Reckless

Chapter 10

The hackney coachman knew the location of Willard Lane. Gabriel promised him a large tip if he made good time. The man was happy to oblige.

Gabriel sat back in the seat, arms crossed, jaw rigid, and contemplated what he would say to Phoebe. The closer the hackney carriage got to Willard Lane, the more annoyed Gabriel became. He eyed the grimy taverns and coffeehouses filled with dockside workers and seamen.

This was a dangerous part of town. Phoebe should have had enough sense not to come here on her own. But common sense was not one of Phoebe's strong suits, he reminded himself. She had obviously been overindulged by her family. She had been allowed to run wild.

Once she was his wife, he was going to put a stop to her reckless ways. There would be no more dashing about in pursuit of old books on her own. If she wanted to take chances, she could bloody well take them with him.

The hackney came to a halt in a narrow street. Gabriel got out.

"Sorry, m'lord. This is as close as I can get," the coachman explained as he took Gabriel's money. "The lanes ain't much wider than alleys in this part o' town. Too narrow for this carriage. Ye'll have to walk from here."

"Very well. Wait here. I shall return shortly."

The coachman nodded obligingly and reached for the flask he kept under the box.

Gabriel spotted the stately Clarington town coach half a block away when he rounded the corner. Painted maroon and trimmed in black, it was impossible to miss. Relieved to see it, he started to cross the narrow cobbled street.

He was partway across when he noticed another carriage parked at the entrance to a nearby alley. It was a small, sleek vehicle horsed by a pair of swift-looking grays. The expensive equipage was as out of place in this neighborhood as the Clarington town coach. Gabriel took a closer look and noticed that the crest on the carriage door had been deliberately obscured with a black cloth and that the curtains were drawn. He started toward it.

At that moment he heard commotion in the alley. Ice-cold fingers gripped his insides. He had known this feeling before more than once out in the South Seas. He had learned not to ignore it.

Gabriel broke into a run. His boots rang on the cobblestones as he approached the alley.

Muttered curses and a muffled scream greeted Gabriel as he reached the narrow entrance. Two burly men were struggling with a squirming bundle wrapped in a large blanket.

Gabriel took in the scene before him in a single instant and leaped forward.

The two men were so busy trying to subdue their wriggling burden that they did not immediately sec Gabriel. He grabbed the shoulder of the first, spun him around, and drove a fist straight into the man's florid, sweating face.

The man grunted, dropped his end of the bundle, and stumbled back against the alley wall.

"What the bloody 'ell?" The other man stared for an instant and then he, too, dropped his burden. The figure in the gray cloth landed ignominiously on the dirty stones.

The second man reached into his boot and came out with a knife. He grinned evilly at Gabriel. "Ere, now, mate. I'll teach you to interfere in a private business matter."

He lunged at Gabriel, who sidestepped quickly. Gabriel reached out as the man went past and shoved hard, increasing his assailant's momentum. The man lost his balance and his footing. His boots skidded on the slimy cobblestones. He fetched up against his cohort, who was just struggling to right himself. Both men went down. The knife skittered away.

Gabriel reached into his own boot for the knife he had carried there for nearly eight years. He had picked up the habit during his first few months in the islands. Old habits were hard to break. He walked forward and held the tip of the blade to the second man's throat.

'"Ere, now, don't go gettin' excited, mate." The man smiled placatingly. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the mouthful of dark, rotting teeth that were revealed. "You want 'er, she's all yers. We was goin' to get a fair price for 'er, though from that gentry cove in the fancy carnage. Don't suppose you could make things even by meetin" is price?"

"Get out of here," Gabriel said softly.

"Right you are, mate. We're on our way." Both villains eyed the knife and the professional manner in which Gabriel held it. Then they cased back toward the alley entrance.

"No 'arm done," the first man said. "Like my friend says, she's all yers."

The two darted out of the alley and vanished.

Gabriel slipped the knife back into his boot and walked over to the flopping bundle. He was not particularly surprised when he caught a glimpse of a golden yellow muslin skirt. He reached down and extricated Phoebe from the folds of the blanket.

