not even one that she wore any longer, for even he could see the fashion was years out of date. In the two weeks he and Phoebe had been sating themselves in one another’s arms, they’d barely left the house.

“Perhaps you should go into the village and find yourself something fitting to wear, Phoebe.” He tried to modulate his tone, hoping his words and actions would not inflame either Phoebe or Mrs Withins though he knew that was an impossible task. The housekeeper looked like a trussed-up turkey growing even more purple in the face as Phoebe looked smugly between them.

“How very kind, sir? So I might wear it to take tea with your sister?”

“No!” He’d not meant to sound so panicked. Phoebe clearly didn’t take kindly to his tone for, with a toss of her head, she picked up her thick, cumbersome skirts and swept to the door. “I shall go through the kitchen, and of course I must be quick if I’m to avoid embarrassing you, sir. However, I cannot do your bidding on thin air.”

Embarrassed, Hugh waved his hand dismissively toward the housekeeper. “That’ll be all, Mrs Withins. Please see my sister into the parlor. Phoebe, come with me now.”

He led her hurriedly down a short corridor to the room where the miller did his book work, closing the door behind him.

“How much do you want, Phoebe?”

When he glanced up, he was scorched by her fulminating look.

“I am not a…whore!” she hissed.

He blinked.

“Five minutes ago you were taking your pleasure, despite my protests that the timing could be better—”

“I did not force you, Phoebe. And you were more than ready for me.”

“And immediately you’d had your pleasure you banished me downstairs because I’m not good enough to see your sister, and then you ask me what payment I require.”

“You’re being too sensitive, Phoebe—”

She cut him off. “Half a crown will do for the moment to amuse me with bibs and bobs. I shall see what else I need in the way of suitable attire, and then you can arrange payment later.”

“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 anonymity 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.

Rising with the knowledge she had to make the best of things, Phoebe put on her new dress. Her spirits rose when she ran her hands down its skirts for it fitted her better than she’d expected. And when she’d added the gloves and shawl, she looked more like a poor country cousin than a servant with aspirations to grandeur, which was some consolation. As there was no looking glass in her attic room, she decided to make her way to the parlor but stopped belowstairs to find herself a glass of milk.

Here she learned from the tweeny that Mr Redding and his sister were out on a walk. Phoebe had met little Sally rubbing raw her hands scouring pots on a number of occasions, but the girl was clearly under orders not to associate with her. However, as Mrs Withins was having an afternoon rest, Sally was emboldened to ask her own questions.

“Are ye a servant or friend of Mr Redding’s? Mrs Withins says you’s more one than the other but she won’t say which.”

Phoebe drained her glass and put it on the table. “Mr Redding was good enough to take me in when my family became ill. Don’t believe the lies Mrs Withins tells you.”

Sally, still on her knees, eyed Phoebe with interest. “So it’s cos ye’re poor ye’re not respectable?” She ran the scrubbing brush back and forth on the flagstones, staring at the wet wash thoughtfully. “I’m poor too, so I don’t know why Mrs Withins warned me agin you.” She glanced up, putting out a hand to touch Phoebe’s skirts. “An’ ye ain’t dressed like them fancy-pieces wot hides in alleyways to lure the menfolk?”

Phoebe’s eyes widened.

“Mrs Withins said that’s where ye’d end up, an’ if I didn’t want ter end up there too, then I weren’t ter talk ter yer.”

Phoebe cleared her throat. “I won’t end up there because I’m going to London in a few days,” she said, leaving the room and feeling mightily relieved that this was indeed the truth.

For in London she could disappear.

In the parlor, she stood near the center of the room so she could get a better idea of the effect in the reflection of the mirror above the mantelpiece. She’d found a bonnet, quite nicely trimmed, and the shawl was good quality paisley. So even if the dress were coarser cotton than she’d have liked, and the fullness of the skirt not in accordance with this year’s fashions, she was pleased enough with the effect. No one would remark upon her, and that was the main thing.

