Gabriel walked into the library, tossed his black domino onto a chair, and lit a lamp on the desk. He poured himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the small table near the hearth. The fiery liquid calmed his sense of frustration. His gaze fell on the folds of the black cloak he had worn earlier.
Hot memories of how Phoebe had looked in the moonlight as she burned in his arms exploded again in his head.
Matters were not working out quite as he had planned.
It was not that his scheme for revenge was going badly, he realized. It was that he was starting to have grave misgivings. What the devil was the matter with him? he wondered.
It had seemed so simple when he had left Devil’s Mist. He would pursue and seduce Phoebe and in the process humiliate and outrage Clarington. In the end, when the reckless little wench had been well and truly bedded, Clarington would swallow his pride and beg Gabriel to marry her.
Gabriel had planned to look Clarington straight in the eye and decline the offer of his ruined daughter’s hand in marriage. Only then would Clarington learn that Gabriel was no fortune hunter, and there was nothing he could do to force the marriage.
As for Phoebe, she would deserve what she got. She was an ungovernable hoyden, an impulsive, headstrong female who would learn the hard way that she had taken one too many chances, played one too many dangerous games.
Gabriel had consoled his uneasy conscience by telling himself that Phoebe was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She was twenty-four years old and not averse to making arrangements to meet strangers at midnight on lonely country lanes.
He certainly did not intend to boast about his conquest once the deed was done. He had no intention of ruining the lady’s reputation in Society. His only goal was to trample on the overweening pride of the Earl of Clarington.
A simple, straightforward sort of vengeance.
Gabriel stared at the black cloak and recalled the feel of Phoebe as she responded to his touch. So sweet, so passionate. Bringing her to her first climax had made him feel like the all-conquering knight she believed him to be. When he had heard Kilbourne’s approach outside the maze, his first instinct had been to protect her.
Gabriel took another sip of the brandy and thought about the glow of admiration that had lit Phoebe’s eyes when he had found his way back to the entrance of the maze. He shook his head over her unwavering confidence that he would help her find Neil Baxter’s killer.
It was all beginning to seem bloody damn complicated.
Hell, maybe he should just marry the little baggage and be done with it.
That thought shook him to the core.
“Damnation.” Surely he was not going to weaken at this juncture. There was no point. He could have it all: the lady and the vengeance.
He thought of Phoebe’s laughing eyes and innocent recklessness.
Gabriel went to the window and cautiously allowed himself to consider the outrageous notion of making Phoebe his countess.
It would mean he would have to abandon his revenge against her family.
True, he could torment them for a while longer, but sooner or later they would learn that he was not the fortune hunter they believed him to be. They might not ever learn to like him, but they could not disapprove of him. He was, after all, everything they wanted in a husband for Phoebe.
It would mean he would have to find a way to handle a bold, adventurous wife who would no doubt lead him a merry dance for the rest of his days.
It would mean having Phoebe in his bed.
Gabriel realized he was smiling slightly at his own reflection in the window.
Bloody hell He could do worse. She certainly lived up to the newly invented Wylde motto: I dare. She had courage. She would make a good mother for his sons.
Furthermore, Phoebe was the only woman he had ever met who might actually enjoy living at Devil’s Mist. Any other respectable female of the ton would probably refuse to step foot inside the ancient, drafty castle.
Yes, he could do worse.
The realization that he was on the point of abandoning his revenge staggered him. He would have to give the matter a great deal more thought before he made his decision.
Gabriel turned and walked over to his desk. He put down the brandy glass and reached toward the lamp. He hesitated as he glanced down at his desk. Something was wrong. One of the drawers was partially open, as if someone had been in a hurry and forgotten to close it completely.
He had left the drawers closed. And locked.
Someone had gone through his desk.
The writer in him nearly succumbed to panic. He yanked open the drawer that contained A Reckless Venture and hurriedly checked page numbers. He lowered himself slowly into his chair and swore in profound relief when he realized there were no missing pages.