"Are you all right?" He surveyed her quickly from head to toe as he hauled her to her feet. She looked bedraggled but unhurt.

"Yes, I am fine. Oh, Gabriel, you saved me." Phoebe launched herself straight into his arms.

Gabriel heard the sound of carriage wheels outside the alley entrance just as his arms started to tighten around Phoebe.

"Hell." He released Phoebe and ran toward the front of the alley.

"Gabriel? What is it?" Phoebe hurried after him.

Gabriel did not wait for her. He saw the carriage with the obscured crest. The coachman was unfurling his whip, about to lash the team into full gallop.

"Hold," Gabriel shouted with the voice of authority he had once used to give orders in the South Seas. The coachman hesitated, turning his head to see who had given the command.

By the time the man realized Gabriel was in pursuit, it was too late. Gabriel had reached the door of the carriage. He jerked it open, reached inside, and clamped a hand around the arm of the occupant. He yanked the startled man out into the street.

Phoebe, clutching at her reticule and bonnet and hampered by her weak left leg, came to a startled halt. "Kilbourne."

Kilbourne did not look at her. He brushed off his sleeve with a disdainful movement and glowered at Gabriel with cool hauteur.

"I suppose you have an explanation for this unwarranted behavior, Wylde?"

"Of course." Gabriel kept his voice lethally soft so that Phoebe, who was still some distance off, would not overhear. "And I shall be happy to give it to you over a brace of pistols at dawn. My seconds will call on you this evening."

Kilbourne's composure faded rapidly. His face mottled with rage. "Now, see here, what do you think you're doing?"

"He is saving me from being kidnapped by you," Phoebe said furiously as she reached Gabriel's side. She was panting from her recent struggles and still frantically attempting to adjust her bonnet. "I know what this is all about."

"Phoebe, go back to your carriage," Gabriel ordered quietly.

She ignored him, her eyes bright with outrage as she glared at Kilbourne. "My mother told me this morning that it will soon be all over Town that you are done up, my lord. You knew my father would no longer be in the mood to entertain an offer for my hand if he learned you were penniless, did you not?"

"Phoebe," Gabriel said sharply.

"So you lured me here under false pretenses and tried to kidnap me," Phoebe continued triumphantly. "Well, you certainly did not get away with it, did you, sir? I knew Wylde would save me. He is very good at that sort of thing."

Gabriel clamped a hand around her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Not another word out of you, madam. Go back to your carriage and go directly home. We will discuss this later. Do you understand me?"

She blinked. "Well, yes, of course. You are quite clear, my lord, but I have a few things to say to Lord Kilbourne first."

"You will go home now, Phoebe." For a moment he thought she was going to argue further. Gabriel braced himself for the battle. Then Phoebe shrugged and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Oh, very well." She shot Kilbourne one last gloating look. "You will be very sorry for this, my lord." She whirled around and marched off, her golden skirts a vivid blot of color against the gray landscape.

Gabriel waited until she was once more out of earshot. Then he inclined his head with mocking formality. "Until our dawn appointment, Kilbourne. I shall be looking forward to it." He turned and started toward the hackney coach.

"Damn you, Wylde, come back here," Kilbourne sputtered. "How dare you challenge me?"

Gabriel did not look back.

When he reached the hackney coach, he gave his instructions to the driver. "Follow the maroon carriage until it reaches a better part of town. Then take me back to St. James Street."

"Aye, m'lord." The coachman set down his flask and picked up the reins.

Thirty minutes later Gabriel stormed back into his club and discovered to his great satisfaction that Anthony and Clarington were still there. They were immersed in copies of The Times and The Morning Post.

Gabriel dropped into the chair across from the other two men and waited until they had lowered their papers.

"I see you're back." Anthony said. "Why in hell did you rush off like that?"

"I rushed off," Gabriel said evenly, "to rescue your sister from being kidnapped by Kilbourne."

Anthony stared at him. Clarington slammed his copy of The Times down on a nearby table. "What the devil are you talking about, sir? Explain yourself."

