Phoebe stared down at the soft brown curls of her sleeping lover beside her, and her heart filled with love. And fear.

The little bower he’d leased for her on the outskirts of the metropolis was as charming as she could have wished. Hugh was certainly delighted by the arrangement. His desire for her seemed insatiable, and she responded with just as much ardor. Her heart had never been more engaged. Yes, she knew she’d never be redeemed, but what did that matter when the alternative was the noose. If she didn’t think about her soul and the afterlife, she could take what happiness was offered. She’d had little enough of it in her lifetime.

She was astonished by the size of London. She’d never had a proper come-out. Her father had arranged her marriage with Ulrick when she was barely seventeen, delighted to avoid the cost of the wardrobe she’d have needed to find a husband, no doubt. And Ulrick had never taken her to town. He’d never taken her anywhere. Of course, she’d hated being so confined at the time, but now she was relieved to know she’d go unrecognized.

In the leafy suburb of St John’s Wood, she had a comfortable house with a park across the road. She had a cook, a general maid, and her very own lady’s maid. Hugh had been generous indeed, as well he might for he all but lived here himself. Initially, he’d indicated he might make his visits an irregular three or four days a week, but he’d rather established himself as part of the furniture, returning to stay the night, in between going to his club and attending to his other business.

Phoebe had no complaints. She was madly in love, and their increasing intimacy through such habitation gave her the greatest happiness.

All that was missing was a ring on her finger and a contract, sanctioned by the church, which would give her security should Hugh’s interest wane. In every other respect, she was completely satisfied. She didn’t need the title or status that went with her old life. In fact, she didn’t even need to be acquitted. She was much happier living a more lowly existence with a kind man.

Hugh stirred and opened one sleepy eye, his grin broadening when he realized Phoebe was awake and watching him.

“Come here, wench,” he mumbled fondly, drawing her down beside him so he could fondle her breasts. “Ah, you are missing me,” he added as he drew his forefinger between her legs and felt the wetness. Immediately she felt his manhood pushing into her stomach, and a great surge of awareness flowed through her.

“You’re insatiable,” she chuckled, snuggling next to him and hooking a leg over his flanks. “And you seem to think I’m just here for the taking, Hugh Redding.”

“Well, aren’t you? That’s why I’ve set you up so handsomely. I need to keep my beloved satisfied in all ways so your pretty blue eyes don’t stray.”

“And where would they stray, dearest? To the boot boy? Or the man who delivers the coal? It’s not as if I’m surrounded by temptation.”

Hugh cocked his head. “Do I interpret a desire for some more lively company?” Hugh rolled on top of her and put his forehead to hers, his expression concerned. “Are you lonely, Phoebe?”

“How could I be when we’ve been together like we have? I was just funning, Hugh!”

He seemed relieved. “That’s good, for I do worry that when I’m gone — for I hate to tell you that I have to go away for a week very soon — you will be champing at the bit for diversion.” Grinning, he pinched her bottom. “You’re such a lively piece I have my work cut out to keep you occupied. Talking of which, where were we?” he asked, diving beneath the covers before his muffled voice emerged with, “Ah yes, between your legs.”

And indeed, Phoebe would have admitted that in that moment, she’d never been happier or more content with her lot.

Four days later, though, with Hugh having been gone for two, she was as he’d suggested in his equine comparison, “champing at the bit,” so that when her maid handed her a message, her heart raced with anticipation at the thought that it was from Hugh and he was returning early.

To her surprise, she discovered it was from Ada with a request to meet her in the little park opposite as soon as possible.

Quickly changing her dress and putting on a bonnet she’d happily dressed with floral blooms in the drawing room the previous week while Hugh had read the newspaper, the pair of them the picture of domestic bliss, Phoebe arrived at the entrance of the little, gated park wondering what on earth Ada wanted with her.

She smiled to see the young girl heavily veiled and asked, “Are you in disguise, Ada, because you don’t wish to be seen with me?”