Then common sense took over. Gabriel stood up again and calmly checked the contents of his small library. On close inspection it was clear several books had been moved about on their shelves, but nothing appeared to be missing. He glanced around the room, noting the furnishings. He wondered why the intruder had not taken the silver candlesticks or the handsome basaltware urn. Either could have brought the thief a nice price.
His library had been thoroughly searched, but nothing had been stolen. Gabriel knew he would have felt less uneasy if something of value had been taken. This situation raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. It also raised questions.
In the morning he would interview the entire staff. If he was satisfied that none of the servants was involved, he would instruct Shelton to institute precautions so that this sort of thing did not happen again.
Three days after the Brantley masquerade Phoebe and Meredith were sitting in the drawing room of the Clarington town house when Lydia burst triumphantly through the door.
“He’s rich, he’s rich. And Kilbourne’s in dun territory. Can you believe it? Kilbourne, of all people. Who would have dreamed it?” Lydia was crowing with excitement. “Wait until your papa hears this.”
Phoebe stared at her mother in amazement. “What on earth are you talking about, Mama?”
“Kilbourne. And Wylde.” Lydia ripped off her fashionable French bonnet and tossed it aside. She sat down on the yellow sofa with the air of Cleopatra sitting on her throne. “Someone pour me a cup of tea.”
“Yes, Mama.” Meredith reached for the green and white Worcester teapot.
“Better yet,” Lydia said hastily, “see if there is any sherry in the decanter, Phoebe. I need something medicinal. This has all come as a monumental shock.”
Meredith gave her mother a gently disapproving look as Phoebe rose and walked over to the sherry decanter. “Calm yourself, Mama. You are in a state.”
“I should say so.” Lydia snapped the sherry glass out of Phoebe’s hand and took a swallow. “And with good reason. Wait until you hear the details.”
Phoebe’s brows rose as she sat down again. “Where did you hear them, Mama?”
“At Lady Birkenshaw’s card party this afternoon. Nellie was so excited that she forgot to pay attention to her cards. Lost three hundred pounds to me before she even realized what had happened.” Lydia paused to gloat briefly. “But after I heard the news, I was obliged to stop playing altogether. Simply could not concentrate.”
“What news, Mama?” Meredith asked firmly. “What did you say about Kilbourne being in dun territory?”
“Under the hatches, done up, financially embarrassed. The man is virtually without funds.” Lydia took a swallow of sherry. “Not that you’d know it, of course. He’s managed to conceal it all Season, but Lord Birkenshaw stumbled on the truth this morning when his solicitor advised him not to go into partnership with Kilbourne.”
“Ah-hah,” Phoebe said. “So that’s why Kilbourne has been pursuing me this Season. The man is looking for an heiress. I knew there was a reason he suddenly found me so eminently suitable to be his marchioness.”
“Good lord.” Meredith looked stunned. “Kilbour
ne was trying to latch on to Phoebe before anyone discovered the truth about his finances.”
“Precisely.” Lydia set down her glass. “Wait until your father hears about this. He will be outraged. Kilbourne was after Phoebe’s fortune all along.”
“And here I thought he would be such a sound, stable, mature influence on Phoebe,” Meredith said regretfully. “What a pity.”
Phoebe eyed her mother and sister. “There is no sense going into mourning over this. I have tried to make it clear all along that I was not interested in accepting an offer from Kilbourne.”
“He is a marquess,” Meredith reminded her.
“He is a prig,” Phoebe said.
Lydia held up her hand. “Enough. It is over. We have had a close call and that is the end of it. The good news is that we can now consider an offer from Wylde.”
Phoebe and Meredith stared at her.
“Mama, what are you saying?” Meredith demanded.
Lydia smiled with smug satisfaction. “My dears, Wylde is as rich as Croesus.”
Meredith gasped. “What on earth?”