"The message I received earlier informed me that Phoebe was on her way to examine a manuscript that had been offered for sale by a certain A. Rilkins. When I arrived at Mr. Rilkins's establishment, I discovered Phoebe in the process of being carted out of an alley by two members of the criminal class."

Anthony looked stunned. "Now, see here. You cannot expect us to believe such a tale."

Clarington's mouth dropped open. "Good God. Is this some sort of joke, Wylde?"

"I assure you, it is no joke." Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Kilbourne is apparently penniless. The word will soon be all over Town. He obviously realized his secret was out and he had no time left to court Phoebe, so he attempted to kidnap her."

"Good God," Clarington said again. He looked dazed. "She would have been ruined if he had succeeded in carrying her off. I would have been forced to agree to the marriage."

The three men stared at each other.

"Phoebe is safe?" Anthony's eyes were sharp with concern.

"She's on her way home, quite unharmed and with her reputation still intact." Gabriel reached for the claret bottle that stood on the table beside his chair. "Although one wonders for how long. At the rate she is going, disaster is inevitable."

"Damme," Clarington muttered, "I'll not allow you to talk like that about my daughter."

"Given that I have just saved her pretty neck, I shall talk about her in any way I like." Gabriel took a swallow of the claret. "Allow me to tell you, my lords, that I consider this entire debacle to be all your fault."

"Our fault?" Clarington bridled furiously.

"Yours in particular," Gabriel said. "As her father, you have allowed her to run wild. The woman is a menace to herself. She corresponds with strange men and arranges to meet them at midnight in remote country lanes. She goes haring off to the worst parts of London whenever she takes a fancy—"

"I say," Clarington interrupted.

Gabriel ignored him. "She is far too independent in her notions and she routinely courts disaster. One of these days she will almost certainly find it."

"Now, see here," Clarington growled. "This is my daughter we arc discussing. What is this about corresponding with strange men and meeting them at midnight?"

"How the hell do you think I met her?" Gabriel asked.

Anthony stared at him, astounded. "Are you saying she struck up a correspondence with you? Arranged to meet with you?"

"Damn right," Gabriel said. "And it was pure luck that it was me she arranged to meet in Sussex. What if it had been some other man?"

Clarington stiffened. "What are you suggesting, sir?"

"I am suggesting that neither of you is capable of controlling Phoebe, much less protecting her from her own impulsiveness." Gabriel took another swallow of the claret. "Therefore I shall have to take on the task. There is obviously no other option."

"You." Clarington glowered down the length of his beaked nose.

"Me." Gabriel put the empty glass on the table. "I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon at three to discuss the matter. I want this settled at once."

"A moment, if you please." Anthony held up a hand. "Are you saying you intend to offer for Phoebe?"

Gabriel looked at him. "Would you prefer to wait until Kilbourne or some other fortune hunter makes another attempt to carry her off?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course we don't want her carried off." Clarington sighed heavily. "But it's damn difficult to protect Phoebe. More spirit than sense. Won't listen to sound advice. Thinks she can deal with the world on her own. Always been like that, ever since she was a little girl."

"It's true," Anthony said glumly. "She was forever exploring and getting into mischief. The more we tried to restrain her, the more adventurous she got." He looked at Clarington. "Remember how it was the day of the accident?"

"I shall never forget it as long as I live," Clarington declared. "Thought we'd lost her. Dashed out into the lane to save a damn hound that had darted in front of a phaeton. The hound made it safely across the road. Phoebe did not."

Anthony shook his head. "It was typical of Phoebe. She's been reckless all of her life. But that time the results were nearly tragic. The doctors told us she would never walk again."

"Did they tell Phoebe?" Gabriel asked dryly.

Clarington nodded. "Certainly they told Phoebe. Told her she would have to take care not to exert herself. Told her she would spend the rest of her life as an invalid. Told her she must live a quiet life."

Gabriel smiled fleetingly. "But Phoebe, being Phoebe, refused to listen, I suppose."

Anthony looked at him. "1 walked into her bedchamber one day three months after the accident and found her on her feet, clutching the bedpost. After that, there was no stopping her."

