Reckless Page 9

  "The devil I will," Anthony growled.

  "Dear heaven, this is a disaster," Meredith whispered.

  Gabriel smiled. "Do not concern yourself, Lady Phoebe." He tugged his gloves on. "You need not protect me from your family. I assure you that this time I can take care of myself."

  With a polite inclination of his head that was directed solely at her, he turned and walked into the shadows.

  Chapter 7

  Gabriel smiled with a curious sense of satisfaction as he opened the newspaper. At last he had the answer to what had become a pressing question during the past few days. Phoebe's eyes were the warm, golden color of fine topaz.

  She reminded him of the brilliant fish in the lagoons of the South Seas. Phoebe was a creature of bright colors and shimmering hues. Last night the chandeliers had gleamed on her dark hair, causing the red fire buried there to blaze. Her vivid gown had reminded him of an island sunrise. And when he had taken her into his arms on the dance floor, he had been keenly aware of the sensual excitement that burned within him.

  He wanted her more than ever. The fact that she was Clarington's daughter could not alter that. But it did not affect the situation, either, he assured himself. He could have both the woman and the revenge.

  Gabriel made an effort to concentrate on his newspaper. His club was quiet this morning. The majority of such establishments were usually quiet at this hour. Most of the members were still sleeping off the effects of a late night and a prodigious quantity of alcohol. It had been eight years since he had last been here, but little had changed. That very lack of change was the sign of a good club.

  His gaze skimmed across the advertisements for theater productions, horses, and houses for rent. He paused briefly to read through the list of guests who had attended a soiree the preceding evening and mentally made a note of the names.

  He needed to learn his way through the intricate and sometimes dangerous maze of the Social World as quickly as possible. It was not unlike the business of learning his way in the treacherous waters of the South Seas. Pirates, sharks, and hidden reefs were plentiful in both locales.

  Phoebe was right about one thing: Her status in Society would instantly open important doors. To carry out his goal of revenge, he would need to move in the same levels of the ton in which Lord Clarington and his family moved.

  Once he was inside those exclusive doors, Gabriel reflected, his title and fortune would secure him a virtually invulnerable position from which to carry out his assault on Clarington's clan.

  "Wylde. So my son was correct. You're back."

  Gabriel lowered his newspaper slowly, fighting back a wave of fierce satisfaction. Clarington was here. The battle had begun.

  He looked up with polite resignation, as if it were the most boring task in the world. He found himself gazing at his old enemy. "Good day, my lord. Kind of you to drop by to welcome me back to Town."

  "I see you are just as insolent as ever." Clarington sat down across from Gabriel.

  "I would not wish to disappoint you."

  Gabriel examined his old nemesis curiously. Like the club, the Earl of Clarington had changed little in the past eight years. Although he was at least sixty and had put on some weight around his midsection, he was still endowed with the air of pompous arrogance Gabriel recalled so well.

  Clarington had been born and bred to the title. He had imbibed five generations of history and social status while still in his cradle and he was determined to make certain his entire family carried on in his footsteps. Gabriel knew that Clarington's guiding goal in life was to see to it that nothing disgraced the title.

  Clarington was an imposing man physically. He was tall, almost as tall as Gabriel. His beak of a nose dominated a face that reflected unwavering determination and pride. His piercing blue eyes were filled with the keen intelligence that characterized the whole family. They were also filled with bottomless disapproval as he glared at Gabriel.

  "I say, don't suppose you've done anything much to improve yourself while you've been out of the country," Clarington said.

  "Now, why would I want to improve myself? So much easier to run off with an heiress."

  "So that's your game." Clarington appeared grimly satisfied at having his worst fears confirmed. "Anthony said as much. He saw you virtually drag my youngest daughter into the garden last night."

  "I did not precisely drag her out into the garden." Gabriel smiled briefly. "She went along quite willingly, as I recall."

  "You, sir, took advantage of her somewhat impulsive nature."

  "Somewhat impulsive? I'm not sure I'd characterize Phoebe as being merely somewhat impulsive. I'd say she has a definite talent for sheer recklessness."

  Clarington's gaze turned glacial and his whiskers twitched. "Now, see here, Wylde. Don't think I'll stand by and let you run off with my Phoebe. You won't get away with it any more than you did when you tried to carry off my eldest daughter."

