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“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.”
