Reckless

Chapter 2

The door of Nash's cottage opened and a stout, middle-aged housekeeper in a dingy cap and apron peered out.

"Who be you?" the woman demanded in a suspicious tone.

"Kindly tell your master that the person to whom he recently sold a medieval manuscript has arrived to collect it," Phoebe said. She glanced into the hall behind the woman. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls. Each shelf was crammed full with leather-bound volumes. More books were stacked in piles on the floor.

"So he's sold off another one, eh?" The housekeeper nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Well, now, that's a blessing. He's behind on me wages again. Owes me a packet, he does. I'm going' to see to it he pays me afore he settles up with the tradesmen this time. Weren't nothing' left by the time he got around to me last quarter."

"Nash sold an item from his collection to pay his bills last quarter?" Gabriel asked as he strode into the tiny hall behind Phoebe. His heavy coat swirled around the tops of his beautifully polished Hessians.

"Egan finally talked him into it. You'd have thought Mr. Nash was getting' a tooth pulled." The housekeeper sighed as she closed the door. "The master cannot bear to part with any of them old books of his. They're all he cares about."

"Who is Egan?" Phoebe asked.

"The master's son. Comes by to see to things once in a while, thank the lord, or else nothin' at all would get done around here." The housekeeper led the way down the hall. "Don't know what we'd have done if Egan hadn't convinced Mr. Nash to sell off one or two of them dirty old books. Starve to death, more'n likely."

Phoebe glanced covertly at Gabriel, who was examining the shabby, book-filled hall. He had removed his hat. She studied him with the new, heightened awareness that he had ignited in her. In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight his hair was still as black as midnight, just as she remembered. There was a faint trace of silver at the temples. But then, he was thirty-four now, she reminded herself. And the silver was oddly attractive.

Eight years ago she had thought him rather old. Now he seemed exactly the right age. Her gloved fingers tightened around a fold of her purple riding habit. She lifted the small train to clear a pile of books. The rising sense of anticipation inside her had nothing to do with collecting the manuscript or convincing Gabriel to help her in her quest to discover Neil's murderer.

It had everything to do with Gabriel himself.

Dear heaven, this was getting dangerous indeed, Phoebe thought. This sort of emotional complication was the last thing she needed at the moment. She must keep a clear head and remember that Gabriel had no reason to feel any affection for any members of her family.

Gabriel's face was half averted as he read the spines of some of the books stuffed higgledy-piggledy into the nearest case. Phoebe gazed at the hard line of his jaw and the arrogant angle of his cheekbones. For some reason she was startled to see that he still had the face of a raptor.

Her stomach fluttered nervously. She had not expected that the passage of the past eight years would soften those fierce features. It was unsettling, however, to see that they had become harsher and more unyielding than ever.

As if he could read her mind, Gabriel suddenly turned his head. He looked straight at her, pinning her with predatory green eyes. For a nerve-racking moment Phoebe had the impression he could see beneath her heavy veil. She had forgotten about his eyes.

As a young girl on the brink of womanhood, she had not understood the impact of that intense green gaze. Of course, she had only had a few brief glimpses of it. Those occasions had occurred when Gabriel had come to her father's town house along with all the other young bloods of the ton to pay court to her lovely sister, Meredith.

The only man in the crowd who had interested Phoebe had been Gabriel. She had been curious about him from the start because she had avidly read the books and poems he had given to her sister. Gabriel had wooed Meredith with Arthurian legends rather than flowers. Meredith had not been interested in the ancient tales of chivalry, but Phoebe had devoured them.

Every time Gabriel had come to call, Phoebe had made it a point to observe as much as possible from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. In her naiveté, she had thought the glances he had given Meredith were deliciously romantic.

Now she realized that romantic was far too soft and frivolous a word to describe Gabriel's glittering gaze. No wonder her sister had found him terrifying. For all her razor sharp intelligence, Meredith had been a gentle, timid creature in those days.

For the first time since she had begun the reckless quest to lure Gabriel into helping her, Phoebe felt momentarily overwhelmed by the challenge. He was right. He was not a man with whom an intelligent woman played games. Perhaps her scheme was not going to work, after all. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was still safely concealed behind her veil.

"Is something wrong?" Gabriel asked softly. His eyes skimmed over her bright purple habit. He looked amused.

"No. Nothing." Phoebe lifted her chin as she turned away from him to follow the housekeeper. What did it signify if the purple shade of her habit was a trifle livid in tone? She was well aware that her taste was not appreciated by many. Her mother and sister were always lecturing her about her love of what they termed inflamed colors.