"Nevertheless," Gabriel said grimly, "you should have done a better job of protecting her. Devil take it, Oaksley. Do you realise she almost got kidnapped by a man who intended to force her into marriage in order to acquire her fortune? Her life would have been ruined if the ruse had worked."

Anthony raised his brows. "Now you know how it feels."

Gabriel stared at him.

"It's enough to make a man want to commit murder." Clarington was clearly still shaken by the news of the near-disaster. "God knows it's a terrible feeling to discover one has failed to protect one's own daughter."

Gabriel could think of nothing to say. It struck him quite forcibly that the anger and fear he was experiencing at that moment were undoubtedly the very same emotions Clarington and his son had felt eight years ago on the night he had attempted to run off with Meredith.

For the first time he looked at the situation from their point of view. He acknowledged with grim honesty that he would probably have reacted in the same fashion as they had if he had been in their place. Clarington and his family had had no way of knowing that Gabriel had not been after Meredith's inheritance. To them he had looked as evil as Kilbournc now appeared.

"I take your meaning, Clarington," Gabriel finally said.

Clarington's eyes met Gabriel's. Understanding and a curious expression that might have been approval gleamed for a moment in the earl's piercing gaze.

"I believe you finally do comprehend my feelings at the time, sir." Clarington nodded, as if satisfied. "I also begin to believe you have some genuine affection for my daughter."

"I must confess my affection for her is somewhat tempered by the overriding fear that she will one day drive me mad," Gabriel said.

"A fate I have barely escaped myself." Clarington smiled slowly. "I gladly turn the responsibility of looking after her over to you, sir. I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you." Gabriel looked at Anthony. "I shall need seconds."

Anthony studied him for a moment in silence. "You've challenged Kilbourne?"

"Yes."

"I'm Phoebe's brother. It is my place to handle this."

Gabriel smiled wryly. "You have already done your duty by one sister. I'll deal with this."

Anthony hesitated. "I'm not certain I should allow you to do so."

"As her future husband, it is most definitely my right," Gabriel said.

"Very well, I'll be one of your seconds," Anthony said. "I can arrange to find another. But you must be careful. If Kilbourne dies, you will be obliged to leave England and, knowing Phoebe, she would probably insist on going with you."

"I have no wish to leave England again," Gabriel said. "Kilbourne will live. Barely."

Anthony eyed him closely. Then his mouth curved ruefully. "Just as I did?"

"No," Gabriel said. "Not quite. I fully intend to put a bullet into the man. He will remember in future not to kidnap young ladies."

Three hours later, Anthony returned to the club to report back to Gabriel on the arrangements for the duel.

"You're out of luck," Anthony said. "Kilbourne has left London."

"Damn." Gabriel slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair in sheer frustration. "Are you certain?"

"His butler says he has gone north and no one knows when he will return. It certainly won't be anytime soon. The servants have instructions to close Kilbourne's town house. The word is all over Town that he is virtually penniless. Lost everything in a series of bad investments."

"Hell and damnation."

"Perhaps it's for the best." Anthony sprawled in a nearby chair. "It's over. There will be no duel and Kilbourne is out of the way. I, for one, am grateful."

"I am not."

"Trust me, you're luckier than you know." Anthony grinned. "If Phoebe had ever discovered that you intended to fight a duel in her honor, she would have been furious. I don't believe you have ever dealt with Phoebe when she is very angry. It's not pleasant."

Gabriel looked at him, aware that he and Anthony were forming a bond based on their mutual concern for Phoebe. "Thank you for agreeing to act as my second. I only regret you will not have the opportunity to perform your duties."

Anthony inclined his head. "As I said, it's over. Kilbourne has been well and truly humiliated. Let it go at that."

"I suppose I shall be obliged to do so." Gabriel was silent for a moment. "I know now how you felt eight years ago, Oaksley."

"Yes. I can see that you do. But I will tell you something, Wylde. I like Trowbridge, and Meredith seems quite happy with him. But I will admit that if I knew then what I know now about you, I would not have chased after you that night. I would trust either of my sisters in your care."

Gabriel raised his brows. "Because you have learned I am not penniless?"

