“Good mornin’, Mr Reddin’.” Phoebe looked up from her chair at the dining room table as her rescuer—or host, or the man holding her prisoner until she’d proven her use to him in apprehending Wentworth—slanted her a look of surprise as he entered the room.

“I’ve organized breakfast.” She smiled pleasantly. “Obviously ye’ve not been a resident ‘ere fer long. Ye certainly don’t know ‘ow ter order yer servants around.”

His initial wonder at seeing her dressed, her hair done as best she could under the circumstances, was almost comical. Just as Phoebe was silently congratulating herself on having produced such a response, she was highly indignant when he burst out laughing.

“Oh my, but it’s Lady Phoebe is it, to be sure?” He swept her an exaggerated bow. “A rather fetching effect, I might add, since I can’t decide whether you look more like a burgher’s wife or a schoolroom miss playing dress-ups.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s true I could do with a woman about the place. A housekeeper would do well enough. A bit ‘o muslin would be my preference.” He quirked a playful smile over one shoulder as he went to the sideboard, adding, “But not a wife, Phoebe my dear. I could lead you a merry dance, of course, and make you believe that I had honorable intentions; however, I’m not a liar.”

Phoebe tugged at her lip with her teeth. She’d gone through every tactical alternative, and decided that her best course of action was appealing to the fact that Mr Redding admired her as much as he hoped to profit by her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Mr Reddin’, why didn’t ye tell the magistrate that I was ‘ere when ‘e came ter the cottage last night?”

Mr Redding took a seat opposite, looking surprised. “Sir Roderick? Were you eavesdropping?”

“I ‘eard ‘im from me casement. I couldn’t ‘elp it, ‘e’s such a loud…” She left the sentence hanging, letting her expression make it clear what she thought of him.

Mr Redding sent her a level look as he picked up his knife and fork, closing his eyes in brief appreciation of the aroma of streaky bacon.

Thoughtfully, he said, “I remembered your distrust of the man, and I own, there was something about him that didn’t sit well with me.” He shrugged. “I should, of course, have brought you downstairs to give your account. I don’t know why I didn’t since it was only delaying the inevitable. He’s investigating the murder and the disappearance of Lady Cavanaugh, and you know more than any of us.” He paused, heavily, “Don’t you, Phoebe?”

“Did ‘e say anythin’ ’bout…the murder?” Phoebe felt lightheaded just asking the question.

Mr Redding speared another piece of bacon. “Of course. What else do you think brought him here? Naturally, I invited him in, and he told me that immediately after she’d dropped the murder weapon, Lady Cavanaugh threw herself out of a window, leaped into Mr Wentworth’s carriage, and disappeared into the night.”

He finished his mouthful. Now he stared long and hard at Phoebe.

A great whooshing sensation rushed through her. So this was it, the inevitable unmasking. Mr Redding was playing with her. He knew very well that he was seated across from the woman who’d fled the scene of the murder—Lady Cavanaugh.

“Well, Phoebe, what do you have to say for yourself?” He put his head on one side. “Perhaps the truth would be a good start.”

Phoebe clasped her hands together and leaned across the table. “I…it’s true I—”

“Yes, that you and Lady Cavanaugh fled the scene of the crime together. But what became of her between the time you left Blinley Manor and when I intercepted you? That’s what we’d all like to know, and it’s what I should have had you tell Mr Roderick for yourself. Well, you will in due course, but I want to know now.”

“Ye…want ter know what ‘appened ter Lady Cavanaugh? Ye want ter know where I put ‘er out of the coach so I could continue drivin’ an’ so draw attention away from ’er?”

Mr Redding nodded.

Phoebe couldn’t believe her reprieve. She thought quickly before lying—for lying seemed the only way to keep herself safe—“The stage ter Bath were passin’. She leaped aboard at the last minute an’ I carried on.”

He seemed to accept this, completely.

“You’ll have to tell Mr Roderick everything, you do realize.”

Phoebe put up her hands in entreaty. “Mr Roderick is not ter be trusted. I’ll not reveal ter ‘im Lady Cavanaugh’s whereabouts. ‘E tried ter push ‘imself on me mistress. ‘E’s a terrible man!” She worried her lip even more. “An’ ‘e’s tellin’ lies ‘bout me mistress bein’ responsible fer Sir Ulrick’s death. She didn’t kill ’im, I told ye that. Mr Wentworth did. ‘E forced me mistress’s ‘ands around the knife an’ with ‘is own strength behind, drove in the blade.”

Phoebe stared down at her skirts as if expecting to see them suddenly crimson with blood. She knew there was a limit to how much Mr Redding would believe, and how long he’d shelter her if she either refused to tell her account to the magistrate or proved of no use in bringing Wentworth to account.

