by Amanda Quick
“Yes, I know,” Phoebe said patiently, “but Papa is not without feeling. He is quite fond of you and of his three offspring.”
“Well, of course he is. I should not have married him if he had not been capable of such tender sensibilities.”
Phoebe picked up her teacup. “Kilbourne, I fear, is not capable of such sensibilities, Mama. I doubt, for example, that he will approve of paying off his mother-in-law’s occasional debts of honor.”
Lydia was instantly alarmed. “You think he will balk at the notion of making me the odd loan?”
“I fear he would, yes.”
“Good heavens. I had not realized he was that much of a prig.”
“It is definitely something to consider, Mama.”
“Quite right.” Lydia pursed her lips. “On the other hand, your father does approve of him and there is no denying it is a fine match. It is no doubt the best we can hope for, now that you are nearly five and twenty.”
“I realize that, Mama. But I cannot get enthusiastic about marrying Kilbourne.”
“Well, your father certainly can.” Lydia brightened. “And there is every chance Kilbourne will mellow somewhat on the subject of loans after being married for a time. You can work on him, Phoebe. Convince him that you need a very sizable allowance to maintain appearances.”
“And then turn around and make you loans from my sizable allowance?” Phoebe sighed. “I doubt it would be that simple, Mama.”
“Nevertheless, we must not give up hope. You will learn to manage Kilbourne. You are a very managing sort, Phoebe.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose ruefully. “Thank you, Mama. Wylde implied much the same thing last night.”
“Well, there is no doubt but that you have always been somewhat strong-minded, and the tendency has definitely increased as you have grown older. Women do that, naturally, but generally they are safely wed before such tendencies start to show.”
“I fear it is too late for me, then,” Phoebe announced as she got to her feet. “My managing tendencies are already quite plain for all to see. Now, you must excuse me.”
“Where are you going?”
Phoebe moved toward the door. “Hammond’s Bookshop. Mr. Hammond sent around a message saying he had some very interesting new items in stock.”
Lydia gave a small exclamation. “You and your books. I do not comprehend your interest in those dirty old volumes you collect.”
“I suspect my passion for them is not unlike your passion for cards, Mama.”
“The thing about cards,” Lydia said, “is that one can always look forward to the next winning streak. With books it is all money out the window.”
Phoebe smiled. “That depends on one’s point of view, Mama.”
The message had not been from Mr. Hammond. It had been from Gabriel asking her to meet him at the bookseller’s. Phoebe had received the note earlier that morning and had sent word back immediately that she would be there promptly at eleven.
At five minutes to the hour she alighted from her carriage on Oxford Street. She left her maid sitting in the sunshine on the bench outside the shop and sailed eagerly through the doors.
Gabriel was already there. He did not see her come in because he was busy examining an aging, leather-bound volume that Mr. Hammond was reverently placing on the counter in front of him.
Phoebe hesitated for an instant, her attention caught by the way the sunlight filtering through the high windows gleamed on Gabriel’s ebony hair. He was dressed in a dark, close-fitting jacket that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his flat stomach. His breeches and beautifully polished Hessians revealed the sleek, muscular contours of his legs.
For some reason Phoebe had felt obliged to spend an inordinate amount of time choosing her own attire this morning. She had found herself dithering between two or three gowns in a totally uncharacteristic manner. Now she was very glad she had worn her new squash-yellow muslin with its fuchsia-colored pelisse. Her bonnet was a confection of squash and fuchsia pleats and flowers.
As if sensing her presence, Gabriel looked up and saw her. A slow smile edged his mouth as he took in the sight of her in her vivid gown. His eyes were very green in the morning light. Phoebe drew a deep breath and acknowledged to herself that this was why she had spent so long in front of her mirror this morning. She had been hoping to see exactly that look of approval in Gabriel’s eyes.
Even as the realization dawned on her, she tried to quell it. Gabriel had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt eight years ago that his taste in women ran to delicate blue-eyed blondes who favored soft pastels.
“Good morning, Lady Phoebe.” Gabriel walked across the room to greet her. “You’re looking very bright and cheerful today.”
“Thank you, Lord Wylde.” Phoebe glanced around quickly and decided no one could overhear their conversation. “I got your message.”
“So I see. I thought you would be quite anxious to recover The Knight and the Sorcerer.”
“You have it with you?”
“Of course.” Gabriel led her back toward the counter, where a manuscript-shaped bundle wrapped in brown paper was sitting next to the volume he had been examining. “Proof of my skills as a knight-errant.”
“Wylde, this is wonderful.” Phoebe picked up the bundle. “I cannot tell you how impressed I am. I know you’ll be of great assistance in my quest.”
“I shall do my best.” Gabriel indicated the open book on the counter and raised his voice slightly. “You might be interested in this, Lady Phoebe. A rather fine copy of an early sixteenth century history of Rome. Mr. Hammond says he acquired it recently from the estate of a collector in Northumberland.”
Phoebe realized instantly that Gabriel was attempting to provide a reasonable excuse for them to continue talking. No one in the bookshop would think it odd that they were studying an interesting old book. Obediently she bent her head to take a closer look.