  "Perhaps I don't wish to run off with you Phoebe. After all, if I marry her, I'll be stuck with her for life, will I not? No offense, sir, but my impression of your youngest daughter thus far is that she would not make the most biddable and obedient of wives."

  Clarington sputtered furiously. "How dare you make such a personal remark!"

  "In fact," Gabriel continued thoughtfully, "I believe it would be safe to say that Lady Phoebe would be a definite handful for any man. No, I am not at all certain I wish to take on the task of marrying her. But who knows how I shall feel about the matter after 1 have had an opportunity to consider it more closely?"

  "Damn you, Wylde. What are you up to?"

  "I'm sure you will understand when I tell you I do not intend to discuss my plans for the future with you."

  "You've got some foul scheme afoot, by God." Clarington's bushy white brows bounced up and down with the force of his anger. "I warn you, you'll not get your hands on my Phoebe or her inheritance."

  "Why are you so hostile, Clarington? You must admit I'm a much better catch this time."

  "Bah. Rubbish. You may have a title, but you haven't got a penny to go with it, have you? I know for a fact that there was no fortune or property left with the Wylde title. I checked into the matter."

  "Very far-sighted of you, Clarington. But then, you always were a prudent man. You must have guessed you'd see me again one of these days."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel saw the earl's son walk through the doors of the club at that moment. Anthony surveyed the uncrowded room, spotted his father and Gabriel, and hurried forward. He appeared as angry as he had been the preceding evenin?;

  "I see you found him, sir." Anthony sank down into the chair beside his father. "Have you had a chance to ask him what he thinks he's up to hanging around Phoebe?"

  "I know damn well what he's up to." Clarington's eyes snapped with rage. "Thinks he can run off with her just as he tried to do with Meredith. Thinks he'll get his hands on her inheritance that way."

  Anthony glowered at Gabriel. "Give it up, Wylde. Go hunt some other innocent. There's always an heiress or two running about in Society whose father will trade her money for a title."

  "I shall bear that in mind," Gabriel said politely. He picked up his newspaper and started to read.

  "Damnation, man, is it just the money you want this time?" Clarington thundered softly. "Do you expect me to buy you off? Is that it?"

  "Now, there's an interesting thought." Gabriel did not look up from the paper.

  "If that's the case, then you are even more despicable than I had thought," Clarington rasped. "Last time at least you were too proud to accept money to stay away from one of my daughters."

  "A man learns to be practical in the South Seas."

  "Hah. Practical, indeed. You have truly sunk to the depths, Wylde. You are a disgrace to your title. Well, you won't be the first upstart I've paid to stay clear of Phoebe. She does seem to attract bounders of the worst sort. How much do you want?"

  Gabriel looked up, immediat
ely intrigued. "Who else were you obliged to buy off, Clarington?"

  Anthony frowned. "I think that's enough on that subject. It's a family matter and does not concern you."

  Clarington squared his shoulders. "My son is right. I don't intend to discuss such matters with you, sir."

  "Was it Neil Baxter, by any chance?" Gabriel asked softly.

  Clarington's expression of outrage was all the answer Gabriel required. Anthony swore under his breath and reached for a bottle of port that stood nearby.

  "I said I do not intend to discuss such personal matters with you," Clarington repeated in a stony voice. "Name your price, man."

  "There is no need to state it." Gabriel put down his newspaper, rose to his feet, and picked up the bundle he had placed on the small table beside his chair. "Rest assured, Clarington, you do not possess a large enough fortune to buy me off this time. Now, you must both excuse me. I have an appointment."

  "Hold on, there, Wylde." Anthony set his glass down swiftly and got to his feet. "I give you fair warning. If you insult my sister, I will call you out, just as I did the last time."

  Gabriel paused. "Ah, but the outcome might be considerably different this time, Oaksley. I find that I am no longer quite as indulgent as I once was."

  Anthony turned a dull red. Gabriel knew the other man was recalling their dawn meeting eight years ago. It had been the viscount's first duel, but it had been Gabriel's third.

  Driven as he was in those days by his naive sense of chivalry, Gabriel had already managed to get involved in two previous dawn appointments. On both occasions he had been defending a lady's name.

