"How did you discover I was the author of The Quest?"
Phoebe groped for a reasonable answer. "I had my solicitor look into the matter for me, if you must know." She tried unsuccessfully to free her hand. "He is extremely clever." That much was true, she reflected. Mr. Peak was an extremely intelligent, extremely accommodating young man anxious to make his way in the world. So anxious, in fact, that he was willing to do business with the youngest daughter of the Earl of Clarington without bothering to notify her father of that fact.
"Your solicitor." With a sharp oath, Gabriel released her. "I grow weary of this game you are playing, madam. I have told you I have no patience with deception and illusion. Who are you?"
Phoebe moistened her lower lip. "I cannot tell you, sir. Not yet. It is too soon. Furthermore, if my plan is not going to work at all, as I am beginning to conclude, then I would just as soon not risk my reputation any more than I already have. I am certain you will understand."
"What plan? I am to listen to your scheme and commit myself to it before I learn your true identity? What sort of an idiot do you think I am?"
"I do not think you are an idiot at all. Merely extremely difficult," Phoebe retorted. "I would rather you did not know my identity until you have agreed to help me. Once you have given me your oath that you will assist me, I shall feel free to confide in you. Surely you can appreciate my desire for secrecy."
"What the bloody hell is this all about?" Gabriel had clearly reached the end of his patience. "What is this silly scheme of yours?"
Phoebe gathered herself and took the plunge. "I am involved in a serious and important quest, sir."
"You're after another manuscript?" he asked derisively.
"No. Not a quest for a manuscript. A quest for justice. Your background gives me reason to believe you could be of great service to me."
"Justice? Good God, what is this foolishness? I thought I made it clear I am not interested in playing any more games."
"It is not a game," she explained desperately. "I am trying to find a murderer."
"A murderer." There was a stunned silence from Gabriel. "Hell and damnation. I am out here in the middle of the night with a madwoman."
"I am not a madwoman. Please, just listen to me. That is all I ask. I have spent two months trying to gain your attention. Now that you have finally emerged from your cave, surely you can at least hear me out."
"I don't live in a damn cave." He sounded offended.
"You might as well do so, as far as I am concerned. From what I have been able to discover, you stay holed up on your estate like some sort of troglodyte most of the time. You refuse to see anyone or have anything to do with Society."
"That is an overstatement," Gabriel muttered. "I see whom I wish. I happen to like my privacy and I have no love for the Social World. It defeats me why I should explain my habits to you, however."
"Please, sir, I need your help in securing justice for someone who was once very close to me."
"How close?"
Phoebe swallowed. "Well, to be perfectly precise, at one time he wished to marry me. My family was against the match on the grounds that he had no fortune."
"Not an uncommon situation," Gabriel observed grimly.
"I am aware of that. My friend went off to the South Seas to make his fortune so that he could return and ask for my hand. But he never came back. I eventually learned that he was murdered by a pirate."
"Christ. You want me to help you track down a damn pirate? I have news for you. It would be an impossible task. I have spent most of the past eight years in the South Seas and I can assure you that that part of the world has more than its share of murderers."
"You do not understand," Phoebe said. "I have reason to believe the killer has returned to England. At the very least, someone who may know the killer has returned."
"Good lord. How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Before he left to seek his fortune, I gave my friend one of my favorite manuscripts as a keepsake. I know he would never have sold it or given it away. It was all he had to remind him of me."
Gabriel stilled. "A manuscript?"
"A fine copy of The Lady in the Tower. Do you know it?"
"Bloody hell."
"You do know it." Phoebe was excited now.
"I am aware of the existence of a few copies," Gabriel admitted. "Was yours French, English, or Italian?"
"French. Beautifully illuminated. Even more lovely than The Knight and the Sorcerer. The thing is, my lord, I have heard a rumor that the book is back in England. Apparently it is now in someone's personal library."
Gabriel eyed her sharply. "Where did you hear that?"
"From a bookseller in Bond Street. He had it from one of his best customers, who had it from an odd little collector in Yorkshire."
"What makes you think it is your copy?"
"The bookseller told me that it is the French version of the tale and that the colophon at the end gives the scribe's name as William of Anjou. My copy was created by him. Sir, I must locate that manuscript."
"You believe that if you find the book, you will find the man who killed your lover?" Gabriel asked softly.
"Yes." Phoebe blushed furiously at hearing Neil described as her lover. But this was not the time to explain that Neil had not been her paramour, but her most virtuous and devoted Lancelot. His love had been pure and noble. He had kept himself always at a chivalrous distance, asking only to serve his lady in the manner of a true knight of old.
The fact that she had never felt more than a warm affection for Neil was one of the reasons she harbored guilt about his death. If she had truly loved him, she would have defied her family to marry him. But she had not loved Neil and Phoebe could not abide the thought of a marriage that was not based on true love.
"What was the name of this man who meant so much to you?"
"Neil Baxter."
Gabriel sat unmoving for several seconds. "Perhaps the present owner of the book merely happened to purchase it somewhere along the way," Gabriel suggested coldly. "Perhaps he knows nothing about your lover's fate."
Phoebe shook her head firmly. "No, I do not believe that to be the case. You see, Neil wrote to me occasionally after he left England. In one of his letters he mentioned a pirate who was harassing shipping in the islands. He said the man was not a normal sort of villain, but an English gentleman who had turned to piracy and had become the scourge of the South Seas."
"He would not have been the first to do so," Gabriel pointed out dryly.
"My lord, I believe that such a villain would have taken The Lady in the Tower as booty after killing Neil."
"And now that there is a rumor the book is back in England, you assume this gentleman pirate has also returned?"
"I think it is very likely. Possibly he has returned with enough stolen loot to set himself up in the Social World. He may even be a member of the ton. Just think, sir—who would know he had been a pirate? Everyone would assume he had simply made his fortune in the South Seas as others have and now has returned home."
"Your imagination is breathtaking, madam."
Phoebe gritted her teeth. "It seems to me, sir, that you are rather lacking in imagination. My notion is quite plausible. However, even if, as you suggest, the present owner of the book is not the pirate, he might very well know the identity of the pirate. I must find him."
The sound of something large crashing through the underbrush alongside the lane interrupted the rest of Phoebe's hurried explanations.
"What the devil?" Gabriel steadied his stallion as a horse and rider plunged out of the trees and onto the road.