“Well, of course I can’t be seen with my brother’s….you know what I mean,” she added slightly defensively. “And now I’m living with a friend of my mother’s who is even more exacting than Aunt Belcher, I need to be even more careful of my reputation.”

“Well, I’m sorry you think being seen with me will besmirch it.” Phoebe felt a stab of pique before acknowledging the truth of Ada’s words. As Lady Cavanaugh, she was naturally Ada’s superior. She brushed the thought aside. “Now, tell me what this is about?” She tried to inject a kindly curiosity into her tone to make up for her prickly defensiveness.

“It’s about Mr Wentworth, of course, and what I’ve discovered.”

“Oh.” Phoebe felt a stab of fear. She’d seen a snippet in the paper Hugh had been reading regarding Mr Wentworth’s stated declaration to find Lady Cavanaugh and bring the husband-killer to justice. Hugh had thought she’d stabbed herself with her embroidery needle the way she’d gasped involuntarily.

Phoebe knew her safest course was anonymity. With no friends among the servants or even the local community where she’d lived for five years with Ulrick, the truth would never prevail. No, she would be safest here with Hugh.

“You see, I’ve learned where his wife is.”

“But Hugh told you to give it up. As did I.” Phoebe stopped walking, put her hand to her chest, then forced herself to continue her measured footsteps. “There’s nothing to be gained from all this, Ada. Just leave it be.”

Ada ignored her. “She’s a regular at Mrs Plumb’s Salon in Soho.”

Phoebe stopped and looked at her. The name meant nothing.

“It’s a salon where I’ve learned ladies and gentlemen meet for music and dancing, though it’s not for respectable people like me or Aunt Siddons who I’m living with now.” Ada looked appealingly at Phoebe. “That’s why I’m asking you to go.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I can’t, Ada.”

Ada put her head on one side. “Not even for me?”

“Not for you, not for my mistress, and I’ll tell you why not? Because your brother wants nothing more to do with the man,” Phoebe said with some energy. In fact, Hugh had not mentioned Wentworth’s name in two weeks, but Phoebe needed to make it as clear as she could that Ada must not meddle in matters pertaining to Wentworth. It was too dangerous.

Ada raised her veil and sent Phoebe a level stare. “Mr Wentworth’s wife is a dancer at Madame Plumb’s. Is it fair to her that she remain in ignorance of the fact her husband has inherited a dukedom?”

“No, it probably is not,” Phoebe said with forced restraint.

“And is it so difficult to wear a veil, visit a house filled with other people wearing veils, and simply mention to the unfortunate woman the fact that her errant husband is now a duke?”

Phoebe made no answer, and Ada stamped her foot. “Then I’ll go. Yes, I’ll go, and Hugh will be terribly angry with me, but I’ll tell him I had no choice because you refused.”

* * *

Phoebe nibbled the end of her pen, then tested the nib, then stared at the blank sheet in front of her. She’d had writing implements brought to her in order to scratch a note to Hugh informing him of what she was doing. Ada had suggested Phoebe say nothing about her visit to Mrs Plumb’s, but Phoebe had been adamant she was not going to keep secrets.

Now she was in two minds. Hugh had been away three days, and she wished heartily she might have discussed the matter with him, but Ada’s pleas had prevailed, and now that Phoebe had had time to digest the possible ramifications of speaking to him as opposed to not speaking to him, she was highly undecided.

If news got back to him that she’d gone to Mrs Plumb’s Salon, he might think her underhanded and seeking diversion, and she’d hate that.

On the other hand, Ada had said she’d ascertained that Thursday was the one day of the week the mysterious Mrs Wentworth made her appearance at Mrs Plumb’s and today was Thursday, while Hugh would not be home for another three days.

No, she really had to tell him. She dipped her pen into the ink and began, “My dearest Hugh, I hope you will not be angry with me but….”

Then she scratched it out. That was not a good start. If she were his wife, he’d have every cause to be angry with her for not seeking his permission. Sadly, that was a wife’s lot, but she was not his wife, and one of the few advantages was that as Ulrick’s widow and Hugh’s kept woman, she was mistress of her own decisions. This would have to be a practice draft, she decided, making another attempt with: “Dear Hugh, though I do not wish to displease you, I have decided….”

