Reckless by Johanna Lindsey

  "Not yet." Phoebe chuckled. "But I am certain he will approve. It is just the sort of thing that will appeal to him."

  "You are certain of that?"

  "Quite certain."

  Twenty minutes later Phoebe and Meredith left the shop. The footman they had brought with them carried two lengths of fine cloth, one purple, the other bright yellow. Phoebe was quite satisfied with her purchases. Meredith appeared resigned to the inevitable.

  "We must stop in at Lacey's Bookshop while we are in the vicinity," Phoebe said to Meredith. "It is only a short distance from here."

  "Very well." Meredith was quiet for a moment as they walked toward the bookshop. Then she moved a bit closer to Phoebe. "There is something I must ask you."

  "Yes?" Phoebe could not wait to get to Lacey's. Gabriel had casually mentioned at breakfast that he had sent his newest manuscript off to his publisher that morning.

  Phoebe had almost confessed to Gabriel that she was his publisher. She had tested the waters cautiously by suggesting that she should read his manuscript first.

  "Absolutely not," Gabriel had said. "I have a very firm policy on that subject. No one reads my manuscripts except myself and my publisher." Then he had smiled with infuriating condescension. "Besides, what would you know of judging modern novels? Your expertise is in much older works, madam."

  Phoebe had been so annoyed that she had brushed aside the guilt she felt about not having confided her secret activities as an editor and publisher to Gabriel.

  Meredith hesitated. "Phoebe, dear, are you happy in your marriage?"

  Phoebe looked at her in surprise. Meredith's lovely eyes were filled with anxiety. "For heaven's sake, Meredith. Whatever makes you ask that?"

  "I know you felt rushed into this alliance. I am well aware that you wanted time for Wylde to get to know you." Meredith flushed. "The thing is, everyone was extremely upset the day you ran off."

  "Were they, indeed?"

  "Yes. We were all quite dispirited except for Wylde. He was in a cold rage. I worried that when he caught up with you he would still be angry. I was not certain what he would do, if you see what I mean."

  "No, Meredith, I do not see what you mean. What are you trying to say?"

  Meredith's flush deepened. "The thing is, because of my experience with Wylde eight years ago I know something of his temperament. Phoebe, I have worried so that he was not kind or patient with you."

  Phoebe frowned. "He has not taken to beating me, if that is what eoncerns you."

  "Not exactly." Meredith glanced quickly around and apparently decided the footman was not within hearing distance. "What I am trying to say is that I know he has probably not been, strictly speaking, a gentleman in the bedchamber. He always was somewhat rough around the edges, and I feared that if he were angry he would not be considerate of a lady's natural sensibilities."

  Phoebe stared at her in amazement. "Good lord, Meredith. If it is Wylde's performance as a lover that concerns you, set your mind at ease. It is one of the few things he has got right thus far."

  At Lacey's Bookshop, Phoebe told her sister that she wanted to view a special volume that was being held for her in the back of the shop. Neither the clerk nor Meredith were surprised. Phoebe frequently viewed "special volumes" that were being held for her at Lacey's.

  "I'll browse out here while you see to your old books," Meredith said. "But do hurry, Phoebe. I want to visit the glovemaker's this afternoon."

  "I won't be long."

  Lacey, an oily rag in his hand, was hovering over his big printing press with the attentiveness of a lover. He looked up, squinting, as Phoebe let herself into the back room.

  "Is it here, Mr. Lacey?"

  "Over there on the desk. Came about an hour ago." Lacey pulled his gin bottle out of his apron pocket and took a swallow. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and regarded her with greedy speculation. "Reckon we'll make a tidy sum on it, do ye?'

  "I am sure of it, Mr. Lacey. I shall see you later."

  Phoebe snatched up the bundle on the desk and breezed out of the back room.

  Meredith glanced at the parcel in her arm and made a tut-tutting sound. "You decided to buy another book, I see."

  "This one is very unique," Phoebe assured her.

  Three nights later at a huge ball given by longtime friends of the Earl and Countess of Clarington, Phoebe ran into her mother.