The housekeeper showed them into a small room that was even more crowded than the hall. Bookcases took up all the available wall space. Each was filled to overflowing. Volumes were stacked waist high on the floor, forming meandering paths. Heavy trunks, lids open to reveal more books and papers, were stationed on either side of the hearth.

A portly man dressed in overly snug breeches and a faded maroon coat sat at a desk piled high with books. He was hunched over an aging volume. Candlelight illuminated his bald head and thick gray whiskers. He spoke without looking up from the page in front of him.

What is it, Mrs. Stiles? I told ye I was not to be bothered until I have finished translating this text."

"The lady has come for her manuscript, sir." Mrs. Stiles did not seem perturbed by her master's gruff manner. "Brought a friend with her, she has. Shall I make tea?"

"What's this? There's two of 'em?" Nash threw down his pen and surged to his feet. He turned toward the door and glowered at his visitors through a pair of silver-framed spectacles.

"Good evening, Mr. Nash," Phoebe said politely as she stepped forward.

Nash's scowling gaze was drawn briefly to Phoebe's left leg. He refrained from commenting on her limp, however. His already florid face turned a darker shade of red as he looked at Gabriel. "Here, now. I'm only sellin' the one manuscript tonight. How come there's two of ye?"

"Do not concern yourself, Mr. Nash," Phoebe said soothingly. "This gentleman is with me merely because I did not like the thought of coming out alone at this hour."

"Why not?" Nash glared ferociously at Gabriel. "No harm will come to ye in this neighborhood. Nothin' ever happens around this part of Sussex."

"Yes, well, I am not as familiar with the local situation as you are," Phoebe murmured. "I am from London, if you will recall."

"About the tea," Mrs. Stiles began firmly.

"Never mind the damn tea," Nash growled. "They won't be stayin' long enough for it. Take yer-self off, Mrs. Stiles. I've got business to attend to."

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Stiles disappeared.

Gabriel's gaze was speculative as he surveyed the room full of books. "My compliments on your extensive library, Nash."

"Thank you, sir." Nash's gaze followed Gabriel's. Pride gleamed briefly in his eyes. "Rather pleased with it, if I do say so."

"You would not, by any chance, be in possession of a particular copy of Malory's Morte d'Arthur, would you?"

"What copy?" Nash asked suspiciously.

"A 1634 edition. Rather poor condition. Bound in red Moroccan leather. There is an inscription on the flyleaf that begins 'To my son. »

Nash frowned. "No. Mine is an earlier edition. Excellent condition."

"I see." Gabriel looked at him. "Then we had best be getting on with our business."

"Certainly." Nash opened a desk drawer. "I expect ye'll be wantin' to see the thing afore you take it away, won't ye?"

"If you don't mind." Phoebe cast a swift glance at Gabriel.

He had picked up a fat book from a nearby table, but he put it down at once when he saw Nash lifting a wooden box out of the desk drawer.

Nash lifted the lid off the box and reverently removed the volume inside. The gold on the edges of the vellum sparkled in the candlelight. Gabriel's eyes gleamed a very brilliant shade of green.

Phoebe almost smiled in spite of her new fears. She knew exactly how he felt. A familiar rush of excitement shot through her as Nash placed the manuscript on the desk and carefully opened the thick leather covers to reveal the first page.

"Oh, my goodness," Phoebe whispered. All of her immediate concerns about the wisdom of asking Gabriel's assistance in her quest faded as she looked at the magnificent manuscript.

She moved closer to get a better view of the four miniatures placed together on the top half of the page. An intricate ivy-leaf border surrounded the ancient illustrations. Even from this distance the illuminations glowed like rare jewels.

"It's a beauty, right enough," Nash said with a collector's pride. "Got it from a bookseller in London a year ago. He bought it from some Frenchman who fled to England on account of the Revolution. Makes me bilious to think of all the fine book collections that must have been broken up or destroyed on the Continent during the past few years."

"Yes," Gabriel said quietly. "War is not good for books or anything else." He walked ovefrto the desk and stood gazing intently down at the illuminated manuscript. "Bloody hell. It is quite remarkably beautiful."

"Wonderful." Phoebe studied the glittering miniatures. "Absolutely fantastic." She glanced at Nash. "May I examine it more closely?"

Nash hesitated and then shrugged with obvious reluctance. "Ye paid fer it. It's yers. Do what ye like."

