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He stepped in front of her.
“What would induce a good woman to go against all her principles of honor? Even after everything I heard today, I can’t help loving you. And now you’re going to die for your sins, though I don’t believe you killed your husband.”
“Oh, but that really cheers me. You can leave right now, Hugh. Or have you decided it might be a suitable time to execute your moral duty and try to impregnate me in the faint hope that pleading the belly might extend my life a further painful nine months?”
“Don’t be coarse.”
“Don’t be bigoted and narrow-minded. If you were a powerless woman married to a tyrant who forced you to lie with his cousin to beget an heir, I’d like to see you try and resist.”
He took her hands and shook his head. “I can’t bear to lose you.”
“You made it clear you didn’t like the woman you discovered I really was.”
“You take that too far, Phoebe. It was your willingness to consort with Wentworth that turned my stomach. Everything I’ve just heard…I’ll reconcile it with what I know you to be in time, but right now—”
She stepped back. “Say no more, Hugh. I loved you as much for the fact you are the most honorable man I’ve met, as that you believed I was worthy of your love. Now that I see you think I’m not worthy of the feelings you once had, I don’t want to drag out this painful interview. We know what tomorrow’s verdict will be, and I’m reconciled. Please spare us both. Just leave.”
It had been three hours since Hugh had torn himself away from Phoebe’s side, but he’d not returned to his bed to sleep. Sleep would elude him, and right now he wanted to try and make sense of the nightmare he’d just lived through.
The moon was high in the sky as he trod the gravel path that wound among the rhododendrons in the back garden of his cottage in Hampstead. He’d been unable to bear returning to St John’s Wood where he’d spent his two happiest weeks.
Phoebe had accepted her fate with dignity and stoicism. She was brave. She’d not wept pitifully or begged forgiveness for a crime she did not commit.
He’d condemned her for her lies, attributed all manner of underhand behavior to her, but she was prepared to accept her fate.
He twisted his head around and stared into the branches of a fir tree at the hoot of an owl. Two black eyes regarded him dispassionately. They reminded Hugh of the magistrate’s. Lord Coulson had exhibited little compassion toward Phoebe, giving the impression he already considered her guilty when she took the stand.
Justice would be swift. It was possible, though not likely, she’d be sent across the seas for the term of her natural life. The clamoring for her to receive a death sentence was too vociferous. A husband should be safe in his own bed. Women, as much as men, were outraged.
Tomorrow, when sentence was handed down, Phoebe would know to the last minute the number of hours left to her. As Hugh had kissed her farewell, she’d said softly, “Just know that of all men, I’ve loved you best.”
He turned to find the source of the eerie whirring above him and saw the flock of bats, before his sister’s face at the casement came into view. She waved to him, and in a few minutes, he greeted her in the library where a small fire warmed the room.
“You look shocking, brother dearest,” Ada told him, wrapping her shawl around her, her expression fierce. “All this gaming and whoring isn’t good for the complexion, you know. Are you only just back? “
Hugh ran his hand through his hair before taking a seat in front of the warmth. “I haven’t been out. Well, not since being in the courtroom for Lady Cavanaugh’s trial, then visiting Phoebe afterward.”
She raised her eyebrows, looked about to say something, then muttered in an undertone, “As I said, whoring. So you found Phoebe? I’m so glad. I was beginning to feel quite guilty.”
“Phoebe is Lady Cavanaugh.” Hugh watched the information register, and wasn’t surprised at the horror that dawned on his sister’s face. “I saw her in court and will go again tomorrow.”
Ada gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth. “What did you say?”
“My Phoebe is, in fact, Lady Cavanaugh, who was, it appears, detained while visiting a shady establishment called Mrs Plumb’s Salon of Sin in search of Mr Wentworth’s wife.”
“Phoebe is Lady Cavan
augh…who murdered her husband?”
“She claims Wentworth forced her hand—literally—making her powerless when he used her as his instrument to drive a paper knife through her dying husband’s chest.”
“Does the magistrate accept her defense?”
Wearily, Hugh shook his head. “Sentence will be passed in the morning. There is little doubt she will hang.”
“For a crime that Mr Wentworth committed?” Ada gripped the back of the chair then began to pace. “He is the new heir, the new duke, the new Lord Cavanaugh,” she muttered, frowning as she digested the news and its implications with new horror. “Let me think, Hugh. What do I know of the case, for I’ve followed it slavishly in view of Wentworth being involved.” She chewed her lip as she moved back and forth before the fire. “Wentworth learned news of the death of his two brothers the very day the late Lord Cavanaugh was murdered.” She looked up suddenly. “How very convenient that Phoebe—I mean Lady Cavanaugh—was on hand so that he could simply encase her hand around the paper knife and drive it into her husband’s chest. How just like Wentworth to come up with such a plan, though I’m sure it was conceived on the spot. He would snatch any opportunity to use to his advantage.”
Hugh was glad that Ada was defending Phoebe, but he had to put her outrage into perspective. He loved Phoebe, but the truth behind that night was almost more than he could bear.