"No," Anthony said. "My reasons have nothing to do with your financial status."

There was silence for a moment between the two men. Then Gabriel smiled. "Allow me to tell you that I am exceedingly grateful you did come after Meredith and me that night. The match would have been a mistake. It's Phoebe I want."

"You're certain of that?"

"Quite certain."

At three the following afternoon, Phoebe sat uneasily upstairs in her bedchamber and waited to be summoned to the library. The household had been so subdued since yesterday's events that one would have thought there had been a death in the family.

Phoebe knew full well what was happening. Her mother had told her earlier that Gabriel was going to offer for her and that Clarington would accept. It was clear her family's objections to Gabriel had been dropped.

Phoebe was grateful for that, but she could not seem to sort out her own conflicting emotions. A part of her rejoiced at the thought of being married to the man she loved. She longed to seize the opportunity. She wanted him as she had never wanted anyone or anything in her life.

But another part of her was extremely uneasy. She had no indication yet that Gabriel truly loved her. She was very much afraid he was making his offer out of a desire to protect her from the sort of incident that had occurred yesterday.

It was highly probable that Gabriel was marrying her out of a misguided sense of chivalry.

True, he was rather fond of her, she was certain of that much. He gave every indication of being physically attracted to her. And they did have interests in common.

But there had been no talk of love.

Phoebe glanced at the clock. It was almost three-thirty, What on earth was there to talk about that took half an hour? she wondered.

She got to her feet and began pacing the room. This was ridiculous. A woman had the right to be present when her future was being discussed.

This business of waiting meekly upstairs in her bedchamber while the men dealt with something as important as marriage was aggravating in the extreme. Men did not have a good grasp of such things.

They would not understand, for example, that she had no wish to be married because Gabriel's lofty notions of chivalry demanded it.

She had vowed long ago that she would only marry for true love, the sort of love that guided the knights and ladies of medieval legends. Nothing less would do for her.

At three forty-five, Phoebe decided she had had enough of playing the dutiful daughter. She marched out of her bedchamber and went downstairs to the library.

The door of the library was closed. The butler stood firmly planted in front of it. When he saw Phoebe, his expression turned wary, but determined.

"Step aside, please," she said to the butler. "I wish to join my father."

The butler drew himself up bravely. "Forgive me, madam, but your father left explicit instructions that he did not wish to be disturbed while in conference with Lord Wylde."

"Pssst, Phoebe." Lydia stuck her head around the corner of the drawing room and waved frantically to get Phoebe's attention. "Don't go in there. Men like to handle this kind of thing all b\ themselves. It makes them feel as if they are carrying out their responsibilities."

Meredith, hovering behind her mother, frowned delicately at Phoebe. "Wait until you are summoned, Phoebe, Papa will be most upset if you interrupt."

"I am already upset." Phoebe strode forward.

The butler wavered. It was all the opportunity Phoebe needed. She opened the door herself and walked into the library.

Gabriel and her father were seated near the fireplace. They each held a glass of brandy. Both men looked up with forbidding expressions as she entered.

"You may wait outside, my dear. I shall summon you in a few minutes," Clarington said firmly.

"I am tired of waiting." Phoebe came to a halt and glanced at Gabriel. She could tell nothing from his expression. "I want to know what is going on."

"Wylde is making an offer of marriage," Clarington said. "We are discussing the details. You need not concern yourself."

"You mean you have already accepted the offer on my behalf?" Phoebe demanded.

"Yes, I have." Clarington took a swallow of brandy.

Phoebe shot Gabriel a questioning look. He arched one brow in response. Her gaze went back to her father. "Papa, I wish to speak to Gabriel before any announcements are made."

"You may speak to him when I have finished settling matters."

"But Papa—"

"Leave us, Phoebe," Gabriel ordered quietly. "We will talk later."

"I want to discuss this now." Her hands tightened into small fists. "It is my future that is being bandied about in here. I have a few thoughts on the subject. If the two of you think you are going to tie all the details into a neat little package and expect me to accept it without comment, you are quite wrong."

Clarington peered at her. "Very well, my dear, what is your chief objection to all this?"