"Thank you." Phoebe was aware of Gabriel hovering over her shoulder as she reached into her skirt pocket for a clean lace handkerchief. The intense, controlled eagerness in him amused her because it was so similar to her own emotions in that moment.

She and Gabriel were as one in this particular passion, she reflected. Only another book collector could appreciate a moment such as this.

She used the handkerchief to turn the vellum pages. The Knight and the Sorcerer was a richly decorated manuscript. It had obviously been commissioned by a wealthy medieval French aristocrat who had appreciated the illuminator's art as well as the story the scribe had set down.

Phoebe paused to study some of the old French, noting the exquisite script. When she got to the final page, she concentrated intently for a moment to translate the colophon.

"Here ends the tale of The Knight and the Sorcerer"

Phoebe read aloud. "I, Philip of Blois, have told only the truth. This book has been created for my lady and belongs to her. If anyone takes this book from this place, he shall be cursed. He shall be set upon by thieves and murderers. He shall hang. He shall be condemned to the fires of hell."

"I'd say that covers everything," Gabriel said. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned book curse to make one think twice about engaging in a bit of book theft."

"One can hardly blame the scribes for trying everything possible to keep these gorgeous works of art from being stolen." Phoebe carefully closed the volume. She glanced up at Mr. Nash and smiled. "I am well satisfied with my purchase, sir."

"'Tis only a romance of the Round Table," Nash muttered. "A foolish story written down for some spoiled court lady. Not as important as the copy of the Historia Scholastica that I picked up at the same time, of course. Still, 'tis a pretty thing, ain't it?"

"It is quite outrageously beautiful." Phoebe carefully replaced the manuscript in its box. "I will take excellent care of it, Mr. Nash."

"Well, ye'd best take it and be gone." Nash tore his gaze away from the box containing the manuscript. "I've got work to do tonight."

"I understand." Phoebe picked up the heavy container.

"I'll take that for you." Gabriel deftly removed the manuscript box from Phoebe's hands. "Somewhat awkward for you to manage, don't you think?"

"I can manage it very well, thank you."

"Nevertheless, I'll be happy to carry it for you." Gabriel smiled enigmatically. "You have engaged my services as an escort tonight, if you will recall. It is my privilege to be of service to you. Shall we go?"

"Yes, yes, take yerselves off," Nash grumbled. He sat down at his desk and picked up his pen. "Mrs. Stiles will see you to the door."

Unable to think of any alternative, Phoebe was obliged to walk past Gabriel and out into the crowded hall. She did not like the taunting look in his eyes.

Surely he would not actually attempt to take the manuscript from her by force, she assured herself. She refused to believe for one minute that her gallant knight had turned into a genuine villain. He was teasing her, she thought.

Mrs. Stiles was waiting at the front door. She eyed the box in Gabriel's hand. "Well, that'll be one less book to dust.'Course, the master will probably go out and buy ten more to replace it. I'll be lucky to get my wages this quarter."

"The best of luck to you, Mrs. Stiles," Gabriel said. He took Phoebe's arm and guided her out into the night.

"Once I am mounted, I can handle the manuscript," Phoebe said quickly.

"You do not trust me to keep it safe for you?"

"It is not a matter of trust." She refused to allow him to make her any more anxious than she already was. "I know you are a gentleman, after all."

"So you keep telling me." He put the box down on a stone, grasped Phoebe around the waist, and swung her up onto the sidesaddle. His hands lingered around her as he looked up at her veiled face. "You seem to think you know a great deal about me."

"I do." She realized she was clutching his shoulders. Hastily she jerked her fingers away and picked up the reins.

"Just how much do you know, madam?" Gabriel released her to collect the stallion's reins. He vaulted lightly into the saddle and proceeded to secure the manuscript box beneath the heavy folds of his greatcoat.

The time had come to talk. Phoebe chose her words carefully as they started down the lane. She had lured the solitary knight out of his keep, but she had not yet accomplished her goal. She wanted him intrigued and curious enough to commit to the quest before she revealed herself.

"I am aware that you are only recently returned to England after an extended stay abroad," she said cautiously.

"An extended stay abroad," Gabriel repeated. "That is certainly one way of putting it. I was out of the country for eight bloody long years. What else do you know about me?"

She did not like the new tone in his voice. "Well, I have heard that you came into your title rather unexpectedly."

"Very unexpectedly. If my uncle and his sons had not all been lost at sea a year ago, I would never have inherited the earldom. Is there more, my Veiled Lady?"

"I know that you have a great interest in chivalry and legends."

