by Amanda Quick
“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. Flow 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.”
Chapter 3
Gabriel realized at once that the Veiled Lady did not immediately comprehend what was happening. Then she apparently caught the glint of light on the barrel of the pistol in the highwayman’s hand.
“What on earth are you about, sir?” the Veiled Lady demanded as if she were dealing with a clumsy servant.
Gabriel hid a quick grin. The lady had more than enough courage to suit a respectable knight-errant. He did not know many females who would have handled a highwayman with such withering scorn. But then, he did not know any females at all who bore the least resemblance to his irritating Veiled Lady.
“Your money or your lives.” The highwayman swung the pistol back and forth between Gabriel and his companion. “Be quick about it, now. It’d be just as simple to shoot ye dead and be done with the trouble.”
“I only have a few coins with me,” the Veiled Lady announced. “And I am not wearing any jewelry.”
“I’ll take whatever ye got.” The highwayman peered at Gabriel over the edge of his mask. “Expect yer carryin’ a pistol somewheres on ye. Take yer coat off and throw it on the ground.”
“As you wish,” Gabriel shrugged and began to unfasten the greatcoat.
The Veiled Lady was instantly alarmed. “No, you must not remove your coat, my lord. You will catch your death of cold.” She turned back to the highwayman. “Please, sir, I pray you. Do not make my friend remove the garment. He has a very weak chest. His doctor has told him he must never go about without a coat on.”
Gabriel gave the lady an amused look. “How kind of you to think of my health at this rather tense moment, madam.”
“His chest will be a great deal weaker if I put a bullet through it,” the highwayman snarled. “Hurry it up, now.”
“Wait. You must not take off the coat, my lord,” the lady said desperately.
But it was too late. Gabriel was already free of his greatcoat. The manuscript box was revealed beneath his arm.
“Here, now, what’s that?” The highwayman urged his mount closer to Gabriel’s stallion. “That looks interestin’.”
“It’s just an old box,” the lady said repressively. “Nothing of value. Is that not right, my lord?”
“It is definitely an old box,” Gabriel agreed.
“I’ll take it.” The highwayman held out a hand. “Give it to me.”
“Do not dare hand it over to him, Wylde,” the lady commanded. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” Gabriel handed the box over very carefully. He tossed a few coins on top.
Clearly outraged, the Veiled Lady whirled again to confront the highwayman. “Do not touch it. I demand that you give it back at once. That box belongs to me.”
“Well, now, I cannot rightly do that,” the highwayman said.
“Stop him, Wylde,” the Veiled Lady ordered. “I shall never forgive you if you let him get away with this.”
“I pity ye, havin’ to put up with that mouth of hers,” the highwayman said sympathetically to Gabriel.
“One gets used to it,” Gabriel said.
“If ye say so. Well, thank ye very much and good evenin’ to ye both. Pleasure doin’ business.”
The masked man swung his horse around, kicked hard, and sent the beast galloping off down the lane.
The Veiled Lady watched as the highwayman disappeared. Then she rounded on Gabriel. He braced himself for the onslaught. It was obvious she was not pleased with his performance as a knight-errant.
“I do not believe this, sir,” she said furiously. “How could you give up my manuscript without so much as a single attempt to def
end it?”
Gabriel slanted her a meaningful glance as he dismounted to retrieve his greatcoat. “Would you rather I had let him put a hole in my already weak chest?”
“Of course not. But surely you could have dealt with him. You are a gentleman. You must know about pistols and such. He was nothing but an uncouth highwayman.”
“Uncouth highwaymen are capable of pulling the trigger of a pistol just as easily as any gentleman who has trained at Manton’s.” Gabriel vaulted back into the saddle and collected the reins.
The Veiled Lady groaned in frustration. Gabriel thought he heard her swear under her breath.
“How could you let him just take it like that?” she asked. “I brought you along for protection. You were supposed to be my escort tonight.”
“It seems to me I did my job. You are quite safe.”
“But he took my manuscript.”
“Exactly. Your manuscript. Not mine.” Gabriel urged his horse forward down the lane. “I learned long ago not to risk my neck fighting for something that does not belong to me. There is no profit in it.”
“How dare you, sir? You are certainly not the man I believed you to be.”
“Who did you believe me to be?” Gabriel called back over his shoulder.
The lady urged her mare after his stallion. “I thought that the man who wrote The Quest would be at least as noble and as valiant as the hero in his book,” she yelled.
“Then you are a fool. Chivalry is for novels. I admit it sells well, but it is useless in the real world.”
“I am exceedingly disappointed in you, my lord,” she announced in ringing accents as her mare drew alongside his stallion. “Apparently everything I believed about you is nothing more than an illusion. You have ruined everything. Everything.”
He glanced at her. “What did you expect of me, my Veiled Lady?”
“I expected you to put up a fight. I expected you to protect that manuscript. I did not expect you to give it up so easily. How could you be so cowardly?”
“How badly do you want that manuscript back, madam?”