He frowned. “I say, that’s a rather different slant on your story of last night. Nevertheless, the truth will be for the magistrate to decide—once they’ve heard the witnesses. And one of those ought to be you.”

She closed her eyes. This was terrifying. “Mr Wentworth is after me blood, sir,” she whispered. “If ‘e learns where I am I won’t live ter testify.”

Mr Redding sighed. “So he knows how loyal you are to your mistress, and he’s afraid of what you saw. Is that it?”

Phoebe thought quickly. She dare not be recognized by anyone. If Mr Redding thought to introduce her to someone in the locality as Lady Cavanaugh’s maid, she’d be revealed in an instant.

“The truth is, I’m as afraid of Sir Roderick as Mr Wentworth,” she murmured. “‘E tried ter force ‘imself on me an’ when I kicked ‘im where it ‘urt, ‘e said I’d live ter regret it.” It was the truth and surely he’d not force her. “Sir Roderick is jest like Mr Wentworth. They’d fondle the rumps of any servin’ girl an’ I were no exception. I can’t tell Sir Roderick me story. Surely there’s some other way I can ‘elp yer get ter Mr Wentworth?” She rose and went around the table to put her hand on his shoulder. Dangerous and familiar, but it was the only way she knew how to beseech him. “Ye ‘ave yer own argument with Mr Wentworth, an’ I ‘ave mine. I’ll ‘elp ye all I can, fer I am familiar with ‘is ’abits, bein’ as ‘ow me lady talked often ‘bout ’im. An’ not in any flatterin’ way, I can tell ye.” She swallowed with difficulty, then added. “’T’was ‘is plan ‘atched with Lord Ulrick that meant me lady was forced to enjoy the…attentions of Lord Cavanaugh’s cousin ‘cause me lady’s ‘usband were so desperate fer an ’eir.”

Mr Redding made a choking noise. “Lord, Phoebe, you can’t run around spreading rumors like that if you claim on the other hand that your mistress is as pure as the driven snow.”

“Well, mayhaps not the driven snow, but she’s a good an’ virtuous lady an’ she ‘ad no wish ter do the things ‘is lordship commanded ‘er ter do an’ yet she’s painted as…immoral. She was actin’ on ‘er ‘usband’s orders.”

Another waft of some delicious cooking aroma made Mr Redding turn with an appreciative sniff as Mrs Withins entered the room with more bacon.

“Did you really organize this by yourself, Phoebe?” He looked impressed. “I confess to being somewhat distracted by matters other than my stomach, and am the first to own I am not terribly efficient at organizing the servants. I caught them playing at cribbage last night when I went in search of food.” He loaded up his plate once more, adding when the door had closed behind Mrs Withins, “But let us turn back to the topic at hand, Phoebe, now that we are alone.” He chewed on the crispy meat then smacked his lips. “I daresay I’ll have to concede your victory in this instance. You’ll need a new dress if you’re to sit at table with me like a real lady, for that’s what you’re intending, isn’t it?”

Phoebe was both jubilant and full of ire as she watched him devour his plate of food. She hated being treated like a servant, but she had to get a new dress if she had any chance of getting out of the area without coming face to face with Sir Roderick.

* * *

And as Hugh helped himself to yet more bacon and eggs, he thought how pleasant it was to enjoy the niceties of life without having to be responsible for organizing them. The household was a woman’s domain, and Hugh had not the energy or inclination to get the servants to do what they’d done under Phoebe’s direction. Clearly, young Phoebe the lady’s maid was adept at more than just arranging her mistress’s hair. If she contributed to the comforts of the next few weeks he had the lease of the cottage, then she’d want and need to be more ornamental than she was in the bulky homespun of the miller’s wife’s clothes. Yes, a new dress would be fair recompense.

“Is there something you require, Phoebe?” Her breakfast finished, she’d risen but was now standing in the doorway.

“Jest an assurance that ye’ll not let Mr Wentworth get away with the wrong ‘e’s done ye. I want atonement fer me mistress.” Her shoulders slumped. “I worry fer ‘er an’ ‘ope she ‘as found sanctuary. She ‘ad few friends in the area.”

“I’m sure she’s quite safe. It certainly sounds as if she knows how to look after herself. And let me assure you that Mr Wentworth’s day of reckoning is almost upon him.” Hugh felt the warmth of his mission feed through his veins as he sat back in his chair, gazing upon the lovely face before him.

Dressed like a lady, he thought, and with her ability to ape her betters, coupled with a sharp intellect, he might really find young Phoebe an asset in a multiple of ways. It was quite clear she felt an attraction for him. He shifted in his seat. He’d imagined a lonely, solitary time out here in the wilderness, but suddenly he felt quite fired up. He’d rescued Phoebe, and while he had no intention of taking advantage of her, the looks she slanted at him suggested she’d not be averse to his overtures.

“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.”