"Obviously." Gabriel looked at her. His green eyes were colorless in the moonlight, but there was no mistaking the challenge in them. "Anything else?"

Phoebe took a grip on her nerves. She had to use more potent weapons, she decided. "I know what a great many members of the fashionable world would kill to discover. I know you are the anonymous author of The Quest."

The effect of that announcement was immediate. Gabriel's controlled anger was palpable. His eyes narrowed swiftly. "Damnation. You have indeed been busy. How did you learn that?"

"Oh, I have my sources," Phoebe tried to say lightly. She could hardly tell him the full truth. Not even her family knew her deepest, darkest secret.

Gabriel abruptly reined in his stallion. He shot out a hand and caught hold of Phoebe's wrist. "I asked you how you came by the knowledge. I will have an answer, madam."

A tremor went through Phoebe. His fingers were locked tightly around her wrist and his face was stark in the shadows. She knew he meant exactly what he said. He would have his answer.

"Is it such a great offense?" she asked breathlessly. "Everyone is wondering about the identity of the author of the most popular book of the Season."

"Did my publisher tell you who it was? Bloody hell, madam, did you bribe Lacey?"

"No, I swear I did not." She could hardly tell him that she was the mysterious backer who had rescued Josiah Lacey's faltering bookshop and publishing business last year. She had done so using money she had saved from the generous quarterly allowance provided by her father and the income she had made selling some of her precious books to other collectors. No one knew the truth, and Phoebe knew it had to stay that way. Her family would be horrified to learn that she was, for all intents and purposes, in trade.

The arrangement she had made with Lacey worked very well, for the most part. Phoebe selected the manuscripts to be published and Lacey handled the printing of them. Between the two of them and with the assistance of a young solicitor and a couple of clerks, Lacey's Bookshop was flourishing. Their first big success had been The Quest, which Phoebe had insisted on publishing the instant she had finished reading the manuscript.

"You must have crossed Lacey's palms with silver," Gabriel said. "But I did not think that old drunken sot such a fool. He knows better than to cross me in this matter. Surely he is not stupid enough to risk the future profits he intends to make on my next book."

Phoebe looked down at the leather-gloved fingers clamped around her wrist. Perhaps this really had all been a dreadful mistake, she thought frantically. Gabriel was not behaving in the least like a knight of ancient times. The hand that gripped hers felt as unyielding as a steel manacle. "It was not his fault. You must not blame Mr. Lacey."

"How did you discover I was the author of The Quest?"

Phoebe groped for a reasonable answer. "I had my solicitor look into the matter for me, if you must know." She tried unsuccessfully to free her hand. "He is extremely clever." That much was true, she reflected. Mr. Peak was an extremely intelligent, extremely accommodating young man anxious to make his way in the world. So anxious, in fact, that he was willing to do business with the youngest daughter of the Earl of Clarington without bothering to notify her father of that fact.

"Your solicitor." With a sharp oath, Gabriel released her. "I grow weary of this game you are playing, madam. I have told you I have no patience with deception and illusion. Who are you?"

Phoebe moistened her lower lip. "I cannot tell you, sir. Not yet. It is too soon. Furthermore, if my plan is not going to work at all, as I am beginning to conclude, then I would just as soon not risk my reputation any more than I already have. I am certain you will understand."

"What plan? I am to listen to your scheme and commit myself to it before I learn your true identity? What sort of an idiot do you think I am?"

"I do not think you are an idiot at all. Merely extremely difficult," Phoebe retorted. "I would rather you did not know my identity until you have agreed to help me. Once you have given me your oath that you will assist me, I shall feel free to confide in you. Surely you can appreciate my desire for secrecy."

"What the bloody hell is this all about?" Gabriel had clearly reached the end of his patience. "What is this silly scheme of yours?"

Phoebe gathered herself and took the plunge. "I am involved in a serious and important quest, sir."

"You're after another manuscript?" he asked derisively.

"No. Not a quest for a manuscript. A quest for justice. Your background gives me reason to believe you could be of great service to me."

"Justice? Good God, what is this foolishness? I thought I made it clear I am not interested in playing any more games."

"It is not a game," she explained desperately. "I am trying to find a murderer."

"A murderer." There was a stunned silence from Gabriel. "Hell and damnation. I am out here in the middle of the night with a madwoman."

"I am not a madwoman. Please, just listen to me. That is all I ask. I have spent two months trying to gain your attention. Now that you have finally emerged from your cave, surely you can at least hear me out."

"I don't live in a damn cave." He sounded offended.