“Very nice,” Phoebe declared in a strong voice as she caught sight of Mr. Hammond out of the corner of her eye. “Italian, I see. Not. Latin. Excellent illuminations.”
“I thought you might appreciate it.” Gabriel turned a page in the book and read silently for a moment.
Phoebe took another quick look around and leaned closer on the pretext of reading over his shoulder. “My family is a trifle unset about all this, Wylde.”
“I noticed.” Gabriel turned another page and frowned thoughtfully as he studied it.
“They know nothing of my quest, so they naturally assume you and I have formed a friendship of sorts.”
“Something more than a friendship, Lady Phoebe. They are afraid we are forming an attachment.” Gabriel skimmed another page of text.
Phoebe blushed and glanced quickly around the shop again. Mr. Hammond was busy with another patron now. “Yes, well, I can hardly explain the truth to them. They would never approve of my quest. But I want to assure you that you need not worry about their concerns.”
“I see. How, exactly, do you intend to assure them that we are merely acquaintances?”
“Don’t worry. I shall manage Papa and the others. I have had a great deal of experience with that sort of thing.”
“Headstrong,” Gabriel said under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
Gabriel pointed to a word on the page in front of him. “I believe this is Italian for headstrong.”
“Oh.” Phoebe studied the word. “No, I do not believe so. I am quite certain that word translates as mule.”
“Ah. Of course. My mistake. What was it you were saying?” Gabriel asked politely.
“You must not allow my family’s suspicious notions to interfere with your investigations.”
“I shall do my best to rise above their low-minded opinions, madam.”
Phoebe smiled in approval. “Excellent. Some people can be quite put off by my father’s somewhat dictatorial approach.”
“You don’t say?”
“He is really very nice, in hi
s way, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
Phoebe bit her lip. “I suppose your experience of him eight years ago cannot have left you with a pleasant impression.”
“No, it did not.”
“Well, as I said, you must pay him no heed. Now, then, let us get down to business. I have secured some important invitations for you. The first is for the Brantleys’ masquerade ball on Thursday.”
“I take it I am being ordered to attend?”
Phoebe scowled. “It is an important affair. I shall be able to introduce you to a great many people and you will be able to begin your inquiries.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Very well, my lady. Your wish is my command.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, then, have you anything to report on your investigations thus far?”
Gabriel drummed his fingers on the counter. “Let me think. Thus far I have managed to secure a house for the Season. Not an easy task, I might add. I’ve also acquired a small staff. I have paid a visit to Weston’s to order some new clothes, and I’ve been to Moby’s for boots. I think that about covers my accomplishments to date.”
Phoebe glowered at him. “I was not speaking of those sorts of accomplishments.”
“I must take care of such details before I can move about in Society, madam. Surely you realize that?”
Phoebe bit her lip. “You are quite right. I had not thought of such matters. Now that you have brought them to my attention, I must ask you a very personal question.”
Gabriel slanted her a sidelong glance. “How personal?”
“Please do not take offense.” Phoebe risked another quick look around before leaning very close. “Have you got enough money to cover your expenses?”
Gabriel paused in the act of turning another page. “That is indeed a very personal question.”
Phoebe felt her face flame with remorse. Gabriel was a very proud man. She had not meant to humiliate him. Nevertheless, she had to be firm about this.
“Please do not be embarrassed, my lord. I am well aware that I am asking you to move in some very exclusive circles at the height of the Season, and I am equally aware that to do so you will need money. As I am the one who requested your assistance on this quest, I feel it is only fair that I cover some of your expenses.”
“There is the income I received from the publication of The Quest” he reminded her.
Phoebe waved that aside. “I am well aware that the income a beginning writer receives from his work would not begin to finance a Season.”
Gabriel kept his gaze focused on the old volume in front of him. “I believe I can handle my own finances without your assistance, madam. At least for the length of time it takes to complete this quest.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Quite certain. I shall contrive to get by.” Gabriel leaned one elbow against the counter and turned to study Phoebe with a sharp, assessing gaze. “It is my turn to ask a personal question, madam. How desperately did you love Neil Baxter?”
Phoebe stared at him in amazement. Then her eyes slid away from Gabriel’s. “I told you that Neil and I were friends.”
“How close was the friendship?”
“I do not see that it matters now.”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?” she shot back. “What difference does it make? Neil is dead. The only thing that matters now is finding his murderer.”
“Murderers go unpunished every day of the week.”
“This one shall not.” Phoebe’s hand tightened into a small fist on the counter. “I must find him.”
“Why?” Gabriel asked softly. “Because you loved Baxter so much you cannot rest until justice has been done?”
“No,” she admitted sadly. “I must find him because it is my fault he was killed.”
Gabriel stared at her, clearly stunned. “Your fault? Why in God’s name do you say that? The man died in the South Seas, thousands of miles away from England.”
“Don’t you understand?” Phoebe gave him an anguished look. “If it were not for me, Neil would never have gone off to the South Seas. He went there to seek his fortune so that he could come back and ask for my hand. I am to blame for what happened.”
“Christ,” Gabriel muttered. “That’s an insane notion.”