  Lydia peered at her. "There you are, my dear. I've been looking for you. Where is your husband?"

  "Wylde said he would arrive later. You know he is not particularly fond of balls and soirees."

  "Yes, I know." Lydia smiled blandly. "Speaking of Wylde, I suppose it is rather too soon to be asking him for a small loan to cover some of my recent losses? Ran into a bit of a bad patch yesterday at Lady Randey's card party. I'll soon come about, of course, but in the meantime I'm rather short of funds to cover my little debt of honor."

  "Ask Wylde for anything you like, Mama. Just do not ask me to ask him for you."

  "Really, Phoebe, I hardly think that it would be appropriate for me to go directly to him."

  "I don't see why not. How did you happen to lose a large sum at Lady Rantley's? I thought you generally won when you played at her house."

  "And so I do," Lydia said, not without a touch of pride. "But yesterday the gossip was just too delicious and I wound up concentrating on it rather than my cards. Always a mistake."

  "What gossip?"

  Lydia leaned closer. "It seems that Lord Prud-stone has been seen rather frequently of late in a fashionable brothel known as the Velvet Hell. His wife has found out about his visits there and she is furious. Word has it she may be plotting, revenge."

  "And so she should," Phoebe declared. "What is this Velvet Hell place? I have never heard of it."

  "I should think not," Lydia murmured. "But now that you are a married woman, it is time you learned a bit more of the world. The Velvet Hell is said to be one of the most exclusive brothels in London. Patronized only by very tonnish gentlemen."

  "If I ever hear of Wylde stepping foot in the place, I shall throttle him."

  Lydia started to respond to that but stopped short, her mouth open in shock. "Good lord. Phoebe, look behind you. Quickly. I do not have my spectacles on, but there is something very familiar about that gentleman."

  "Which gentleman, Mama?" Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. The sight of the sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man moving toward her through the throng hit her like a blow in the stomach. "My God. It's Neil."

  "I was afraid of that." Lydia grimaced. "He is supposed to be dead. Your father was quite right about him. Baxter has no consideration for others."

  Phoebe was not listening. Still in shock, she took a step forward. She could hardly speak. "Neil?"

  "Good evening, my beautiful Lady Phoebe." Neil took her gloved hand and bent over it with grave gallantry. His smile was sadly rueful. "I understand I must say Lady Wylde now."

  "Neil, you're alive. We thought you were dead."

  "I assure you, I am no ghost, Phoebe."

  "My God, I cannot believe this." Phoebe was still too dazed to think clearly. She stared at him, shocked to sec the physical changes in him. The Neil she had known three years ago had been a much softer-looking man. Now there was a bitterness in his eyes and in the lines around his mouth that had not been there before. In addition, he looked stronger. There was an indefinable coarseness about him chat she did not recall from the past.

  "Will you dance with me, my lady? It has been too long since I have known the pleasure of having my beloved Phoebe so near."

  Without waiting for a response, Neil took her hand and led her out onto the floor. Phoebe went into his arms as the strains of a slow, dignified waltz filled the room. She danced mechanically, her mind whirling with questions.

  "Neil, this is incredible. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see that you are alive and well. You must tell me what happened." She remembered what Gabriel had told her about Neil's activitie
s in the South Seas. "There have been dreadful rumors."

  "Have there? I have no doubt they were spread by your new husband. When he learns that he did not succeed in murdering me, he will probably create even more slanderous tales."

  Phoebe's mouth went dry. "Are you telling me that Wylde has lied about you? You were not a pirate?"

  "Me? A pirate? How could you believe such a thing about your own true Lancelot?" Neil's gaze turned very grave. "I am frightened for you, my love."

  "I am not your love, Neil. I was never your love." She hesitated. "Why are you frightened for me?"

  "My dearest Phoebe, you have married one of the bloodiest buccaneers who ever sailed the South Seas. The man was the scourge of the shipping routes. He captured my small vessel and looted it. Then he gave every man on board the option of death by the sword or the sea. I chose the sea."

  "No. I cannot believe that. Neil, you must be mistaken."

  "I was there. I nearly died. Trust me, my dearest, it is the truth. Every word of it."