With a sigh of frustration, she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the grate. A letter wasn’t necessary. She’d make a clandestine visit, in disguise, to Mrs Plumb’s and Hugh would be none the wiser. Then she’d report her findings to Ada and they could decide how to proceed. All she was going to do was go to Mrs. Plumb’s house—whoever Mrs Plumb was—which was in a respectable area, and speak to Wentworth’s wife. No doubt Mrs Wentworth would be as eager as any of them to find a way to make Mr Wentworth accountable for his actions. Obviously he’d abandoned her. It was quite possible he’d forced her to live on a paltry allowance for years, simply to get her out of the way while he lived the life he chose. No doubt she was an innkeeper’s daughter or someone of lowly rank whom Wentworth had either been forced to marry through honor, or with whom he’d rashly eloped as a very young man.

Whatever the case, clearly he deeply regretted this marriage, but fact was that his wife was entitled to share in the spoils resulting from his elevation in status.

Pulling on her gloves and tying the ribbons of her bonnet, Phoebe went down the stairs and into the darkened street. She’d told her maid she was going out and not to wait up for her. Hugh had taken the carriage, so Phoebe hailed a hackney, and pulling down her veil when she was inside, prepared for an evening that, even if she felt somewhat guilty about, promised to be a good deal more interesting than spending another evening at home, alone.

Despite persuading herself she was doing no wrong, her heart beat rapidly as she paid the hackney then watched it disappear around the corner, leaving her standing on the pavement by the iron railing of a somewhat ordinary four-square house. The blinds were drawn, but she could see the glow of lamplight behind as she was forced to step aside for two ladies elegantly attired but veiled, and then two gentlemen in evening dress. If this was the right address, it looked benign and ordinary.

A little maid greeted her at the door with far more confidence than the usual menial given the girl’s tender years. “Welcome, ma’am, if ye’d like ter follow me to the refreshments’ room. Ye’ve not bin here afore.”

Phoebe did so and soon found herself in an elegantly furnished room with a table heaped with jellies, blancmanges, thinly sliced ham, tarts and plover’s eggs, around which milled more than a dozen ladies and gentlemen. The sound of a fine alto sung by a woman with a deep, clear voice issued from beyond, and Phoebe wondered why Ada had said her aunt would not deign to step over the threshold. It all looked perfectly respectable to her.

Nevertheless, she felt dreadfully exposed being on her own though her veiling gave her confidence. Some ladies had pushed theirs back, but Phoebe noticed others wore masques or were entirely shrouded.

“Good evening, are you looking for someone?” The fact that the question was asked by a kindly looking matron was comforting, especially when the woman introduced herself as Mrs Plumb.

Phoebe nodded, and Mrs Plumb patted her on the shoulder. The woman was stout and grey-haired with no veiling or masque to add mystery or concealment. She was neither plain nor handsome. “No cause to look so anxious, my dear; discretion is what we pride ourselves on. Just tell me what kind of gentleman pleases you, or point him out if he’s here, and I shall effect a proper introduction.”

Phoebe drew in her breath, startled at what she interpreted as a great vulgarity and affront to good breeding before remembering to what she’d been reduced. “I’m not interested in any gentleman, but rather a woman,” she said quickly.

“Ah.” Mrs Plumb nodded sagely, running her hands the length of her cerulean sarcenet skirts. “You want a woman. Well, there are plenty of lovely ladies here who also have no interest in the gentlemen, and I’m certain I can introduce you to just the right soul mate, if that is your heart’s desire.” She smiled. “Mrs Plumb’s Salon is where wishes are granted, and no dream is too strange to come true.”

Emphatically, Phoebe shook her head. “I’m looking for one lady in particular. I was told she came here on a Thursday.” She paused and lowered her voice. “I don’t know what name she might go by other than Mrs Wentworth for I was told only that Mr Wentworth’s wife works here.”

