Quick, Amanda

by Reckless (lit)

  "Why?" Phoebe asked, unable to stop herself.

  Meredith gave her a look of mild surprise. "I am not precisely certain, to be perfectly truthful. All I know is that he frightened me. He displayed no proper notion of gentlemanly behavior. He quite terrified me during that dreadful trip north, if you must know. Within the first few miles I had taken a complete disgust of him. I was in tears."

  "I see." Phoebe recalled the one brief moment she had spent in Gabriel's arms. Angry though she had been at the time, she had certainly not been in the least disgusted by the threat of his embrace.

  In fact, all things considered, Gabriel's kiss had to rank as the most thrilling moment of her entire life. Phoebe had lain awake until dawn thinking about that searingly sensual embrace. The memories still haunted her.

  "Do you think that, now he is back in England and has a title, he will ever venture into Society?" Phoebe asked softly.

  "I pray he does not." Meredith shuddered. "For the past eight years I have feared his return. The very thought of it is enough to give me the vapors."

  "Why? You are safely wed to Trowbridge now."

  Meredith gave her a direct look. "Trowbridge knows nothing of what almost happened eight years ago, and it must stay that way."

  "I realize that," Phoebe said impatiently. "No one outside the family knows anything about it. Papa hushed up the matter very nicely. So why are you frightened at the thought of Wylde's return?"

  "Because I would not put it past Wylde to humiliate us all by somehow resurrecting the events of that night," Meredith whispered. "Now that he has the title, he would soon command the attention of the gossips of the ton, were he to enter Society."

  "I take your point," Phoebe murmured. Meredith was right. As an earl, even an earl without a fortune, Gabriel would not go unnoticed in Society. If he chose to spread tales about the wife of the Marquess of Trowbridge, there would be plenty of people who would listen.

  "I could not bear to have Trowbridge embarrassed by my actions eight years ago," Meredith said tightly. "At the very least I am certain he would be deeply hurt to know that I had tried to run off to avoid marriage to him. Papa would be enraged to have the scandal made public. Anthony might take it into his head to risk his neck in another duel."

  "I do not believe it would be all that bad," Phoebe said. "Surely Wylde would not tell tales. He is a gentleman, after all." She bit her lip, reminding herself silently that she could no longer be certain of that. The stark truth was that Gabriel had changed during the past eight years. Her illusions of him had received a severe blow the other night in Sussex.

  "Wylde is no gentleman. Still, we must look on the bright side." Meredith picked up her embroidery. "I seriously doubt he will attempt to enter Society. He never had much taste for it, and he certainly does not have the money for it."

  "His financial situation might have changed by now." Phoebe frowned thoughtfully. She knew very well that the income he was receiving off the sale of The Quest would not be enough to enable him to go about much in Society. But there was all that time he had spent in the South Seas. And Gabriel had an undeniable air of competence.

  '"Everyone knows there was no fortune to go with the title he inherited," Meredith said crisply. "No, I think we are reasonably safe."

  Phoebe thought of the expression on Gabriel's face as he had reluctantly freed her from his kiss. Safe was not a word that came to mind.

  Deep inside she was afraid that he might make good on his vow to find her, return the manuscript, and accept the quest. And equally afraid that he might not.

  Meredith eyed her sharply. "You are in an odd mood today, Phoebe. Is it because you arc thinking about how to deal with Kilbourne's offer?"

  "I have already decided how to deal with it. Assuming he makes one."

  Meredith sighed. "Surely after all this time you are not still hoping that Neil Baxter will miraculously return to England with a fortune and sweep you off your feet."

  "I am well aware that Neil has been dead for over a year."

  "Yes, I know, but you have not been able to accept that, have you?"

  "Of course I have. But I fear his death will be on my conscience for the rest of my life," Phoebe admitted.

  Meredith's eyes widened in alarm. "You must not say that. You had nothing to do with his death."

  "We both know that if it had not been for me, Neil would never have gone off to the South Seas to seek his fortune. And if he had not gone to the islands, he would not have been killed."

