"You're out of luck," Anthony said. "Kilbourne has left London."
"Damn." Gabriel slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair in sheer frustration. "Are you certain?"
"His butler says he has gone north and no one knows when he will return. It certainly won't be anytime soon. The servants have instructions to close Kilbourne's town house. The word is all over Town that he is virtually penniless. Lost everything in a series of bad investments."
"Hell and damnation."
"Perhaps it's for the best." Anthony sprawled in a nearby chair. "It's over. There will be no duel and Kilbourne is out of the way. I, for one, am grateful."
"I am not."
"Trust me, you're luckier than you know." Anthony grinned. "If Phoebe had ever discovered that you intended to fight a duel in her honor, she would have been furious. I don't believe you have ever dealt with Phoebe when she is very angry. It's not pleasant."
Gabriel looked at him, aware that he and Anthony were forming a bond based on their mutual concern for Phoebe. "Thank you for agreeing to act as my second. I only regret you will not have the opportunity to perform your duties."
Anthony inclined his head. "As I said, it's over. Kilbourne has been well and truly humiliated. Let it go at that."
"I suppose I shall be obliged to do so." Gabriel was silent for a moment. "I know now how you felt eight years ago, Oaksley."
"Yes. I can see that you do. But I will tell you something, Wylde. I like Trowbridge, and Meredith seems quite happy with him. But I will admit that if I knew then what I know now about you, I would not have chased after you that night. I would trust either of my sisters in your care."
Gabriel raised his brows. "Because you have learned I am not penniless?"
"No," Anthony said. "My reasons have nothing to do with your financial status."
There was silence for a moment between the two men. Then Gabriel smiled. "Allow me to tell you that I am exceedingly grateful you did come after Meredith and me that night. The match would have been a mistake. It's Phoebe I want."
"You're certain of that?"
"Quite certain."
At three the following afternoon, Phoebe sat uneasily upstairs in her bedchamber and waited to be summoned to the library. The household had been so subdued since yesterday's events that one would have thought there had been a death in the family.
Phoebe knew full well what was happening. Her mother had told her earlier that Gabriel was going to offer for her and that Clarington would accept. It was clear her family's objections to Gabriel had been dropped.
Phoebe was grateful for that, but she could not seem to sort out her own conflicting emotions. A part of her rejoiced at the thought of being married to the man she loved. She longed to seize the opportunity. She wanted him as she had never wanted anyone or anything in her life.
But another part of her was extremely uneasy. She had no indication yet that Gabriel truly loved her. She was very much afraid he was making his offer out of a desire to protect her from the sort of incident that had occurred yesterday.
It was highly probable that Gabriel was marrying her out of a misguided sense of chivalry.
True, he was rather fond of her, she was certain of that much. He gave every indication of being physically attracted to her. And they did have interests in common.
But there had been no talk of love.
Phoebe glanced at the clock. It was almost three-thirty, What on earth was there to talk about that took half an hour? she wondered.
She got to her feet and began pacing the room. This was ridiculous. A woman had the right to be present when her future was being discussed.
This business of waiting meekly upstairs in her bedchamber while the men dealt with something as important as marriage was aggravating in the extreme. Men did not have a good grasp of such things.
They would not understand, for example, that she had no wish to be married because Gabriel's lofty notions of chivalry demanded it.
She had vowed long ago that she would only marry for true love, the sort of love that guided the knights and ladies of medieval legends. Nothing less would do for her.
At three forty-five, Phoebe decided she had had enough of playing the dutiful daughter. She marched out of her bedchamber and went downstairs to the library.
The door of the library was closed. The butler stood firmly planted in front of it. When he saw Phoebe, his expression turned wary, but determined.
"Step aside, please," she said to the butler. "I wish to join my father."
The butler drew himself up bravely. "Forgive me, madam, but your father left explicit instructions that he did not wish to be disturbed while in conference with Lord Wylde."
"Pssst, Phoebe." Lydia stuck her head around the corner of the drawing room and waved frantically to get Phoebe's attention. "Don't go in there. Men like to handle this kind of thing all b themselves. It makes them feel as if they are carrying out their responsibilities."
Meredith, hovering behind her mother, frowned delicately at Phoebe. "Wait until you are summoned, Phoebe, Papa will be most upset if you interrupt."
"I am already upset." Phoebe strode forward.
The butler wavered. It was all the opportunity Phoebe needed. She opened the door herself and walked into the library.
Gabriel and her father were seated near the fireplace. They each held a glass of brandy. Both men looked up with forbidding expressions as she entered.
"You may wait outside, my dear. I shall summon you in a few minutes," Clarington said firmly.
"I am tired of waiting." Phoebe came to a halt and glanced at Gabriel. She could tell nothing from his expression. "I want to know what is going on."
"Wylde is making an offer of marriage," Clarington said. "We are discussing the details. You need not concern yourself."
"You mean you have already accepted the offer on my behalf?" Phoebe demanded.
"Yes, I have." Clarington took a swallow of brandy.
Phoebe shot Gabriel a questioning look. He arched one brow in response. Her gaze went back to her father. "Papa, I wish to speak to Gabriel before any announcements are made."
