It was the same technique the hero of The Quest had used. Gabriel had read the advice for solving the puzzle of a maze years ago in some ancient medieval manuscript. He had never expected to have to apply the information in real life.
He had secretly been both exceedingly relieved and quite surprised that the method had worked.
Phoebe, of course, had taken the outcome for granted. There, you see? I knew you could do it, Wylde. This sort of thing is stock-in-trade for a man of your sort.
Gabriel had been tempted to put her over his knee. Her blithe assumption that he was interchangeable with the hero of his novel was beginning to eat at him.
"Go back to bed, Shelton," he said to his sleepy-eyed butler when the town house door was opened. "I'm going to work for a while."
"Yes, my lord." Shelton obediently vanished through the door behind the staircase whence he had come.
Gabriel walked into the library, tossed his black domino onto a chair, and lit a lamp on the desk. He poured himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the small table near the hearth. The fiery liquid calmed his sense of frustration. His gaze fell on the folds of the black cloak he had worn earlier.
Hot memories of how Phoebe had looked in the moonlight as she burned in his arms exploded again in his head.
Matters were not working out quite as he had planned.
It was not that his scheme for revenge was going badly, he realized. It was that he was starting to have grave misgivings. What the devil was the matter with him? he wondered.
It had seemed so simple when he had left Devil's Mist. He would pursue and seduce Phoebe and in the process humiliate and outrage Clarington. In the end, when the reckless little wench had been well and truly bedded, Clarington would swallow his pride and beg Gabriel to marry her.
Gabriel had planned to look Clarington straight in the eye and decline the offer of his ruined daughter's hand in marriage. Only then would Clarington learn that Gabriel was no fortune hunter, and there was nothing he could do to force the marriage.
As for Phoebe, she would deserve what she got. She was an ungovernable hoyden, an impulsive, headstrong female who would learn the hard way that she had taken one too many chances, played one too many dangerous games.
Gabriel had consoled his uneasy conscience b> telling himself that Phoebe was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She was twenty-four years old and not averse to making arrangements to meet strangers at midnight on lonely country lanes.
He certainly did not intend to boast about his conquest once the deed was done. He had no intention of ruining the lady's reputation in Society. His only goal was to trample on the overweening pride of the Earl of Clarington.
A simple, straightforward sort of vengeance.
Gabriel stared at the black cloak and recalled the feel of Phoebe as she responded to his touch. So sweet, so passionate. Bringing her to her first climax had made him feel like the all-conquering knight she believed him to be. When he had heard Kilbourne's approach outside the maze, his first instinct had been to protect her.
Gabriel took another sip of the brandy and thought about the glow of admiration that had lit Phoebe's eyes when he had found his way back to the entrance of the maze. He shook his head over her unwavering confidence that he would help her find Neil Baxter's killer.
It was all beginning to seem bloody damn complicated.
Hell, maybe he should just marry the little baggage and be done with it.
That thought shook him to the core.
"Damnation." Surely he was not going to weaken at this juncture, there was no point. He could have it all: the lad and the vengeance.
He thought of Phoebe's laughing eyes and innocent recklessness.
Gabriel went to the window and cautiously allowed himself to consider the outrageous notion of making Phoebe his countess.
It would mean he would have to abandon his revenge against her family.
True, he could torment them for a while longer, but sooner or later they would learn that he was not the fortune hunter they believed him to be. They might not ever learn to like him, but they could not disapprove of him. He was, after all, everything they wanted in a husband for Phoebe.
It would mean he would have to find a way to handle a bold, adventurous wife who would no doubt lead him a merry dance for the rest of his days.
It would mean having Phoebe in his bed.
Gabriel realized he was smiling slightly at his own reflection in the window.
Bloody hell. He could do worse. She certainly lived up to the newly invented Wylde motto: dare. She had courage. She would make a good mother for his sons.
Furthermore, Phoebe was the only woman he had ever met who might actually enjoy living at Devil's Mist. Any other respectable female of the ton would probably refuse to step foot inside the ancient, drafty castle.
Yes, he could do worse.
The realization that he was on the point of abandoning his revenge staggered him. He would have to give the matter a great deal more thought before he made his decision.
Gabriel turned and walked over to his desk. He put down the brandy glass and reached toward the lamp. He hesitated as he glanced down at his desk.
Something was wrong. One of the drawers was partially open, as if someone had been in a hurry and forgotten to close it completely.
He had left the drawers closed. And locked.
Someone had gone through his desk.
The writer in him nearly succumbed to panic. He yanked open the drawer that contained A Reckless Venture and hurriedly checked page numbers. He lowered himself slowly into his chair and swore in profound relief when he realized there were no missing pages.
Then common sense took over. Gabriel stood up again and calmly checked the contents of his small library. On close inspection it was clear several books had been moved about on their shelves, but nothing appeared to be missing. He glanced around the room, noting the furnishings. He wondered why the intruder had not taken the silver candlesticks or the handsome basalt ware urn. Either could have brought the thief a nice price.
His library had been thoroughly searched, but nothing had been stolen. Gabriel knew he would have felt less uneasy if something of value had been taken. This situation raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. It also raised questions.
In the morning he would interview the entire staff. If he was satisfied that none of the servants was involved, he would instruct Shelton to institute precautions so that this sort of thing did not happen again.
Three days after the Brantley masquerade Phoebe and Meredith were sitting in the drawing room of the Clarington town house when Lydia burst triumphantly through the door.
"He's rich, he's rich. And Kilbourne's in dun territory. Can you believe it? Kilbourne, of all people.