  "Dear heaven," Meredith whispered. "I had hoped you had put aside your foolish sense of responsibility. Neil chose his own destiny. You must not continue to blame yourself."

  Phoebe smiled sadly. "It is easier said than done, Meredith. I think the fact that I considered him a friend, not a potential husband, is what makes it all so very difficult. He never accepted that all I wanted was friendship from him."

  "I remember how he called himself your own true Lancelot and how he claimed he had dedicated himself to your service." There was strong disapproval in Meredith's voice. "He was rather attractive. I'll give you that much. But other than his looks, I do not know what you saw in him."

  "He danced with me."

  Meredith gazed at her in amazement. "Danced with you? What on earth do you mean by that?"

  Phoebe smiled ruefully. "We both know that very few men ever ask me to dance. They fear I will make an awkward partner because of my bad leg."

  "They do not wish to see you embarrassed on the dance floor," Meredith said firmly. "They refrain from asking you to partner them out of gentlemanly consideration."

  "Rubbish. They don't want to humiliate themselves by being seen with a clumsy partner." Phoebe smiled reminiscently. "But Neil did not give a fig for his own appearance on the floor. He waltzed with me, Meredith. He actually waltzed with me. And he did not mind that I was a bit clumsy. As far as I was concerned, he really was my own true Lancelot."

  The only way she would find any peace of mind, Phoebe knew, was if she found Neil's murderer. She owed him that much. Then, perhaps, she would be able to put the past to rest.

  "Phoebe, regardless of how you feel about Kil-bourne, I beg you to wear something a bit more subdued in color than you usually do tonight. There is no sense putting him off entirely with one of your more inappropriate gowns."

  "I was planning on wearing my new chartreuse and orange silk," Phoebe said thoughtfully.

  "I was afraid of that," Meredith said.

  "Have you read The Quest, by any chance, my lord?" Phoebe looked up at Kilbourne as he led her sedately back to the ballroom from the cold buffet. Out of sheer boredom she had just consumed three lobster patties and some ice cream.

  "Good lord, no." Kilbourne smiled his most condescending smile. He was looking very distinguished, as usual, in his immaculately tailored evening clothes. "Such tales are not to my taste, Lady Phoebe. Don't you think you're getting a little old for that sort of thing?"

  "Yes, and getting older by the minute."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Phoebe smiled quickly. "Nothing. Everyone has read the book, you know. Even Byron and the Regent." Primarily because she had made a point of having Lacey send them copies, Phoebe thought smugly. She had known she was taking a chance in doing so, but she had been fortunate. Both Byron and the Regent had read The Quest and told their friends that they had enjoyed it. When word got out, the book had been catapulted to the heights of success.

  Kilbourne had to be one of the few people in London who had not read Gabriel's book.

  Whenever she envisioned marriage with the stuffy Kilbourne, she foresaw a lifetime of irritating conversations such as the one she was having now. Marriage between herself and Kilbourne would never work. She could only hope he would not offer for her and thus oblige her to refuse him. What a tempest in a teapot that would create. Her whole family would be aghast.

  "I must say I am surprised at the popularity of that ridiculous novel." Kilbourne surveyed the crowded ba
llroom. "One would have thought Society had more edifying things to do with its time than read such nonsense."

  "Surely one cannot complain about the highminded tone of The Quest. It is a tale of adventure that draws its inspiration from notions of medieval chivalry. It deals with honor and nobility and courage. And I must tell you that the subject of love is handled in a very inspiring fashion."

  "I imagine our ancestors were every bit as practical as we are when it came to the subject of love," Kilbourne said. "Money, family, and property are the important factors in matrimonial alliances. Always have been. And as for honor and nobility, well, I suspect that such notions were considerably less refined in medieval times than in our own."

  "You may be correct. But it seems to me that the important thing is the idea of chivalry. Perhaps it never really did exist in a perfect state, but that does not mean the notion should not be encouraged."

  "It is all a lot of foolishness suitable only for the minds of young women and children. Now, then, Lady Phoebe, perhaps we could change the subject. I wonder if I might have a word with you out in the garden." Kilbourne's fingers tightened under her arm. "There is something I have been meaning to discuss with you."