  "What happened to you? How did you survive?"

  "I drifted for days on a bit of wood before washing ashore on an island. I was driven nearly mad from thirst and hunger and the sun. Only the memory of your sweet face kept me clinging to life."

  "Dear heaven."

  Neil's mouth tightened. His hazel eyes glittered briefly with rage. "It took me months to get off that damned rock. And when I finally succeeded in getting to a port town, I had no money. I was ruined when Wylde sank my ship. Everything I had was invested in it. It has taken me all this time to gather sufficient funds to return to England."

  Phoebe stared at him. "Neil, I don't know what to say or what to believe. None of this makes any sense. I was told that my father paid you to leave England."

  "We both know your father was not pleased with our growing friendship," Neil reminded her gently.

  "Yes, but did he pay you to stay away from me? That is what I want to know."

  Neil smiled grimly. "An anonymous benefactor paid for my passage to the South Seas. I never learned his name. I assumed it was an old friend who came to my aid. Someone who knew I needed to make my fortune so that I would be worthy of you. Naturally, I seized the opportunity."

  Phoebe felt dizzy, and not because of the sedate dancing. She tried frantically to deal with the implications of what she was hearing. "I do not understand any of this, Neil."

  "No, my dearest, I am aware of that. But I understand only too well. Wylde has returned to England with eight years worth of plunder and has set himself up as a respectable member of the Social World."

  "He was not a pirate," Phoebe insisted. "I know him too well now to believe that."

  "Not as well as I do," Neil said softly. "He has taken from me the only woman I ever wanted to marry."

  "I'm sorry, Neil, but you know I would never have married you. I told you that eight years ago."

  "I could have convinced you to love me. Never fear. I am not angry with you. This marriage to Wylde is not your fault. You were led to believe I was dead."

  "Yes." There seemed no point informing him yet again that even if she had believed him to be alive, she would not have waited for him. She had never intended to marry him and she had always tried to make that clear to him. She had wanted Neil as a friend, not as a lover or a husband.

  "Like the pirate he is, Wylde has taken everything I valued. My ship, the woman I love, and the one memento I treasured above all others."

  Phoebe's eyes widened as a dreadful premonition struck her. "Memento?"

  "He took the book you gave me, my dearest. I saw him steal it that day he boarded my ship. He stripped my cabin bare of all my small valuables and then he found The Lady in the Tower. I was nearly killed trying to prevent him from stealing it. Its loss grieved me more than I can say. It was all I had of you."

  The niggling sense of guilt that was plaguing Phoebe grew worse. "Neil, I am so confused."

  "I understand, my love. You have been fed some very finely spun lies and you do not know what to believe. All I ask is that you remember what we once were to each other."

  A terrifying thought struck Phoebe. "What will you do now, Neil? Are you going to try to get Wylde thrown into prison? Because if so, I must tell you—"

  "No, Phoebe, I will make no effort to see that Wylde meets the fate he deserves, for the simple reason that I can prove nothing. It all happened thousands of miles away and he and I are the only ones who know the truth. It would be my word against his. And he is now an earl. Furthermore, he is as rich as the devil himself and I am nearly penniless. Who do you think the court would believe?"

  "I see." Phoebe sighed with relief. That was one problem she did not have to worry about at the moment.

  "Phoebe?"

  "Yes, Neil?"

  "I know that you are trapped in this marriage."

  "I am not exactly trapped," she muttered.

  "A wife is at the mercy of her husband. And I pity any woman who is at Wylde's mercy. You are very dear to me and I shall continue to love you for the rest of my days. I want you to know that."

  Phoebe swallowed. "That is very kind of you, Neil, but you must not pine for me. Truly, you must get on with your life."

  He smiled. "I will survive, dearest, just as I survived all those days at sea. But it would give me great solace if I could have the book you gave me when I left England."

  "You want The Lady in the Tower?"

  "It is all I will ever have of you, Phoebe. I assume Wylde brought it back with him along with the rest of his booty?"

  "Well, yes." Phoebe scowled. "That is to say, he brought it back with him from the South Seas along with his fortune."