"You may speak to him when I have finished settling matters."
"But Papa—"
"Leave us, Phoebe," Gabriel ordered quietly. "We will talk later."
"I want to discuss this now." Her hands tightened into small fists. "It is my future that is being bandied about in here. I have a few thoughts on the subject. If the two of you think you are going to tie all the details into a neat little package and expect me to accept it without comment, you are quite wrong."
Clarington peered at her. "Very well, my dear, what is your chief objection to all this?"
Phoebe took a deep breath, opened her clenched fists, and dried her damp palms on the skirts of her gown. "I have always made it very clear chat I will only marry for love. To be perfectly blunt, Papa, Wylde has never once mentioned love to me. I will not be rushed into marriage until I am certain there is true love on both sides. I will not be married simply because Wylde's sense of chivalry demands it."
"Phoebe," Clarington said wearily, "you are behaving like a romantical schoolgirl. Wylde is quite right. After what happened yesterday, you can no longer be allowed to continue in your rash, impulsive ways."
"He said that?" Phoebe glared at Gabriel.
"Yes, he did, and I agree with him," Clarington declared. "He claims he is willing to take on the task of managing you and I must say, I am grateful to be able to turn the responsibility over to him."
Phoebe was outraged. "What if I do not wish to be 'managed' by a husband?"
"I know of no better way to settle you down and rein in your eccentric manners than to marry you off," Clarington retorted. "It is time you were married, young lady. For God's sake, you are nearly five and twenty. The fact that you are an heiress puts you at terrible risk. Only think of what happened yesterday."
"Papa, what happened yesterday was not my fault."
"It most certainly was," Clatington shot back. "Who knows how many others of Kilbourne's sort are lurking out there? Wylde is correct when he says that sooner or later your impulsive ways will land you in serious trouble. I want you safely established under the guidance and protection of a husband."
A sense of desperation welled up in Phoebe. "Papa, please. I must have time to think about this. Wylde and I must discuss it."
Gabriel gave her a cool glance over the rim of his brandy glass. "As far as I am concerned, there is nothing that needs to be discussed at this moment. Go on upstairs to your bedchamber. We shall send for you presently."
Phoebe was speechless. To be banished upstairs to her bedchamber by the man whom she had considered a gallant knight, the man she had secretly viewed as a soul mate, the man she loved. It was too much.
"My lord," she whispered, "you are no better than Kilbourne."
There was a short, awful silence.
"Phoebe," her father thundered. "You will apologize at once. Wylde is no fortune hunter."
She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes to get rid of the moisture. "I did not mean to imply that he was. But he is certainK just as much of a pompous, overbearing prig as Kilbourne ever was." She gave Gabriel one last anguished glance. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you understood how I felt about matters of love and marriage."
Before either man could respond, she whirled and tied from the room.
Out in the hall she dashed past the concerned faces of her mother and sister. She picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs. When she reached the privacy of her bedchamber, she threw herself down on the bed and surrendered to the tears.
Fifteen minutes later the storm had passed, leaving in its place an unnatural calm. She dried her eyes, washed her face, and sat down to wait.
Twenty minutes later, when she was finally summoned to the library, she was composed and solemn. She walked sedately down the stairs, waited politely for the butler to open the door, and then stepped inside.
Her father was still seated in his chair. He appeared to have started on another glass of brandy. Gabriel was standing near the fireplace, one arm resting along the mantel. He watched her intently as she came gravely into the room.
"You sent for me, Papa?" Phoebe asked with excruciating civility.
Clarington cast her a suspicious glance. "It's settled, my dear. You and Wylde will be married at the end of the Season."
Phoebe's stomach lurched, but she managed to keep her expression serene. "I see. Well, then, if that is all, I shall return to my room. I am not feeling very well."
Gabriel's black brows drew together in a severe line. "Phoebe, are you all right?"
"I believe I have a slight headache, my lord." She turned and walked back out of the room.
Shortly before dawn the next morning Phoebe dressed in her best traveling gown and tossed two large bags out her bedroom window. Then she threw a rope composed of knotted bedsheets over the sill.
She descended via the makeshift rope into the garden, collected her two bags, and walked around the front of the big house.
She mingled with saloop vendors and milk carriers in the early morning London traffic. At that hour the streets were teeming with country folk and their wagons full of market produce. No one paid much attention to her.
By seven o'clock Phoebe had boarded the stage that would take her into the heart of Sussex. Squashed between a plump woman in a gray turban and an odoriferous country squire who was swigging gin from a bottle, she had plenty of time to reflect on her fate.
Chapter 11
Gabriel called on every ounce of self-control he possessed to deal with the rage that threatened to consume him. He could not believe Phoebe had run from him like this.
Clarington and his family sat in funereal silence, their eyes following Gabriel as he paced back and forth across the drawing room.
It was nearly ten o'clock. No one had missed Phoebe until an hour ago, when her maid had gone to her room with her tea. Gabriel had received the cryptic summons shortly thereafter. When he had arrived at the Clarington town house, he had found the entire clan gathered here in the drawing room to deliver the news that Phoebe had fled.