Phoebe took a deep breath, opened her clenched fists, and dried her damp palms on the skirts of her gown. "I have always made it very clear chat I will only marry for love. To be perfectly blunt, Papa, Wylde has never once mentioned love to me. I will not be rushed into marriage until I am certain there is true love on both sides. I will not be married simply because Wylde's sense of chivalry demands it."

"Phoebe," Clarington said wearily, "you are behaving like a romantical schoolgirl. Wylde is quite right. After what happened yesterday, you can no longer be allowed to continue in your rash, impulsive ways."

"He said that?" Phoebe glared at Gabriel.

"Yes, he did, and I agree with him," Clarington declared. "He claims he is willing to take on the task of managing you and I must say, I am grateful to be able to turn the responsibility over to him."

Phoebe was outraged. "What if I do not wish to be 'managed' by a husband?"

"I know of no better way to settle you down and rein in your eccentric manners than to marry you off," Clarington retorted. "It is time you were married, young lady. For God's sake, you are nearly five and twenty. The fact that you are an heiress puts you at terrible risk. Only think of what happened yesterday."

"Papa, what happened yesterday was not my fault."

"It most certainly was," Clatington shot back. "Who knows how many others of Kilbourne's sort are lurking out there? Wylde is correct when he says that sooner or later your impulsive ways will land you in serious trouble. I want you safely established under the guidance and protection of a husband."

A sense of desperation welled up in Phoebe. "Papa, please. I must have time to think about this. Wylde and I must discuss it."

Gabriel gave her a cool glance over the rim of his brandy glass. "As far as I am concerned, there is nothing that needs to be discussed at this moment. Go on upstairs to your bedchamber. We shall send for you presently."

Phoebe was speechless. To be banished upstairs to her bedchamber by the man whom she had considered a gallant knight, the man she had secretly viewed as a soul mate, the man she loved. It was too much.

"My lord," she whispered, "you are no better than Kilbourne."

There was a short, awful silence.

"Phoebe," her father thundered. "You will apologize at once. Wylde is no fortune hunter."

She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes to get rid of the moisture. "I did not mean to imply that he was. But he is certainK just as much of a pompous, overbearing prig as Kilbourne ever was." She gave Gabriel one last anguished glance. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you understood how I felt about matters of love and marriage."

Before either man could respond, she whirled and tied from the room.

Out in the hall she dashed past the concerned faces of her mother and sister. She picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs. When she reached the privacy of her bedchamber, she threw herself down on the bed and surrendered to the tears.

Fifteen minutes later the storm had passed, leaving in its place an unnatural calm. She dried her eyes, washed her face, and sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, when she was finally summoned to the library, she was composed and solemn. She walked sedately down the stairs, waited politely for the butler to open the door, and then stepped inside.

Her father was still seated in his chair. He appeared to have started on another glass of brandy. Gabriel was standing near the fireplace, one arm resting along the mantel. He watched her intently as she came gravely into the room.

"You sent for me, Papa?" Phoebe asked with excruciating civility.

Clarington cast her a suspicious glance. "It's settled, my dear. You and Wylde will be married at the end of the Season."

Phoebe's stomach lurched, but she managed to keep her expression serene. "I see. Well, then, if that is all, I shall return to my room. I am not feeling very well."

Gabriel's black brows drew together in a severe line. "Phoebe, are you all right?"

"I believe I have a slight headache, my lord." She turned and walked back out of the room.

Shortly before dawn the next morning Phoebe dressed in her best traveling gown and tossed two large bags out her bedroom window. Then she threw a rope composed of knotted bedsheets over the sill.

She descended via the makeshift rope into the garden, collected her two bags, and walked around the front of the big house.

She mingled with saloop vendors and milk carriers in the early morning London traffic. At that hour the streets were teeming with country folk and their wagons full of market produce. No one paid much attention to her.

By seven o'clock Phoebe had boarded the stage that would take her into the heart of Sussex. Squashed between a plump woman in a gray turban and an odoriferous country squire who was swigging gin from a bottle, she had plenty of time to reflect on her fate.