  He had won both duels without having to kill his opponent, but he had begun to wonder how long his luck would last. He had also begun to wonder whether any woman was worth the risk. None of the ladies involved appeared to appreciate his efforts on their behalf. On that cold, gray October morning eight years ago, Gabriel had concluded that he'd had enough of duels over females.

  Anthony had been resolute, but he had also been extremely nervous. He had been too quick off the mark that morning. The viscount had fired wildly. It was purest chance, not good aim, that had caused the bullet to strike Gabriel's shoulder, and both men knew it.

  Anthony was also well aware that the only reason he was alive today was because Gabriel had held his fire after taking the bullet. The blood soaking through his white shirt and the stricken expression in Anthony's eyes had convinced Gabriel that three duels were three too many.

  In disgust, he had aimed his pistol at the sky and discharged it. Honor had been satisfied and Gabriel had made a decision. He would never again allow his outmoded sense of chivalry guide his actions. No woman was worth this kind of nonsense.

  He smiled coldly now at Anthony, watching the memories in the viscount's eyes. Satisfied, Gabriel turned and walked off without a backward glance.

  Behind him he could feel Clarington and his son staring at his back in helpless outrage.

  It felt good. Revenge was an extremely gratifying sensation, Gabriel decided.

  Lydia, Lady Clarington, put down her teacup and peered at Phoebe through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. She wore the spectacles only in the privacy of the elegant Clarington town house and when playing cards at the home of one of her cronies. She would have died before she allowed herself to be seen wearing them in public.

  Lady Clarington had been declared a diamond of the first water in her younger days. Her golden hair had now faded to silver and her once lushly rounded figure had grown a trifle plump over the years, but she was still a very attractive woman.

  Phoebe privately thought her mother looked charmingly maternal and endearingly innocent in her spectacles. Lord Clarington apparently suffered from a similar illusion and had done so for the entire thirty-six years of their marriage. The earl had never made any secret of his affection for his wife. As far as Phoebe could tell, her father was still blissfully unaware of the depths of Lydia's passion for cards.

  As far as Lord Clarington knew, his fashionable countess merely liked to play the occasional hand of whist at the home of friends. The staggering amounts of some of her winnings and the extent of some of her losses was a topic with which he was entirely unacquainted.

  "I don't suppose," Lydia said with the unquenchable optimism of the inveterate gamester, "that Wylde had the good sense to pick up a fortune while out in the South Seas?"

  "Not as far as I can tell, Mama," Phoebe said cheerfully. "You must not delude yourself on that score. I expect he is not much richer now than he was when he left England eight years ago."

  "Pity. I was always rather fond of Wylde. There was something rather dangerously attractive about him. Not that he would ever have done for Meredith, of course. Would have frightened her to death. And of course he would have made a perfectly useless son-in-law from my point of view."

  "Lacking a fortune, as he did. Yes, I know, Mama. Your requirements in a son-in-law have always been quite simple and straightforward."

  "One must be practical about such matters. Of what use is a penniless son-in-law?"

  Phoebe hid a smile as she recalled the success of Gabriel's book. "Wylde may not be completely penniless. I believe he has a small income from certain investments he has made recently."

  "Bah." Lady Clarington brushed aside the notion of a pittance. "A small income will not do. You must marry a man with a respectable fortune, Phoebe. Even if I were willing to make an exception, your papa is most insistent. You must form a suitable alliance. You owe it to your family name."

  "Well, there is absolutely no point even speculating on Wylde's intentions toward me, Mama. I can tell you right now that he is not the least bit interested in marriage."

  Lydia eyed her closely. "Are you certain of that?"

  "Quite certain. It is true we became acquainted at the Amesburys' and discovered we have mutual interests, but we are merely friends. Nothing more."

  "I fear it comes down to Kilbourne, then," Lydia mused. "One could certainly do worse. A lovely title and a lovely fortune."

  Phoebe decided to seize the opportunity to put her mother off the notion of the proposed alliance. "I regret to tell you, Mama, that I find Kilbourne not only pompous but something of a prig."

  "What does that signify? Your father is also pompous and quite capable of giving lessons to any prig in the ton. But I manage quite nicely with him."

  "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 thi
ng 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.