Since the first time he had kissed her.
Perhaps even before that. Phoebe wondered sadly if she had fallen in love with him when she had read his first manuscript and realized the author was the man who had embodied her youthful ideal of knighthood.
She had instructed Lacey to write back immediately saying they would publish The Quest. She had dictated every sentence of that letter: … A new species of novel. A very inspiring treatment of the subject of love …
Shortly after that, she had started to dream of him. When she realized she needed a knight-errant to help her track down Neil's killer, Gabriel had been the obvious choice.
There was no doubt about it. Gabriel had filled her thoughts for weeks and she had begun to realize he would haunt her for the rest of her life.
What a tangle it all was. There was Mama downstairs chortling over the notion of marrying Phoebe off to Wylde. Meredith was terrified that Gabriel was plotting to ruin Phoebe in order to avenge himself against the entire family. Anthony and Papa would no doubt fear something equally dire. Either that or they would begin to press Gabriel for an offer.
Phoebe groaned and dropped her head into her hands. No one listened when she tried to explain that Wylde was merely a friend. And they would not comprehend or approve if she tried to tell them he was merely assisting her in a quest to find a murderer.
The more she was seen in Wylde's company, the more her family would conclude that Gabriel was either plotting revenge or intending to make an offer.
Disaster loomed. How long could this state of affairs continue? she wondered.
The knock on the door of her bedchamber interrupted Phoebe's chaotic thoughts. "Come in."
One of the maids stepped into the room and made a small curtsy. "I've got a message for ye, ma'am." She held out a folded note. "A boy brung it around to the kitchens a few minutes ago."
"A message?" Surprised, Phoebe got to her feet. "Let me see it."
She took the note and frowned intently over the contents.
Madam: Allow me to introduce myself. My name is A. Rilkins. I am a bookseller with a small shop in Willard Lane. An excellent copy of a very rare medieval manuscript has just come into my possession. The illustrations arc extremely fine and the talc concerns a knight of the Round Table. I am told you are interested in such books. I shall hold this volume until four o'clock this afternoon, after which time I shall be obliged to notify other interested parties.
Yours, A. Rilkins
"Good heavens," Phoebe breathed. "Another talc of the Round Table has come to light. How exciting." She glanced up at the maid. "I want you to have one of the footmen dispatch a note for me."
"Yes, ma'am."
Phoebe went over to her escritoire, picked up a pen, and quickly jotted a message to Gabriel. He would be as interested in Mr. Rilkins's find as she was and would no doubt want to rendezvous at the bookshop to examine it with her. They could determine its value together
Phoebe folded the note and handed it to the maid. "There. See that this is sent at once. Then send Betsy to me and have one of the footmen ask Morris to have the carriage brought around. I shall be going out this afternoon."
"Yes, ma'am." The maid curtsied again and hurried off down the hall.
Phoebe jumped to her feet and opened her wardrobe. She would be seeing Gabriel, so she wanted to look her best. She wondered if she should wear the golden yellow jaconet muslin or the new peacock-blue walking dress.
She decided on the muslin.
Phoebe and her maid set off within the hour for A. Rilkins Bookshop. Both were a bit startled when they realized the route was taking them toward the river.
Betsy looked out the window and frowned anxiously. "This isn't a very good part of town, ma'am."
"No, it isn't, is it?" Phoebe reached into her reticule and pulled out Rilkins note. "Willard Lane. I ha\e never heard of it, have you?"
"No, but the coachman seemed to know where it was."
"Ask him to make certain."
Betsy obediently lifted the trapdoor in the ceiling of the carriage and shouted up to the coachman. "Are ye sure this is the way to Willard Lane?"
"Aye. Willard Lane's down by the docks. Why? Has her ladyship changed her mind? I can turn the carriage around."
Betsy looked at Phoebe. "Well, ma'am? Would you like to go back?"
"No, of course not," Phoebe said. She had been in worse places than this in pursuit of a manuscript. A lonely lane in Sussex at midnight, for example. "I cannot miss out on an opportunity such as this merely because Mr. Rilkins cannot afford an establishment in a better part of town. We must press on."
Willard Lane proved to be a very narrow passage that was not much more than an alley. The stately Clarington town carriage would not fit into the entrance. The coachman brought the horses to a halt some distance away and the footman jumped down to escort Phoebe and her maid into A. Riikins's Bookshop.
Phoebe glanced up at the barely legible sign over the entrance of the shop as she went through the door. It was obvious Mr. Rilkins was not a terribly successful bookseller. His premises were extremely shabby. The shop windows were so dusty she could not even see into the dark interior.
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.
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.