Who would have dreamed it?" Lydia was crowing with excitement. "Wait until your papa hears this."
Phoebe stared at her mother in amazement. "What on earth are you talking about, Mama?"
"Kilbourne. And Wylde." Lydia ripped off her fashionable French bonnet and tossed it aside. She sat down on the yellow sofa with the air of Cleopatra sitting on her throne. "Someone pour me a cup of tea "
"Yes, Mama." Meredith reached for the green and white Worcester teapot.
"Better yet," Lydia said hastily, "see if there is am sherry in the decanter, Phoebe. I need something medicinal. This has all come as a monumental shock."
Meredith gave her mother a gently disapproving look as Phoebe rose and walked over to the sherry decanter. "Calm yourself, Mama. You are in a state."
"I should say so." Lydia snapped the sherry glass our of Phoebe's hand and took a swallow. "And with good reason. Wait until you hear the details."
Phoebe's brows rose as she sat down again. "Where did you hear them, Mama?"
"At Lady Birkenshaw's card party this afternoon. Nellie was so excited that she forgot to pay attention to her cards. Lost three hundred pounds to me before she even realized what had happened." Lydia paused to gloat briefly. "But after I heard the news, I was obliged to stop playing altogether. Simply could not concentrate."
"What news, Mama?" Meredith asked firmly. "What did you say about Kilbourne being in dun territory?"
"Under the hatches, done up, financially embarrassed. The man is virtually without funds." Lydia took a swallow of sherry. "Not that you'd know it, of course. He's managed to conceal it all Season, but I saw Birkenshaw stumbled on the truth this morning when his solicitor advised him not to go into partnership with Kilbourne."
"Ah-hah," Phoebe said. "So that's why Kilbourne has been pursuing me this Season. The man is looking for an heiress. I knew there was a reason he suddenly found me so eminently suitable to be his marchioness."
"Good lord." Meredith looked stunned. "Kilbourne was trying to latch on to Phoebe before anyone discovered the truth about his finances."
"Precisely." Lydia set down her glass. "Wait until your father hears about this. He will be outraged. Kilbourne was after Phoebe's fortune all along."
"And here I thought he would be such a sound, stable, mature influence on Phoebe," Meredith said regretfully. "What a pity."
Phoebe eyed her mother and sister. "There is no sense going into mourning over this. I have tried to make it clear all along that I was not interested in accepting an offer from Kilbourne."
"He is a marquess," Meredith reminded her.
"He is a prig," Phoebe said.
Lydia held up her hand. "Enough. It is over. We have had a close call and that is the end of it. The good news is that we can now consider an offer from Wylde."
Phoebe and Meredith stared at her.
"Mama, what are you saying?" Meredith demanded.
Lydia smiled with smug satisfaction. "My dears, Wylde is as rich as Croesus."
Meredith gasped. "What on earth?"
"It's true." Lydia gave Phoebe a conspirator's smile. "As rich as your father. Always thought the boy would make something of himself out there in the South Seas."
Phoebe swallowed. "I don't believe it."
"Oh, it's all true enough. Nellie was certain of it.
The solicitor who advised her husband not to get involved with Kilbourne suggested he consider investing in one of Wylde's ships instead."
"Ships?" Meredith was wide-eyed.
"Ships," Lydia repeated. "Plural. As in more than one ship. As in a great many ships that have extremely lucrative trading arrangements with America. Wylde has been extremely discreet about the state of his finances, but the extent of his fortune had to come out sooner or later. His business dealings are too extensive to be hidden for long."
"Good heavens," Meredith breathed. "Why has Wylde been so secretive? And why has he been taunting Papa by pretending he is interested in Phoebe?"
Lydia frowned. "I do not believe he is pretending an interest in Phoebe. I believe the man is quite serious. And as for taunting Clarington, I expect Wylde is merely getting some of his own back for what your papa did to him eight years ago."
Phoebe was horrified at the misunderstanding. "Mama, I must make it clear to you that Wylde and I are merely friends. There has been absolutely no talk of marriage. You must not delude yourself."
"There, you sec?" Meredith poured herself another cup of tea. "I knew it. Wylde's intentions, whatever they may be, are definitely not honorable."
Phoebe turned on her sister. "Meredith, you must not say such things. Wylde is a very honorable man."
"If that were the case, why is he hanging around you and not showing any signs of offering for you?" Meredith retorted.
"Because we are friends," Phoebe said, feeling desperate. She could hardly explain about the quest to find Neil's killer. "We have interests in common. I assure you, that is all there is to it."
Meredith shook her head sadly. "I am so sorry, Phoebe. But you must be realistic. There is only one reason why Wylde is continually in your company these days. He is plotting to ruin you in order to avenge himself on all of us."
Phoebe leaped to her feet. "You are wrong. I will not listen to any more of this nonsense. Wylde and I have no plans to marry. I am well aware that I am not his type. But we are friends and we intend to remain friends, and that is all there is to it."
Phoebe rushed out of the room and fled up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber. She closed the door and flung herself into the chair near the window.
So Gabriel was rich, after all. So what did that signify?
The fact that Gabriel was wealthy did not particularly surprise her. Gabriel was one of those amazingly competent men who gave one the impression they could do anything they set out to do. If he had set out to make his fortune in the South Seas, then it was not at all startling that he had succeeded.
His wealth or lack thereof had never been important to Phoebe. She had fallen in love with him for other reasons.
Love.
Yes, love. Phoebe closed her eyes and gripped the arm of her chair. She might as well admit it to herself. She had been in love with Gabriel since that night she had met him on that moonlit lane in Sussex.