"You might as well do so, as far as I am concerned. From what I have been able to discover, you stay holed up on your estate like some sort of troglodyte most of the time. You refuse to see anyone or have anything to do with Society."

"That is an overstatement," Gabriel muttered. "I see whom I wish. I happen to like my privacy and I have no love for the Social World. It defeats me why I should explain my habits to you, however."

"Please, sir, I need your help in securing justice for someone who was once very close to me."

"How close?"

Phoebe swallowed. "Well, to be perfectly precise, at one time he wished to marry me. My family was against the match on the grounds that he had no fortune."

"Not an uncommon situation," Gabriel observed grimly.

"I am aware of that. My friend went off to the South Seas to make his fortune so that he could return and ask for my hand. But he never came back. I eventually learned that he was murdered by a pirate."

"Christ. You want me to help you track down a damn pirate? I have news for you. It would be an impossible task. I have spent most of the past eight years in the South Seas and I can assure you that that part of the world has more than its share of murderers."

"You do not understand," Phoebe said. "I have reason to believe the killer has returned to England. At the very least, someone who may know the killer has returned."

"Good lord. How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Before he left to seek his fortune, I gave my friend one of my favorite manuscripts as a keepsake. I know he would never have sold it or given it away. It was all he had to remind him of me."

Gabriel stilled. "A manuscript?"

"A fine copy of The Lady in the Tower. Do you know it?"

"Bloody hell."

"You do know it." Phoebe was excited now.

"I am aware of the existence of a few copies," Gabriel admitted. "Was yours French, English, or Italian?"

"French. Beautifully illuminated. Even more lovely than The Knight and the Sorcerer. The thing is, my lord, I have heard a rumor that the book is back in England. Apparently it is now in someone's personal library."

Gabriel eyed her sharply. "Where did you hear that?"

"From a bookseller in Bond Street. He had it from one of his best customers, who had it from an odd little collector in Yorkshire."

"What makes you think it is your copy?"

"The bookseller told me that it is the French version of the tale and that the colophon at the end gives the scribe's name as William of Anjou. My copy was created by him. Sir, I must locate that manuscript."

"You believe that if you find the book, you will find the man who killed your lover?" Gabriel asked softly.

"Yes." Phoebe blushed furiously at hearing Neil described as her lover. But this was not the time to explain that Neil had not been her paramour, but her most virtuous and devoted Lancelot. His love had been pure and noble. He had kept himself always at a chivalrous distance, asking only to serve his lady in the manner of a true knight of old.

The fact that she had never felt more than a warm affection for Neil was one of the reasons she harbored guilt about his death. If she had truly loved him, she would have defied her family to marry him. But she had not loved Neil and Phoebe could not abide the thought of a marriage that was not based on true love.

"What was the name of this man who meant so much to you?"

"Neil Baxter."

Gabriel sat unmoving for several seconds. "Perhaps the present owner of the book merely happened to purchase it somewhere along the way," Gabriel suggested coldly. "Perhaps he knows nothing about your lover's fate."

Phoebe shook her head firmly. "No, I do not believe that to be the case. You see, Neil wrote to me occasionally after he left England. In one of his letters he mentioned a pirate who was harassing shipping in the islands. He said the man was not a normal sort of villain, but an English gentleman who had turned to piracy and had become the scourge of the South Seas."

"He would not have been the first to do so," Gabriel pointed out dryly.

"My lord, I believe that such a villain would have taken The Lady in the Tower as booty after killing Neil."

"And now that there is a rumor the book is back in England, you assume this gentleman pirate has also returned?"

"I think it is very likely. Possibly he has returned with enough stolen loot to set himself up in the Social World. He may even be a member of the ton. Just think, sir—who would know he had been a pirate? Everyone would assume he had simply made his fortune in the South Seas as others have and now has returned home."

"Your imagination is breathtaking, madam."

Phoebe gritted her teeth. "It seems to me, sir, that you are rather lacking in imagination. My notion is quite plausible. However, even if, as you suggest, the present owner of the book is not the pirate, he might very well know the identity of the pirate. I must find him."

The sound of something large crashing through the underbrush alongside the lane interrupted the rest of Phoebe's hurried explanations.

"What the devil?" Gabriel steadied his stallion as a horse and rider plunged out of the trees and onto the road.

"Stand and deliver," the newcomer roared from behind a mask. A black cloak swirled around him. Moonlight gleamed on the pistol in his fist.

"Bloody hell," Gabriel said wearily. "I knew I should have stayed in bed tonight."