  "The book belongs to you, my love. It is yours to give or withhold. If you have any pity or affection left at all for your devoted Lancelot, I beg you to allow me to keep The Lady in the Tower. I cannot tell you how much it means to me."

  Panic gripped Phoebe. "Neil, it is very gallant of you to want to keep The Lady in the Tower, but I really do not think I am in a position to give it to you."

  "I understand. You must be cautious around Wylde. He is an extremely dangerous man. It would be best if you did not tell your husband that I want my keepsake back. There is no knowing what he might do. He hates me."

  Phoebe frowned. "I would prefer that you not make personal comments about my husband. I do not wish to listen to them."

  "Of course you don't. A wife must contrive to believe the best of her husband. It is her duty."

  "It is not that precisely." Phoebe was irritated at the mention of wifely duty. "It is only that I cannot bring myself to believe Wylde was a pirate."

  "Surely you do not believe that I was one?" Neil asked gently.

  "Well, no," she admitted. "It is very difficult to picture you as a bloodthirsty buccaneer."

  Neil inclined his head. "Thank you for that much, at least."

  Phoebe was aware of Gabriel's presence in the ballroom before she saw him. A strong sense of relief washed through her. But when she turned her head and realized he was striding straight toward her, she had a change of heart.

  She had a horrible feeling there was going to be a dreadful scene.

  Gabriel looked every inch the hawk tonight. His green eyes were as pitiless as any raptor's. His black evening clothes emphasized the stark lines of his face and the predatory quality of his body. His gaze never left Phoebe and Neil as he approached.

  When Gabriel reached them, he took Phoebe's hand off Neil's shoulder and pulled her to his side. His voice was lethally soft as he confronted Neil.

  "So you survived your swim, after all, Baxter."

  "As you see." Neil gave a mocking little bow.

  "Take some advice," Gabriel said. "If you would go on surviving, stay away from my wife."

  "It seems to me that what happens is up to Phoebe," Neil said. "Her position is very similar to that of the legendary Guinevere's, is it not? I believe I find myself playing Lancelot to your Arthur, Wylde. And we all
know what happened in that tale. The lady betrayed her lord and gave herself to her lover."

  Phoebe was outraged at the implication that she would betray Gabriel. "Stop this nonsense at once, both of you. I will not have it."

  Neither Gabriel nor Neil paid her any heed.

  "Unlike Arthur, I am prepared to protect my lady," Gabriel said quietly. "Arthur made the mistake of trusting Lancelot. I won't make that mistake because I have the advantage of already knowing you are a liar, a murderer, and a thief."

  Neil's eyes flickered with fury. "Phoebe will realize the truth soon enough. Her heart is pure. Even you could not corrupt her, Wylde."

  He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Phoebe realized she was holding her breath. When Gabriel made to drag her off the dance floor, she felt her left leg buckle. He caught her instantly.

  "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "Yes, but I would appreciate it if you would cease hauling me across the room like this, Wylde. People are starting to stare."

  "Let them stare."

  Phoebe sighed. He was going to be impossible. "Where are we going?"

  "Home."

  "Just as well," Phoebe said. "The evening has certainly been ruined."

  Chapter 16

  How in bloody hell had Baxter survived? Gabriel wondered. By rights the man should have been dead.

  Gabriel watched Phoebe closely as the carriage rumbled through the crowded streets. He did not have a clue as to what she was thinking. The realization that he did not know how she was reacting to the fact that Baxter was alive alarmed him as nothing else could have done.

  It seemed to Gabriel that he had been doing battle with Baxter's ghost since the first time he had met Phoebe. Baxter had always been there, hovering in the background. It had been bad enough dealing with Phoebe's memories of him. Now Gabriel found himself dealing with the man in the flesh. Why couldn't the bastard have stayed dead?

  Gabriel's fingers tightened on the carved grip of his walking stick. He was impatient to get Phoebe home, but they were not making swift progress. Elegant lacquered coaches and fancy gigs of all sorts clogged the path. It was nearly midnight and the ton was in full motion, moving from one soiree to another in a frenzy that would not end until dawn.