A flash of surprise registered in the depths of Mrs Plumb’s expression. “Who would like to know? I keep a safe house, my dear.”

“So she is here? There is a woman known by that name?”

Mrs Plumb hesitated. “Possibly.”

“Please, I do need to speak to her. It’s about her husband.”

Mrs Plumb jerked back her head, her eyes widening. She glanced about her quickly, before whispering, “He’s not dead, is he?”

Phoebe bit her lip. “He’s not, but I think Mrs Wentworth should be given the chance to decide whether she wants to talk to me or not.”

Mrs Plumb inclined her head. “Wait here,” she ordered, turning on her heel and disappearing through a curtained doorway.

Phoebe stared at the food while she slanted a surreptitious glance at the odd assembly. She noticed a slender, elegantly-attired young woman in an elaborate, feathered masque take the arm of a gentleman and disappear through a doorway behind a tapestry she’d not noticed before. Could half these people be prostitutes? she suddenly wondered, shocked. Surely innocent Ada would not have sent her to such a place like.

“Would madam like to view the paintings in the blue room?”

A rather distinguished gentleman, somewhat older and with gray peppering his hair, proffered his arm but Phoebe stepped away. “Thank you but I’m meeting someone,” she said quickly, and with a nod he slipped into the crowd.

More couples disappeared into chambers hidden behind paintings or plinths. Phoebe heard a smattering of clapping as the singer finished her song, and then was loudly congratulated by an admirer. “Madame Zirelli, our songstress of the evening, has now concluded her art. Please show your appreciation once more, ladies and gentlemen.”

Peeping past the curtains, Phoebe observed a tall, handsome woman of middle years dressed in a slightly shabby gown of cerulean blue. She’d heard the name before, and remembered that Madame Zirelli had been a singer of some renown who’d passed through the towns of the north when she’d been a child.

“Would Madame like some refreshment? I’m told you are looking for someone, and I am here to lead you to satisfaction.”

Phoebe glanced around and found herself looking into the eyes of a beautiful young woman dressed in diaphanous robes with an impish smile. Her long, golden hair was unbound though held in place with a circlet of flowers, and her gaze was the purest blue Phoebe had ever seen.

The young woman smiled again and held out her hand. “I’m Ariane. Come with me.”

Unresistingly, Phoebe followed the girl down a passage and into a darkened room filled with a strange scent of musk, and the soft singing of four similarly dressed maidens who swayed in time to their lovely chant.

The door closed behind them, plunging them into semidarkness, but rather than feel fear, Phoebe was mesmerized, unthinkingly bringing the goblet that was placed in her hands to her lips. Its contents tasted like mead, the honey and strange herbs astringent but pleasant against the back of her throat. Smoke scented with the same herbs drifted into her nostrils, stinging the back of her throat, but the sight of the four young girls on a dais surrounded by candles in the center of the dim, smoke-filled room, swaying and softly chanting, was too transfixing for her to step away.

Ariane put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and drew her to a velvet throne in the corner of the room. “Would you like to watch?”

Phoebe blinked a few times. The smoke and odd scent were making it difficult to concentrate. “I’m looking for Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered. “You said you’d take me to her.”

Had she asked for Mrs Wentworth earlier? she wondered, but before she could recall, the young woman smiled, tracing the curve of Phoebe’s lips with her forefinger. “I am Mrs Wentworth,” she said softly.

Phoebe jerked out of her caress and blinked stupidly.

Ariane laughed gently while behind her the vestal virgins swayed, heads together, eyes closed, expressions rapturous.

“You are Mrs Wentworth? But…”

“But I do not live with my husband? No, that is correct.” Ariane looked amused as she bade Phoebe be seated, then lowered herself into the velvet banquette beside her. “I worked here before I met him, and now I am back here where Mrs Plumb takes care of me and I am surrounded by kindness. I have no complaints.” She stroked Phoebe’s hair. “But I am curious. How do you know my husband, or perhaps I should not delve too deeply into that question? I suspect he knows many women, not all of whom are happy to have known him.” She raised an eyebrow.