A small gasp, followed by, “Who are you?” made Phoebe swing around.

Standing in the doorway stood a pale but pretty young woman in a jonquil pelisse, a few strands of damp blonde hair curling below her bonnet, and a clearly damp pair of walking boots. Her surprise and curiosity were a welcome contrast to the sly or condemnatory looks with which Phoebe was used to being greeted by the visitors who came to the house to see Mrs Withins.

“I’m your brother’s friend, and you must be Miss Redding.” Phoebe did not intend to feel ashamed or cowed by any young lady who definitely was no better than she was.

“Hugh’s…friend?” The girl was clearly caught by surprise. “I didn’t know my brother was the kind….” She turned away, blushing furiously, her gaze going to the window, perhaps for fear of her seeing her brother coming up the path.

The girl’s embarrassment fueled Phoebe’s own. In a rush she said, moving closer to her, “Actually, your brother saved me from a rather terrible situation several weeks ago when he found me on the road after I’d escaped from Blinley Manor.”

“Blinley Manor?” Miss Redding gasped the name as she swung around. Round-eyed as she untied her bonnet which she tossed onto the sofa, she said, “Wasn’t there a murder there?”

Phoebe thought quickly and decided that being truthful, while a risk, was ultimately the safer course. Miss Redding would not mix with those in the area who were looking for the supposedly departed Lady Cavanaugh. Also, the girl had a fresh-faced and rather innocent look about her, despite her brother’s despair at her apparent ruin.

Oh my goodness! Phoebe shuddered. This girl and she had more in common than Miss Redding might suppose. To gauge the effect of using his name, Phoebe said cautiously, “His lordship, Mr Wentworth, murdered his cousin in order to inherit and pretended…my mistress did it. I saw what happened, and I ran away before Mr Wentworth murdered me as he tried to do. Your brother picked me up on the road and has been looking after me as I’ve nowhere else to go. At least, not until I clear my mistress’s name by ensuring Mr Wentworth gets justice.”

Miss Redding had gone very pale, and was holding the back of the sofa to keep steady it appeared. Her lower lip trembled. “My brother told you about Mr Wentworth and…?” She closed her eyes, finishing on a whisper, “He must have, else why would he have taken this house so close, and why would you tell me such terrible things when you’ve only just met me?” She began to cry, crumpling onto the sofa just as the door opened and Mr Redding entered.

His confused, concerned look took in his sister before sliding across to Phoebe, whereupon his eyes darkened. “What have you said to Ada?” He sucked in a breath. “I explicitly said you were not to be in her company.” He hurried forward, taking Phoebe’s wrist, drawing her away from the weeping girl as he said in a low tone, “See how vulnerable she is? Please leave, Phoebe. Ada, are you all right?” His tone gentled and he sank down onto the sofa, taking his sister’s hand and murmuring softly to her.

From the doorway, Phoebe stared at the scene while tears pricked her eyelids. Mr Redding loved and respected his sister, but Phoebe was nothing but a low-born creature in his eyes. She half turned, torn between defending herself and quietly slipping away. She thought Mr Redding was falling in love with her, but now she realized that again, his feelings were fueled by lust and nothing more sincere than that. Why had she deluded herself it was anything else? No man had ever been concerned over her feelings. No man had ever held her hand or crooned words of comfort to her. She’d been alone since the day she’d been born.

Her throat felt swollen, and she rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. She knew she was jealous. Mr Redding had excited her, sent her pulses racing, made her body feel like it was a temple.

But that’s all she was to him: a body, young, and to his liking. Convenient. He didn’t care about her.

Wishing she had a handkerchief, she left the room. What future did she have if it depended solely on bringing pleasure to the men prepared to pay for it? That had been the truth when she was offered to Ulrick in marriage. At least, then, she’d been protected in part by birth and respectability.

Now she had not even these.