  Phoebe stifled a groan. The last thing she wanted was an intimate discussion out in the garden with Kilbourne. "Some other time, if you don't mind, my lord. I believe I see my brother. There is something I must say to him. Please excuse me."

  Kilbourne's jaw tightened. "Very well. I will escort you over to your brother."

  "Thank you."

  As Clarington's only male heir, Anthony held the title of the Viscount Oaksley and was in line for the earldom. He was thirty-two and cut a strong, athletic figure. In addition to his gift for mathematics and business, he had inherited his father's fair hair and strong-boned features.

  Anthony had also inherited the cool aristocratic self-confidence that came from knowing he had several generations of wealth, breeding, and power behind him.

  Phoebe was quite fond of her brother, but there was no denying that Anthony could be almost as autocratic and overbearing as Clarington himself. She tolerated both of them with good humor, for the most part, but there were occasions when their overly protective attitudes toward her were more than she could bear.

  "There you are, Phoebe. I was wondering where you had got to. Evening, Kilbourne." Anthony nodded pleasantly at the older man.

  "Oaksley." Kilbourne inclined his head politely. "Your sister says she has a message for you."

  "What's that, Phoebe?" Anthony reached for a glass of champagne as a livened servant walked past with a tray.

  Phoebe thought quickly, searching for some remark that sounded reasonable. "I wanted to know if you are planning to attend the Brantleys' masquerade on Thursday. Mama and Papa are not going, and neither is Meredith."

  "And you need an escort?" Anthony chuckled indulgently. "I know how much you love masquerade balls. Very well. I shall stop by for you at nine o'clock. Won't be able to stay, however. Got other plans for the evening. But don't worry, I shall make arrangements with the Mortonstones for you to be taken home in their carriage. Will you be there, Kilbourne?"

  "I had not planned on it," Kilbourne admitted. "I do not care for fancy dress balls. All that dashing about in a mask and cloak is very irritating, if you ask me."

  Nobody had asked him, Phoebe thought resentfully.

  "But if Lady Phoebe is planning to attend," Kilbourne continued magnanimously, "I shall, of course, make an exception."

  "There is no need to disturb yourself on my account, my lord," Phoebe said hastily.

  "It will be a pleasure." Kilbourne inclined his head. "After all, we gentlemen must humor the whims of our ladies. Isn't that right, Oaksley?"

  "Depends on the whim," Anthony said. He started to smile at Phoebe, and then his glance fell on the staircase that descended into the ballroom from the balcony. His smile vanished in an instant. "Well, I'll be damned." His blue eyes turned icy cold. "So the rumor is true. Wylde is in town."

  Phoebe froze. Her eyes flew to the red-carpeted stairs. Gabriel was here.

  She could hardly breathe. Surely he would not recognize her. He could not possibly have had a clear view of her face in the moonlight the other night in Sussex. He'd had no way of discovering her name.

  Still, he was here. Right here at the very same ball where she was. It had to be a coincidence. At the same time she knew in her heart it could not be a coincidence.

  She watched in stunned fascination as he came down the steps into the crowd. There was such dangerous arrogance in him. Phoebe's stomach was churning with excitement. Perhaps she should not have eaten so many lobster patties, she thought.

  Gabriel was dressed all in black with only a brilliant white cravat and a pleated white shirt for contrast. The stark color suited him. It emphasized his fierce, aquiline features and the predatory grace of his movements. His ebony hair gleamed beneath the chandeliers.

  At that moment Gabriel looked out across the room full of elegantly dressed people and captured her gaze.

  He knew who she was.

  Excitement soared through Phoebe. The only reason Gabriel could possibly be here tonight was that he had decided to accept her quest.

  She had found herself a knight-errant.

  There were a few potential problems, to be sure. Judging from her recent experience with him, she was forced to conclude that Gabriel's armor badly needed polishing, to say nothing of his manners and his attitude.