Bitterness and fear rose up in Phoebe’s throat. “How do I know him? I wish I didn’t. I…” she floundered, wishing also that she’d not drunk the mead so quickly for she was aware of less clarity in the workings of her brain than she would like. “Let me assure you, Mrs Wentworth,” she whispered, “I do not judge you for having left your husband.”

“He was not good to you?” Mrs Wentworth’s smile did not lose its sweetness. “Oh, that does not surprise me at all. I am sure you have many questions, otherwise you would not have sought me out, my dear, but first I would like to know your name.”

“Phoebe.” Her Christian name only. That would suffice. She was fortunately clear-headed enough to know how to protect herself.

“Phoebe. Well, I hope I can help you. As you can see,” she waved a hand about her, “I have safety and freedom and a measure of security and happiness. I would not live the life of a conventional married woman again, let me tell you.”

“Mrs Plumb looks after you?”

“And I dance for her clients in return.” Ariane looked satisfied as she added, “It is perfectly respectable. Mrs Plumb has a legion of vigilant servants to ensure any unwanted overtures are summarily dealt with. Now, what else would you like to know?” She reached across the table laden with grapes and other fruits and refilled her goblet from a flask which she handed to Phoebe. “Let me start from the beginning, shall I? Perhaps recount my miserable childhood as the seventh daughter of an innkeeper, and my equally unhappy marriage to the fine gentleman, Mr Wentworth, who used to break his journey at our inn at regular intervals. We both soon regretted our impulsiveness.”

“And then you went your separate ways? Oh, but I can see why!” Phoebe put down her now empty goblet and clasped her hands. “He’s a cruel man. But he’s also a very wealthy one now. I am sure you cannot know that else you’d not be content to remain here, in all but poverty, when he could be furnishing you with all that to which a lady like you is entitled.”

“A lady like me?” Ariane smiled. “I am as much a lady as Mr Wentworth is a gentleman.”

“But a lady is what you are. A titled one on account of Mr Wentworth having inherited the estate of Lord Cavanaugh, his second cousin, following the unexpected deaths of his two brothers.” Phoebe knew she was growing too excited without perhaps explaining matters properly since Ariane did not appear to be either believing her, or overjoyed at her new lot in life.

“Well, that’s hardly going to benefit me if it means I have to live with the man.” She shrugged. “I’d rather forgo all the riches in the world.”

“Oh, I can well imagine it,” Phoebe declared warmly. “But if it’s revenge you’re after, then I know exactly how to achieve it. We suspected Mr Wentworth had married but was keeping it secret so he could make another more advantageous marriage.”

Ariane raised an eyebrow, and Phoebe went on; her tongue unleashed as if she could not have maintained discretion for all the world. “To me, in fact. He wished to marry me once my husband was dead. I can’t give you all the reasons, but I will tell you this: Mr Wentworth is not only a brutal man to any innocent female with whom he has any dealings, but he is also a murderer!”

“A murderer!”

Phoebe wiped her brow. The exertion of her strong declarations was making her feel weak and addleheaded. At least she had Ariane’s attention. “I know how to expose him, or if not expose him, then make him acknowledge you so that he receives the justice he is due.”

“Expose him?” Ariane shifted closer to Phoebe on the seat. She seemed confused.

“First, though, you’ll need to produce evidence to show you both are legally married.” Phoebe wiped her sweating brow once more, gratefully accepting another glass Ariane poured for her. The closeness of the room was almost unbearable. Though the lamps cast only the dimmest light in order to show the dancers in their pale, sheer clothing to best advantage, the glow still seemed too bright.

Ariane looked skeptical. “And how would that profit me? Would Wentworth not wish me harm if he knew I was doing this?”

Suddenly, it seemed of the utmost importance to convince her. “It could be done in secret,” said Phoebe. “If you provided me with evidence, we—or rather you—could go to the authorities. Wentworth would then be forced to acknowledge you as his wife.”

Phoebe swayed, her head suddenly feeling too heavy for its stem. Mrs Wentworth was still looking skeptical.