"Look on the bright side," Lydia suggested. "As far as we know, she ran off by herself. There does not appear to be another man involved here."
"As far as we know," Anthony said morosely.
Gabriel shot him a furious glance. The last thing he wanted to do this morning was entertain the possibility that Phoebe had run off with another man. Matters were bad enough as it was. "You believe she's on her way to Sussex?"
"There was a note," Meredith said quietly. "She said she would be spending some time with an aunt in Sussex."
"It could have been a clever ruse," Lydia offered. "She might want us to think she has gone in one direction while in truth she has dashed off to somewhere else entirely."
"No." Meredith held herself very still. Her eyes never left Gabriel. "She knew we would worry, so she told us where she was going in hopes that we would not fret."
"Not fret?" Clarington turned red. "Not fret? The chit takes off before dawn without a word to anyone and she doesn't want us to fret? What in God's name does she expect us to do?"
Lydia put a hand on his arm. "Calm yourself, my dear. All will be well. Phoebe is quite capable of taking care of herself."
"Oh, is she, now?" Claringron gave his wife a scathing look. "And tell me, how will she take care of her reputation after news of this incident gets out, pray tell? I would not blame Wylde for calling off the marriage."
Meredith gasped. "Papa, you must not say that."
"Why not?" Anthony muttered. "What man in his right mind wants a wife who is going to cause him this kind of trouble?"
"Phoebe is frightened." Meredith leaped to her feet and faced Gabriel and the others. "Don't you understand? She ran away because she was being pushed into this marriage without so much as a by-your-leave. No one even bothered to ask her opinion."
Clarington scowled. "She likes Wylde. Leastways, I thought she did. What the devil is the matter with that creature? She makes no sense at all."
Meredith lifted her chin. "I'll tell you what the matter is. She discovered that her entire future was being settled by you and Wylde, Papa. She felt like a horse that was being sold to the highest bidder."
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
"Nonsense," Clarington said.
"It's the truth," Meredith said. "I know exactly how she felt because I felt precisely the same way eight years ago. The difference between Phoebe and me was that I asked someone to assist me in my escape. Phoebe, being Phoebe, arranged her own escape all by herself."
"What in hell does she even want to escape?" Anthony demanded. "Papa is right. She likes Wylde."
Meredith stamped her foot in exasperation. "Really? And how does Wylde feel about her?"
Gabriel frowned. "Phoebe knows how I feel about her."
"Is that so?" Meredith rounded on him. "You have declared your affections for her, then, sir? You have told her you love her?"
"For God's sake, Meredith," Gabriel muttered. "That is none of your business."
"Ah-hah. So you have not. Pray, sir, do you love her?"
Gabriel was suddenly very conscious of the others watching him intently. "Phoebe and I understand each other."
"I doubt that," Meredith said. "I'll wager you have the same sort of understanding between you that Trowbridge and I had eight years ago. Which amounts to nothing at all."
Gabriel was incensed. "That's not true."
Meredith narrowed her eyes in a most un-Meredith fashion. "You have as good as admitted that you have not told Phoebe that you love her. What did you expect her to do when she found herself on the brink of marriage?"
"She's not a green girl," Gabriel said through his teeth. "She had no business running off like this."
Meredith lifted her chin disdainfully. "If you ask me, she was practically obliged to run off. She had
no reason to think you would behave any differently if she stayed and meekly agreed to all the plans you and Papa made for her. Phoebe is very strong-minded."
"Too headstrong by far," Gabriel said.
"You should have talked to her first about this marriage," Meredith said. "You should have told her of your feelings."
Lydia sighed. "Somehow I cannot believe any good will come of this strange notion that men and women should talk to each other about such intimate matters. Everyone knows men are not much good at that sort of thing. They get frustrated and irritable when they attempt such complicated discussions. Something to do with their brains, no doubt."
"No doubt, madam." Gabriel had had enough. He faced Phoebe's family. "Very well, then, as you appear to have lost my fiancée on the very day the notices are due to hit the papers, I must be on my way."
Anthony got to his feet. "What do you intend to do?"
"What do you think I'm going to do? Go after her, of course. She is not going to escape this easily." Gabriel started toward the door.
"Wait. I'll come with you," Anthony said.
"No, you will not. I have secured a special license. Phoebe and I shall deal with this matter alone."
"You're going to marry her?" Meredith looked alarmed. "Wylde, hold a moment. There is something I must say to you."
"What?" Gabriel was already at the door. He was seething with impatience.
Meredith gave him a pleading look. "You will be kind to her when you catch up to her, will you not? Please try to comprehend her feelings. I know she seems a bit impulsive, but the truth is, she is a creature of very delicate sensibilities. She needs understanding."
"She needs a strong hand applied to her backside," Gabriel said. He went out the door.
But Meredith's parting words haunted him as he made hurried preparations for leaving town. He remembered the look on Phoebe's face yesterday afternoon when Clarington had finally summoned her to the library to hear that her future had been settled. She had been much too distant and far too calm.
Gabriel realized now that Phoebe's demeanor had been a very unnatural one for her. He should have suspected all was not well. But it had never occurred to him that she would run off like this in order to avoid marriage to him.