“It’s true.” Lydia gave Phoebe a conspirator’s smile. “As rich as your father. Always thought the boy would make something of himself out there in the South Seas.”
Phoebe swallowed. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, it’s all true enough. Nellie was certain of it. The solicitor who advised her husband not to get involved with Kilbourne suggested he consider investing in one of Wylde’s ships instead.”
“Ships?” Meredith was wide-eyed.
“Ships,” Lydia repeated. “Plural. As in more than one ship. As in a great many ships that have extremely lucrative trading arrangements with America. Wylde has been extremely discreet about the state of his finances, but the extent of his fortune had to come out sooner or later. His business dealings are too extensive to be hidden for long.”
“Good heavens,” Meredith breathed. “Why has Wylde been so secretive? And why has he been taunting Papa by pretending he is interested in Phoebe?”
Lydia frowned. “I do not believe he is pretending an interest in Phoebe. I believe the man is quite serious. And as for taunting Clarington, I expect Wylde is merely getting some of his own back for what your papa did to him eight years ago.”
Phoebe was horrified at the misunderstanding. “Mama, I must make it clear to you that Wylde and I are merely friends. There has been absolutely no talk of marriage. You must not delude yourself.”
“There, you see?” Meredith poured herself another cup of tea. “I knew it. Wylde’s intentions, whatever they may be, are definitely not honorable.”
Phoebe turned on her sister. “Meredith, you must not say such things. Wylde is a very honorable man.”
“If that were the case, why is he hanging around you and not showing any signs of offering for you?” Meredith retorted.
“Because we are friends,” Phoebe said, feeling desperate. She could hardly explain about the quest to find Neil’s killer. “We have interests in common. I assure you, that is all there is to it.”
Meredith shook her head sadly. “I am so sorry, Phoebe. But you must be realistic. There is only one reason why Wylde is continually in your company these days. He is plotting to ruin you in order to avenge himself on all of us.”
Phoebe leaped to her feet. “You are wrong. I will not listen to any more of this nonsense. Wylde and I have no plans to marry. I am well aware that I am not his type. But we are friends and we intend to remain friends, and that is all there is to it.”
Phoebe rushed out of the room and fled up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber. She closed the door and flung herself into the chair near the window.
So Gabriel was rich, after all. So what did that signify?
The fact that Gabriel was wealthy did not particularly surprise her. Gabriel was one of those amazingly competent men who gave one the impression they could do anything they set out to do. If he had set out to make his fortune in the South Seas, then it was not at all startling that he had succeeded.
His wealth or lack thereof had never been important to Phoebe. She had fallen in love with him for other reasons.
Love.
Yes, love. Phoebe closed her eyes and gripped the arm of her chair. She might as well admit it to herself. She had been in love with Gabriel since that night she had met him on that moonlit lane in Sussex.
Since the first time he had kissed her.
Perhaps even before that. Phoebe wondered sadly if she had fallen in love with him when she had read his first manuscript and realized the author was the man who had embodied her youthful ideal of knighthood.
She had instructed Lacey to write back immediately saying they would publish The Quest. She had dictated every sentence of that letter: … A new species of novel. A very inspiring treatment of the subject of love….
Shortly after that, she had started to dream of him. When she realized she needed a knight-errant to help her track down Neil’s killer, Gabriel had been the obvious choice.
There was no doubt about it. Gabriel had filled her thoughts for weeks and she had begun to realize he would haunt her for the rest of her life.
What a tangle it all was. There was Mama downstairs chortling over the notion of marrying Phoebe off to Wylde. Meredith was terrified that Gabriel was plotting to ruin Phoebe in order to avenge himself against the entire family. Anthony and Papa would no doubt fear something equally dire. Either that or they would begin to press Gabriel for an offer.
Phoebe groaned and dropped her head into her hands. No one listened when she tried to explain that Wylde was merely a friend. And they would not comprehend or approve if she tried to tell them he was merely assisting her in a quest to find a murderer.