“Perhaps the wife of such a brutal fiend would prefer to remain hidden. Or not wish to be acknowledged as such in view of the fact her husband was apparently a murderer.”

Phoebe tried to raise her head from where she’d rested it on Ariane’s shoulder, but for some reason couldn’t. She wished she’d thought better how to address such reasonable fears. “I’d help you,” she said, finding it difficult to articulate her words. “You needn’t come out of hiding. I have another friend who also has had experience of Mr Wentworth. It was she who suggested the idea. Wentworth said he’d marry her, and then she realized he was already married. He needs to be exposed.”

Phoebe felt Ariane stiffen. “Who else knows my secret?” She sounded fearful for the first time, and Phoebe almost confessed the reason for her own hatred of Wentworth except that her anonymity was as important to her as Ariane’s seemed to be to herself.

In a moment of clarity, she thought that perhaps she should leave now. She’d explain to Ada that Ariane didn’t want it made public she was Wentworth’s wife because it put her entirely back into his power. No doubt she’d kept her location secret all these years, and was so terrified at the prospect of finding herself in Wentworth’s clutches again, that not all the trappings his new position afforded were worth the danger.

Phoebe rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on Ariane’s face as she answered Ariane’s question. “My friend, Ada, asked me to come here and find you. She was badly used by Mr Wentworth too.”

“Ada?”

“I won’t reveal her full name, but she was concerned for you.”

“Just as I am concerned about you, Phoebe.” Ariane patted Phoebe’s shoulder and pushed a pillow under her neck as she rose and went to the bell pull. A young servant answered quickly, curtseying after she’d received Ariane’s instructions.

“Now, let us take refreshment,” Ariane said with forced brightness, indicating the other dancers who appeared oblivious to them. Phoebe stared, wondering how they could appear so vacantly happy all this time. She rubbed her eyes again. The room really was swimming. “Please, may I have some water?” she asked. The back of her throat was burning.

Ariane bent to pour her a glass from the other decanter on the table before stepping away and beginning to pace. “I really cannot understand how my whereabouts were discovered,” she mused. “I was so careful.”

“Please don’t be concerned, Mrs Wentworth. Neither Ada nor I would dream of revealing your whereabouts if it were against your wishes. We’d simply thought you needed to know. And that we could help you.” Phoebe stopped, closing her eyes, and Ariane said quickly, her voice warm in her ear, “Goodness, you don’t look at all well, Phoebe. Perhaps you should go. This is not the kind of place I think you are familiar with. The strange vapors are affecting you.”

Phoebe tried to rise but couldn’t. She mumbled, “You must expose him, though if you do not wish to be found by Wentworth, I can arrange that.”

“Can you indeed?”

A moment before, Phoebe had been half asleep. Now the familiar honeyed tones jerked her into terrified awareness. The voice came from the doorway which had just opened to admit a tall gentleman in evening clothes who was now rising from his elaborate bow, a familiar leer marring his handsome features.

“My, my Lady Cavanaugh, this is an unexpected surprise,” he purred. “I am sure you have no idea how hard I’ve been searching for you. The last place I expected to stumble upon you was here.”

He took a few steps toward Phoebe, staring between her and his wife. The scantily-clad vestal virgin stood like a vision of purity hiding her betrayal—for wasn’t that was it was?—in the center of the room gazing at Phoebe with a curious expression, while a dull fear lodged in the pit of Phoebe’s stomach. With the greatest effort, she forced herself to remain calm as she straightened.

Wentworth was here and Wentworth intended to see her dead.

Slowly, her mind became clearer. She had to get out of here. All the self preserving tactics she’d adopted screeched to the forefront of her mind. If she didn’t leave in the next few moments she had no chance of doing so. Ever.

Wentworth was blocking the doorway. She sucked in a deep breath. If he would only take a couple more steps into the room, she’d seize her chance and run. Despite the mind-numbing drug she realized she’d been given, her body suddenly pulsed with life. She shifted forward, her limbs feeling sluggish but her mind racing.

