The wealth Gabriel had brought back with him from the South Seas was more than a match for the Clarington fortune. And that wealth was now coupled to a title that was the equal of Clarington's. With that kind of fortune and status came power. Great power.

Of course, Gabriel reminded himself suddenly, the Veiled Lady had no inkling of just how wealthy he was. No one knew him or anything about him. He was as anonymous to the Social World as he was to the readers of his novel.

Lady Phoebe Layton wanted his assistance on a quest. Gabriel's hand closed into a fist. Very well, she would have it. And the price she would pay for his services would be high, indeed.

He would use her to punish Clarington for everything that had happened eight years ago.

Chapter 5

The Marchioness of Frowbridge set a delicate stitch in the hem of a little muslin dress. "You need not be quite so cool with Lord Kilbourne, you know, Phoebe. I am certain he is going to offer for you soon. You may give him some encouragement now without fear of anyone thinking you overbold."

Phoebe poured another cup of tea and made a face. Her sister did not notice. Meredith was too busy concentrating on the flower she was embroidering onto her daughter's tiny gown.

It occurred to Phoebe, not for the first time, that anyone looking at Meredith saw a paragon of wifehood and motherhood. It was not an illusion. Meredith was a paragon. But few people outside the immediate circle of her family were aware of the amazing talent for business and financial matters that lay beneath the breathtakingly perfect surface. In addition to being a devoted wife and mother, she was an active advisor to her husband in his many investments.

An inclination for such matters was a common trait in Phoebe's family. Her father, the earl, was a mathematician who loved to apply his principles to both his investments and his scientific experiments. Her brother, Anthony, Viscount Oaksley, had inherited his father's abilities. He now ran the Clarington empire, freeing the earl to concentrate on his experiments.

Phoebe's mother, Lydia, Lady Clarington, was also skilled with numbers. But unlike the others, she preferred to apply her talents at the card tables of her friends. Most of the time she won. Occasionally, however, she did not. In either event she was careful to keep her lord uninformed about her activities. Clarington would have been shocked to know of his wife's predilection for games of chance.

Phoebe, the youngest in the family, was the only one who had not shown any ability in the fields of mathematics or investments. Early on it had become obvious to everyone including Phoebe that she had not inherited the family talents.

The others loved her dearly, but they did not know quite what to make of her. She was different, and that difference frequently baffled everyone except her mother, who generally seemed unfazed by Phoebe's ways.

Phoebe was the changeling in the family. The others reached conclusions based on logic. Phoebe used intuition. She read novels while the others studied the stock exchange summaries in The Gentleman's Magazine. She was reckless where the others were cautious. She was enthusiastic where the others were wary. She was eager where the others tended to be disinterested or disapproving. And she was, of course, the youngest.

The result had been an overprotective attitude toward Phoebe from everyone else in the family except her mother. They all spent a great deal of time fretting about her impulsive ways. That attitude had intensified after the carriage accident that had left her with a badly injured leg.

The accident had occurred because of Phoebe's reckless attempt to save a puppy from being crushed by the vehicle. It was Phoebe, not the pup, who had ended up beneath the carriage wheels.

The doctors had gravely informed Clarington that his youngest child would never walk again. The family had been devastated. Everyone had hovered. Everyone had worried. Everyone had tried to keep eight-year-old Phoebe confined to a sickroom.

Phoebe, being Phoebe, had resisted the efforts to turn her into an invalid. She had defied the doctors by secretly teaching herself to walk again. To this day she still remembered the pain of those first tottering steps. Only her determination not to be bedridden for the rest of her life had made the effort possible. Her family, unfortunately, had never quite recovered from the shock of the accident. For them it was only one incident, albeit the most memorable, in a series of incidents that proved Phoebe needed to be protected from her reckless ways.

"I do not want Kilbourne to buffer for me," Phoebe said. She propped her slippered feet on a small footstool and absently massaged her left leg, which was a bit sore from riding that morning.

"Nonsense. Of course you want him to offer for you." Meredith set another stitch. She was two years older than Phoebe and the two were as opposite in both appearance and temperament as night and day. Blond, blue-eyed, and as dainty as a piece of fine porcelain, Meredith had once been a shy, timid creature who had quaked at the thought of the intimate embrace she would encounter in the marriage bed.

Years ago when she had been on the brink of her debut into Society, Meredith had confided quite seriously to Phoebe that she wished to take religious vows in order to escape the demands of a husband. Phoebe had agreed that joining a holy order might be quite interesting, provided one got to live in an ancient, haunted abbey. The notion of encountering a few genuine ghosts had a certain appeal.

It was just as well Meredith had not followed her religious inclinations, Phoebe decided. Marriage had been good for her. Today Meredith was a cheerful, contented woman who reveled in the adoration of her indulgent husband, the Marquess of Trowbridge, and the love of her three healthy children.

"I'm serious, Meredith. I do not wish to marry Kilbourne."

Meredith looked up, her crystal-clear blue eyes wide in surprise. "Good heavens. What on earth are you saying? He's the fourth in the direct line. And the Kilbourne fortune is at least as large as Trowbridge's. Certainly it is equal to Papa's. Mama is so thrilled at the possibilities."

"I know." Phoebe sipped her tea and gazed gloomily at the magnificently stitched hunt scene on the wall. "It will be a coup for her if Kilbourne makes an offer. She will have another wealthy son-in-law to act as a private banker for her on those occasions when her luck runs low at the card tables."

"Well, we both know she can hardly ask Papa to cover her debts of honor. He would never approve of her gaming. And you and I cannot continue to go to her rescue. Our allowances are not large enough to cover some of her losses." Meredith sighed. "I do wish she were not quite so enamored of cards."

"She usually wins."

"Yes, but not always."

"Even the most skilled of gamesters has a bit of bad luck now and then." Phoebe was inclined to be far more sympathetic with her mother's enthusiasm for gaming than Meredith was. From her own experience in the world of rare books, Phoebe understood what it was to be cursed with expensive passions.

Meredith bit her lip. "I fear Trowbridge was a little impatient the last time I asked him to oblige her."

Phoebe smiled ruefully. "Hence Mama's fervent wish to marry me off to Kilbourne. Poor man. He has not the least notion of what he is attempting to take on. Perhaps I should tell him about Mama's weakness for gaming before he makes his offer."

"Don't you dare."

Phoebe sighed. "I had hoped Mama and Papa had quite given up on getting me married off. I am getting rather advanced in years."

"Nonsense. Twenty-four is not so very old."

"Be honest, Meredith. I am dangerously close to twenty-five and you and I both know that the only reason I'm still attracting the occasional offer at my age is due entirely to the size of my inheritance."