“It is not insane,” Phoebe hissed, struggling to keep her voice low.
“It is an addlepated, idiotic, and totally irrational conclusion.”
Phoebe felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She searched Gabriel’s fierce face. “I thought you of all people would understand my quest.”
“It is foolishness.”
Phoebe took a breath, “Does that mean you will not help me, after all?”
“No, by God,” Gabriel said through his teeth. “I will help you find the owner of The Lady in the Tower. What you choose to believe about the man after you have located him will be your business.”
“The man is a murderous pirate. Surely you will want to help me bring him to justice.”
“Not particularly.” Gabriel closed the book he had been examining. “I told you that night in Sussex that I am no longer overly concerned with idealistic notions.”
“But you have agreed to my quest,” Phoebe pointed out.
“It intrigues me. I am occasionally amused by such puzzles. But do not assume that I intend to help you punish the man who killed your lover.”
Phoebe wanted to argue further, but at that moment a young lady dressed in the height of fashion and accompanied by a maid walked into the shop. She went straight to the counter and waited impatiently as Mr, Hammond hurried over to serve her.
“I wish to purchase a copy of The Quest” the young lady announced in imperious tones. “All of my friends have read it, so I suppose I must read it also.”
“I believe you will have to go to Lacey’s Bookshop for that,” Mr. Hammond murmured.
“What a nuisance.” The young lady turned to Phoebe and Gabriel as Mr. Hammond disappeared into his back room. She looked at Gabriel through her lashes. “Have you read it, sir?”
Gabriel cleared his throat. He looked oddly ill at ease. “Uh, yes. Yes, I have.”
“What did you think of it?” the young lady asked earnestly. “Is it really as clever as everyone says?”
“Well …” Gabriel looked helplessly at Phoebe.
Phoebe realized it was the first time she had ever seen Gabriel appear flustered. He was actually turning a dull red. She smiled at the young lady and coolly stepped into the breech.
“I am certain you will enjoy The Quest,” Phoebe said. “In my opinion it represents an entirely new species of novel. It is full of adventure and incidents of chivalry and it does not rely on the supernatural element for effect.”
“I see.” The young lady looked dubious.
“The tone is very affecting,” Phoebe continued swiftly. “The novel engages the most lofty of the sensibilities. Very inspiring treatment of the subject of love. You will be especially pleased with its hero. He is even more exciting than one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroes.”
The young lady brightened. “More exciting than one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s?”
“Yes, indeed. I assure you that you will not be disappointed.” Phoebe smiled and paused a second before adding the final touch. “Byron has read The Quest, you know. He recommended it to all his friends.”
The young lady’s eyes widened. “I shall go to Lacey’s Bookshop at once.”
Phoebe smiled with satisfaction. Another sale for Lacey’s Bookshop. If she had not been standing in a room full of people, she would have rubbed her hands together in glee.
She might not have inherited her family’s talent for mathematics and investments, but she could certainly pick successful novels out of a pile of manuscripts.
It was unfortunate that her family would not appreciate her peculiar version of the family talent.
Chapter 8
It represents an entirely new species of n
ovel … does not rely on the supernatural element for effect … very inspiring treatment of the subject of love.
Phoebe’s words were still ringing in Gabriel’s head that afternoon as he strode into Lacey’s Bookshop. They were very familiar words. They were, in fact, almost the exact words Lacey had used in his letter saying he wished to publish The Quest. Gabriel had read that letter several times, committing the approving phrases to memory.
Ever since leaving Phoebe at Hammond’s Bookshop that morning, a suspicion had been growing in his mind. At first it had seemed too outrageous to even contemplate, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it all made a strange sort of sense.
If his suspicion was correct, it would certainly explain how Phoebe had known so much about him right from the start. It would also mean there was no limit to Phoebe’s daring.
The man behind the counter inside the bookshop peered at him. “May I help you, sir?”
“Where’s Lacey?” Gabriel asked bluntly. He had met Lacey once before, shortly after the beginning of their association. On that occasion Gabriel had made it clear that he expected Lacey to respect his request for anonymity.
The clerk blinked and then coughed discreetly. “I’m afraid Mr. Lacey is busy, my lord.”
“You mean he’s drunk as a wheelbarrow?”
“Of course not, sir. He’s working.”
Gabriel heard a noise from the room directly behind the front counter. “Never mind, I’ll find him myself.”
He walked around the counter, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room where Lacey housed his printing press.
The smell of ink and oil was thick in the air. The massive iron press stood silent. Lacey, a stout, bald man with a florid face full of overgrown whiskers, was in the corner. He was examining a bundle of paper. He wore a leather apron over his ink-stained clothes. A bottle of gin was poking out of one of the apron pockets.
“Lacey, there is something I wish to discuss with you,” Gabriel said, closing the door.
“What’s that?” Lacey turned his head and glared at Gabriel with rheumy eyes. “Oh, it’s you, m’lord. Now, see here, if you’ve come to complain about not getting paid enough for your last book, you’re wasting your time. I told you my partner has put all that sort of thing into the hands of a solicitor. I don’t worry about the damned money anymore.”