“Oh, I know you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “I heard the gossip, all of which branded me a murderess when it was your hand which drove in the knife that killed my husband.”

He chuckled. “You must admit, it’s a fine thing to commit the act but to have a legitimate scapegoat. Your hand was around the handle of the paper knife, my dear. I just elicited a little more force to drive it home.”

“Drive it home? I was nowhere near Ulrick when you seized me and used all your strength to make me the unwilling instrument of the murder you committed.” She turned toward Ariane, expecting to see shock.

Ariane appeared unmoved.

“Do you know what kind of a man your husband is?” Phoebe demanded. She was trying without success to put some pressure onto her legs in order to stand. “You’ve not lived with him for some years, I gather. I didn’t want to reveal the extent of his…depravity, but now I have no choice. You’re better off knowing the truth. I presume you left because he was as cruel to you as he has been to me…and to Ada who sent me here.”

“Ada?” Wentworth raised an eyebrow and took a step forward, though Phoebe was disappointed to see he still blocked her only means of escape. It was hard to breathe evenly, and she was doing her best to remain calm.

“Miss Ada Redding?” He gave a surprised laugh. “Ada sent you here? Why, that silly goose hasn’t the gumption to say boo to anyone much less discover what I’ve gone to such pains to keep hidden.”

“Perhaps she’s had to change since you ruined her,” Phoebe said bitterly. “She lost her reputation, her baby, and her will to live. No wonder she was at such pains to find your weak spot. Obviously, now that you’ve inherited my husband’s title—that is, the title of the man you murdered—you don’t want to be saddled with an innkeeper’s daughter when you could have a lady with a vast dowry to help you with those gambling debts of yours.” She swung around to face Ariane, saying defiantly, “I was Wentworth’s mistress, you know. I didn’t want to wound your sensibilities when I thought you were an injured party, and I wanted to protect you from the truth, but you need to know it. My husband wished for an heir, and it certainly didn’t seem likely that Wentworth would inherit, so he was more than happy to woo me and then make me his mistress.” She spat out the words, as disgusted with herself as she was with the couple before her, for Ariane had now moved to her husband’s side, and he’d placed an arm casually about her shoulders.

Phoebe stared, barely able to comprehend the truth. “Who are you?” she whispered, staring at Ariane. The woman looked like something between a water sprite and a witch, with her translucent gown clinging to her curves with such indecency and her piercing eyes, more virulent green than celestial blue as Phoebe had first thought, boring into her.

“I am the wife Wentworth can’t live with but can’t live without.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Wentworth would be nothing without me.”

Phoebe was familiar with Wentworth’s overbearing pride and arrogance. No woman could speak to him like that. She fully expected to witness Ariane receive an ear-boxing for having been so boldly insulting in front of him. To her astonishment, Wentworth’s mouth split into a slow grin. “My wife speaks the truth. I’m a gentleman fond of the cards, but as you quite rightly point out, a gentleman does not consort with an innkeeper’s daughter, though an innkeeper’s daughter who works as a hostess in gambling dens and is a dab hand at keeping a sharp eye out in the interests of her husband, can further a fortune to a surprising degree. I’d go so far as to suggest an innkeeper’s daughter with such a talent is a far better financial proposition than, say, a lady of impeccable breeding with three thousand a year.”

Ariane inclined her head in appreciation of the compliment. She raised her hand to stroke her husband’s cheek. “When Wentworth is sufficiently plump in the pocket, I shall sweep into his life suitably kitted out as the foreign lady of fashion he’s waited for his whole life.”

Phoebe stared aghast. “But he…he’s no husband if he follows his roving eye as he does, let me assure you.”

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, my dear Phoebe, or Lady Cavanaugh, I ought to say.” Ariane indicated the decanter upon the table. “Another glass before my husband takes you away? You may find a lack of such concern for your comfort in the next place you visit.”

Phoebe didn’t answer. So this was how it would end. She stared at her feet. What a credulous fool she’d been.