The more she was seen in Wylde’s company, the more her family would conclude that Gabriel was either plotting revenge or intending to make an offer.
Disaster loomed. How long could this state of affairs continue? she wondered.
The knock on the door of her bedchamber interrupted Phoebe’s chaotic thoughts. “Come in.”
One of the maids stepped into the room and made a small curtsy. “I’ve got a message for ye, ma’am.” She held out a folded note. “A boy brung it around to the kitchens a few minutes ago.”
“A message?” Surprised, Phoebe got to her feet. “Let me see it.”
She took the note and frowned intently over the contents.
Madam: Allow me to introduce myself. My name is A. Rilkins. I am a bookseller with a small shop in Willard Lane. An excellent copy of a very rare medieval manuscript has just come into my possession. The illustrations are extremely fine and the tale concerns a knight of the Round Table. I am told you are interested in such books. I shall hold this volume until four o’clock this afternoon, after which time I shall be obliged to notify other interested parties.
Yours,
A. Rilkins
“Good heavens,” Phoebe breathed. “Another tale of the Round Table has come to light. How exciting.” She glanced up at the maid. “I want you to have one of the footmen dispatch a note for me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Phoebe went over to her escritoire, picked up a pen, and quickly jotted a message to Gabriel. He would be as interested in Mr. Rilkins’s find as she was and would no doubt want to rendezvous at the bookshop to examine it with her. They could determine its value together.
Phoebe folded the note and handed it to the maid. “There. See that this is sent at once. Then send Betsy to me and have one of the footmen ask Morris to have the carriage brought around. I shall be going out this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid curtsied again and hurried off down the hall.
Phoebe jumped to her feet and opened her wardrobe. She would be seeing Gabriel, so she wanted to look her best. She wondered if she should wear the golden yellow jaconet muslin or the new peacock-blue walking dress.
She decided on the muslin.
* * *
Pho
ebe and her maid set off within the hour for A. Rilkins’s Bookshop. Both were a bit startled when they realized the route was taking them toward the river.
Betsy looked out the window and frowned anxiously. “This isn’t a very good part of town, ma’am.”
“No, it isn’t, is it?” Phoebe reached into her reticule and pulled out Rilkins’s note. “Willard Lane. I have never heard of it, have you?”
“No, but the coachman seemed to know where it was.”
“Ask him to make certain.”
Betsy obediently lifted the trapdoor in the ceiling of the carriage and shouted up to the coachman. “Are ye sure this is the way to Willard Lane?”
“Aye. Willard Lane’s down by the docks. Why? Has her ladyship changed her mind? I can turn the carriage around.”
Betsy looked at Phoebe. “Well, ma’am? Would you like to go back?”
“No, of course not,” Phoebe said. She had been in worse places than this in pursuit of a manuscript. A lonely lane in Sussex at midnight, for example. “I cannot miss out on an opportunity such as this merely because Mr. Rilkins cannot afford an establishment in a better part of town. We must press on.”
Willard Lane proved to be a very narrow passage that was not much more than an alley. The stately Clarington town carriage would not fit into the entrance. The coachman brought the horses to a halt some distance away and the footman jumped down to escort Phoebe and her maid into A. Rilkins’s Bookshop.
Phoebe glanced up at the barely legible sign over the entrance of the shop as she went through the door. It was obvious Mr. Rilkins was not a terribly successful bookseller. His premises were extremely shabby. The shop windows were so dusty she could not even see into the dark interior.
A dank, musty smell greeted Phoebe as she stepped into the shop. For a moment she could not make out any details in the gloom. Then a figure moved behind the counter.
A small wizened man with the face of a rat came around the corner. He squinted at her through a pair of spectacles and bobbed his head.
“Welcome to my humble shop, my lady. I expect you’ll be the one who’s come about the old manuscript, eh?”