  But in her relief at seeing him, Phoebe was not about to be cast down by such trivial details. Knights-errant were extremely scarce on the ground these days. She would work with what was available.

  Chapter 6

  Look at him," Anthony growled. "One would think the man had inherited the title at birth rather than come into it through a flukish accident."

  "He certainly seems at home with his new status," Kilbourne agreed. He was clearly no more than mildly interested in the newcomer. "What do you know of him?"

  "Not much," Anthony said shortly. He shot a warning glance at Phoebe. "Surprised to see him here, that's all. Didn't think he had the blunt to move in Society."

  "The man's recently come into a respectable title," Kilbourne observed with a shrug. "That makes him valuable to certain hostesses."

  Anthony's eyes narrowed. "There's only one reason why he would be prowling through ballrooms this Season. He's hunting a fortune."

  In spite of her fluttering stomach, Phoebe glared at Anthony. "You cannot be certain of that. As I understand it, no one knows very much about Wylde."

  Anthony's mouth hardened. It was obvious he wanted to argue further but could hardly do so in front of Kilbourne. The events of eight years ago were a dark family secret.

  "Lady Phoebe has got a point," Kilbourne said. "No one knows much about Wylde. Understand he's been out of the country for years."

  "So one hears," Anthony muttered. "Damnation. I believe he's coming this way."

  Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut for an instant and fanned herself rapidly with her Chinese fan. For the first time in her entire life, she felt light-headed. He had found her. Like a bold and valiant knight straight out of a medieval legend, he had come in search of her and he had found her.

  She was going to have to reassess his skills as a knight-errant, Phoebe told herself happily. Perhaps he was better at this sort of thing than she had concluded after the events in Sussex. He had, after all, been able to locate her here in London with the aid of very few clues.

  "If you will excuse me, I believe I shall go have a chat with Carstairs," Kilbourne said. He bowed over Phoebe's gloved hand. "I shall look forward to seeing you Thursday night, my dear. What sort of costume will you be wearing?"

  "Something medieval, no doubt," Anthony said dryly.

  Kilbourne grimaced as he released Phoebe's hand. "No doubt." He swung around on his heel and marched off into the crowd.

  "Damn that man. He always did have the devil's own gall," Anth
ony said half under his breath.

  "I would not call it gall, precisely," Phoebe mused as she watched Kilbourne disappear. "But he does tend to be rather pompous, does he not? One shudders to think what it would be like sitting across from him at the breakfast table every morning of one's life."

  "Don't be an idiot. Kilbourne is a perfectly decent sort. I was referring to Wylde."

  "Oh."

  "Hell, he really is going to approach us. Talk about raw nerve. I shall deal with him, Phoebe. Go and find Meredith. If she is aware of his presence, she will be extremely anxious."

  "I do not see what all the fuss is about," Phoebe said. "And in any event it is much too late to send me packing. He is practically upon us."

  "I do not intend to introduce you to him," Anthony said grimly.

  Gabriel came to a halt in front of Phoebe and her brother. Ignoring Anthony, he looked down at his prey with clear challenge in his brilliant green eyes. "Good evening, Lady Phoebe. It is certainly a pleasure to see you again."

  So much for waiting for an introduction from his old enemy, Phoebe thought. She had to give Gabriel credit. He knew how to take the bold approach.

  "Good evening, my lord," she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the storm gathering on her brother's face. She smiled brightly. "Anthony, I believe I forgot to mention that his lordship and I have already been introduced."

  "I'd like to know when and where." Anthony gazed coldly at Gabriel.

  "It was at the Amesburys' country house, was it not, my lord?" Phoebe looked straight up into Gabriel's glittering gaze. "You remember I spent the week in the country, Anthony."

  "So you did," Anthony rasped. "And you're quite right. You definitely did forget to mention that you had met Wylde while there."

  "It was a very large crowd," Phoebe murmured.

  She realized Gabriel's expression was one of savage amusement. He was enjoying himself. She had to get him away from Anthony before there was bloodshed. "I expect you would like to ask me to dance, would you not, my lord?"