“I’m afraid you have little choice.” Wentworth’s tone was regretful as he barred her progress to the door. Striding swiftly forward, he took Phoebe’s arm and jerked her to her feet. “What do you think, Ariane, my love?” he asked, cupping Phoebe’s chin painfully. “She’s a charming piece. Shall we share her before we surrender her to her miserable fate?”

Ariane’s expression was assessing, her mouth trembling with what suddenly seemed like anticipation. “Oh, Wentworth that would be a treat,” she murmured. “She’s a tasty morsel to be sure.”

“No!” Phoebe’s piercing shriek rent the air, shattering the calm and causing Ariane to step back in sudden alarm. Then Wentworth’s mouth was on Phoebe’s, and the scream was truncated by the disgusting repossession of the man she feared above all others.

Self-preservation was stronger than it had ever been. She brought her knee up sharply, ducking out of his grasp and making for the door with a sudden surge of speed that had not seemed possible minutes ago when the lethargy was heavy upon her.

“No!” she screamed again as she fumbled with the door handle and flew into the passage, nearly bowling over a woman veiled and dressed in black.

Wentworth was right behind her, his hand gripping her shoulder, swinging her back to him as the woman asked haltingly, “Is…is everything all right?”

“Please help me!” Phoebe sobbed. “Don’t let him take me away.”

“A touch of hysteria. Pay no mind,” Wentworth said smoothly although Phoebe heard the waver in his voice. It clearly didn’t convince the woman who said more firmly now, “I think you should drop your hand, sir. The woman appears…frightened.”

“The poor creature came seeking pleasure, just like yourself, ma’am.” Ariane was now between Phoebe and the disguised woman. To Phoebe’s astonishment, Ariane put her hand on the woman’s sleeve. “But the pleasure was not to her liking, after all. She certainly didn’t enjoy it as you did, my lady.”

The sudden stillness—no doubt from shock and embarrassment—rendered the other woman immobile for a moment. Then she shook off Ariane’s hand and stepped back against the wall.

“Help me!” Phoebe sobbed again when it appeared she was going to continue along the passage. “I’m being taken against my will. You have to help me.”

“I shall call someone!” the woman said with unexpected strength, glancing at her companion who’d just brought up the rear, a diffident-looking young man some years her junior.

“Perhaps the bailiffs,” Ariane suggested smoothly. “Do you realize who this is? A murderer. That’s right. This is Lady Cavanaugh who has stolen the newspaper headlines for the past weeks, the murderer of her own husband whom the authorities have been seeking, and now we are taking her to the magistrate.”

“How can you be sure?” The woman’s hand went to the ruby pendant at her throat.

“Oh, I know her well. But to reassure you, ma’am, I shall bring one of the servants along for the ride,” Wentworth suggested smoothly. “You, boy! I’ll give you sixpence if you stand sponsor for the safe conduct of this woman to the magistrate. I shall accompany you both.”

The woman stared at Phoebe, her companion standing awkwardly to the side. Phoebe clutched at her sleeve.

“This man is the villain. I won’t go with him. If I do I’ll…”

“Die?” Ariane insinuated herself between the veiled woman and Phoebe. With her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing, she looked more like a Valkyrie than a vestal virgin. “Yes, and only because justice will be served at last!” she addressed Phoebe directly. “You’ll be dangling at the end of a noose, which is where you belong for driving a knife into the heart of your poor defenseless husband.”

Phoebe made to run, but Wentworth’s arm shot out, and he dragged her back. She tried to struggle, but it was no use. So she screamed instead. “After this man forced my hand so he could claim I was the murderer and therefore claim my husband’s inheritance.”

“She’s rambling, of course, but you see she does admit she’s the lady who’s been sought the length and breadth of the country, and furthermore, that she held the murder weapon as it went in.” Wentworth looked with satisfaction between them all. “So, Lady Cavanaugh, now that you have declared yourself, it’s time for the judicial process to take over.” With an ironic bow to the veiled woman and her companion, he caged Phoebe’s hand on his arm, indicated to the lad to escort her on the other side, and swept her down the corridor and into the street.