Lindsey, Johanna

by Reckless (lit)

  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?”

  Phoebe smiled. “Yes, that is correct.” She glanced quickly around the tiny shop. It was virtually empty. There were no other customers about and there were only a handful of dusty volumes on the shelves. There was no sign of Gabriel. “No one else has arrived to look at it?”

  “No one else.” Rilkins cackled. “I am offering you the privilege of examining it before I notify any of my other regular patrons.”

  Phoebe realized Rilkins had probably calculated that he could get more out of her for the book than he could out of some of his regulars. “I appreciate your notifying me of your discovery, Mr. Rilkins. May I ask how you learned that I collect medieval volumes?”

  “Word spreads among those of us who deal in books, madam. Word spreads.”

  “I see. Well, then, shall we get on with it? I am eager to sec this manuscript.”

  “Right this way, madam, right this way. I’ve got it in my back room. Didn’t want to risk putting something that valuable out in the front of the shop. Not the best of neighborhoods, you sec.”

  “I understand.” Phoebe started forward eagerly. Betsy followed.

  Mr. Rilkins hesitated at the door behind the counter. “Your servants will have to wait out here, if you don’t mind. Not enough room for all of us back here.”

  Phoebe glanced at Betsy and the footman. “I’ll be right out,” she assured them.

  Betsy nodded. “We’ll wait for ye outside, ma’am.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Mr. Rilkins opened the door into what appeared to be a tiny, darkened office. Phoebe swept through it, glancing around for the manuscript.

  “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this, Mr. Rilkins.”

  “My pleasure.” Rilkins closed the door.

  Gloom descended instantly. There was so much dirt on the tiny window that it blocked what little light might have filtered in from the alley.

  “I’ll light a candle,” Mr. Rilkins said.

  Phoebe heard him fumbling about behind her. She heard another sound, too. The slide of a booted foot across the wooden floor sent a chill of fear through her.

  “Is there someone else in here?” she asked. She swung around quickly. Too quickly. Her left leg crumpled. Phoebe started to lose her balance. She grabbed at the edge of the desk.

  A man’s arm closed around her throat. A fat, filthy palm slapped across her mouth, cutting off her scream before it had even begun.

  Terrified, Phoebe started to struggle. She lashed out with her reticule and connected with a man’s shin. She heard an angry grunt from her captor. Encouraged, she kicked back. The toe of her half boot struck flesh again.

  “Damme. The little wench is a fighter,” the man hissed. “Get her feet, Ned. We ain’t got much time.”

  Phoebe kicked out again, but this time a second man emerged from thee gloom. He caught her ankles in two powerful fists. Phoebe was hoisted up off the floor between her two captors.

  “Hurry, now. Hurry along there. He’ll be waitin’ for his lady, he will.” Mr. Rilkins hastened across the small office and opened another door. This one fronted on a dark alley. He peered out and then nodded to the two men holding Phoebe. “No one about. We’ll meet this evening to settle up as planned.”

  “We’ll be there, Rilkins,” one of the villains growled. “Just make sure ye bring the blunt.”

  “I’ll have it. His lordship is going to pay us very well for this day’s work.”

  Phoebe groaned furiously and fought to free herself. It was useless.

  Rilkins threw a dirty blanket over her and she was carted out into the foul-smelling alley as if she were a load of trash being removed from the bookshop.

  Gabriel was relaxing in his club when Clarington approached with a thunderous scowl. Anthony was with him.

  “Now, see here, Wylde, this game of yours has gone far enough,” Clarington barked. He sat down abruptly. “What the devil is this about you being rich as Croesus?”

  Gabriel looked up with a quizzical smile. “I’m surprised at you, Clarington. Talking about money is so very vulgar, don’t you think?”

  Anthony glowered. “Damnation, man, what’s going on? Is it true you brought back a fortune from the South Seas?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “I won’t starve.”

  “Then what the bloody hell are you about?” Clarington demanded. “You won’t be bought off and you haven’t offered for Phoebe. Now we find out that you don’t need her fortune, so apparently you ain’t planning to run off with her. So what are you about?”

  Anthony’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve thought of another form of revenge, haven’t you? It isn’t money you want. You plan to seduce my sister. That’s how you’re going to avenge yourself on all of us. Damn it, man, have you no shame?”

  “Very little,” Gabriel admitted. “Strong morals are a luxury. One becomes extremely practical in a hurry when one finds oneself in the situation I was in eight years ago.”

  “You actually blame us for protecting her from an upstart fortune hunter such as you were then?” Anthony looked incredulous. “How the hell would you have felt if Meredith had been your sister?”

  Clarington’s bushy white brows snapped together. His face reddened. “Yes, by God, how would you have felt at the time if Meredith had been your daughter? You’ll probably have a girl of your own someday. I’d like to see how far you’d go to protect her from fortune hunters.”

  A discreet cough interrupted Gabriel before he could respond.

  “Ahem,” the club’s hall porter said. “I beg pardon, your lordships. I have a message for Lord Wylde. I am told it is important.”

  Gabriel glanced around and saw the note on the salver the porter was extending. He picked it up. “Who brought this, Bailey?”

  “A young lad. He said he had been dispatched from your butler.”

  Gabriel opened the note and scanned the contents.

  Sir: By the time you read this I shall be en route to A. Rilkins’ Bookshop in Willard Lane to examine a manuscript that would appear to interest both of us. If you would care to view it, you may meet me there. But I warn you, when it comes to purchasing it, I have first crack at it.

  Your friend, I.

  “Good God.” Gabriel got to his feet. “Has anyone ever heard of Willard Lane?”

  “Down by the docks, I believe,” Anthony said, still scowling.

  “I was afraid of that,” Gabriel said. He knew every important bookseller in London and he had never heard of A. Rilkins. Trust Phoebe to go tearing off to a disreputable part of town in pursuit of a manuscript.

  “Sit down, Wylde. We’re talking to you,” Clarington ordered.

  “I fear we shall have to continue this fascinating conversation some other time,” Gabriel said. “I must attend to a small, rather annoying problem that has come up.”

  He strode swiftly past Clarington and Anthony without a backward glance. It was time he reined in the headstrong young female he intended to marry.

  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.”