"There damn well is more to discuss. A great deal more. If you think that I am going to keep my hands off you after this, you're mad." He scowled as he realized he had come to the end of the hedge aisle and was facing another hedge. "What the devil?"

"Oh, dear." Phoebe glanced around at the looming walls of green. "I believe we have wandered into Lord Brantley's maze. He is quite proud of it. No one has ever found his way out on his own. Only Brantley knows the secret route."

Gabriel slammed his hand against the hedge in disgust. "Christ. This is all it needed."

"I fail to see the problem here, Gabriel." Phoebe smiled encouragingly at him in the moonlight. "I believe the hero of your book found himself trapped in a maze on page three hundred and four."

"So he did. What the hell has that got to do with anything?"

"He found his way out through some very clever reasoning, as I recall," Phoebe said. "I have complete faith that you can get us out of here using the same process. You had best hurry, however. We must return to the ball before someone else besides Kilbourne misses me."

Chapter 9

Later that night Gabriel stalked up the steps of the town house he had rented for the Season. He was not in a cheerful frame of mind. In fact, he was in a very strange mood.

The fact that Phoebe was now more convinced than ever that he was hero material only served to deepen his odd sense of gloom.

So what if he had been able to find his way out of Brantley's idiotic maze? It had not been all that difficult. He had simply put one hand on one wall of green and had not lifted his palm until he and Phoebe had arrived back at the entrance of the maze.

It was the same technique the hero of The Quest had used. Gabriel had read the advice for solving the puzzle of a maze years ago in some ancient medieval manuscript. He had never expected to have to apply the information in real life.

He had secretly been both exceedingly relieved and quite surprised that the method had worked.

Phoebe, of course, had taken the outcome for granted. There, you see? I knew you could do it, Wylde. This sort of thing is stock-in-trade for a man of your sort.

Gabriel had been tempted to put her over his knee. Her blithe assumption that he was interchangeable with the hero of his novel was beginning to eat at him.

"Go back to bed, Shelton," he said to his sleepy-eyed butler when the town house door was opened. "I'm going to work for a while."

"Yes, my lord." Shelton obediently vanished through the door behind the staircase whence he had come.

Gabriel walked into the library, tossed his black domino onto a chair, and lit a lamp on the desk. He poured himself a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter on the small table near the hearth. The fiery liquid calmed his sense of frustration. His gaze fell on the folds of the black cloak he had worn earlier.

Hot memories of how Phoebe had looked in the moonlight as she burned in his arms exploded again in his head.

Matters were not working out quite as he had planned.

It was not that his scheme for revenge was going badly, he realized. It was that he was starting to have grave misgivings. What the devil was the matter with him? he wondered.

It had seemed so simple when he had left Devil's Mist. He would pursue and seduce Phoebe and in the process humiliate and outrage Clarington. In the end, when the reckless little wench had been well and truly bedded, Clarington would swallow his pride and beg Gabriel to marry her.

Gabriel had planned to look Clarington straight in the eye and decline the offer of his ruined daughter's hand in marriage. Only then would Clarington learn that Gabriel was no fortune hunter, and there was nothing he could do to force the marriage.

As for Phoebe, she would deserve what she got. She was an ungovernable hoyden, an impulsive, headstrong female who would learn the hard way that she had taken one too many chances, played one too many dangerous games.

Gabriel had consoled his uneasy conscience b telling himself that Phoebe was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She was twenty-four years old and not averse to making arrangements to meet strangers at midnight on lonely country lanes.

He certainly did not intend to boast about his conquest once the deed was done. He had no intention of ruining the lady's reputation in Society. His only goal was to trample on the overweening pride of the Earl of Clarington.

A simple, straightforward sort of vengeance.

Gabriel stared at the black cloak and recalled the feel of Phoebe as she responded to his touch. So sweet, so passionate. Bringing her to her first climax had made him feel like the all-conquering knight she believed him to be. When he had heard Kilbourne's approach outside the maze, his first instinct had been to protect her.

Gabriel took another sip of the brandy and thought about the glow of admiration that had lit Phoebe's eyes when he had found his way back to the entrance of the maze. He shook his head over her unwavering confidence that he would help her find Neil Baxter's killer.

It was all beginning to seem bloody damn complicated.

Hell, maybe he should just marry the little baggage and be done with it.

That thought shook him to the core.

"Damnation." Surely he was not going to weaken at this juncture, there was no point. He could have it all: the lad and the vengeance.

He thought of Phoebe's laughing eyes and innocent recklessness.

Gabriel went to the window and cautiously allowed himself to consider the outrageous notion of making Phoebe his countess.

It would mean he would have to abandon his revenge against her family.

True, he could torment them for a while longer, but sooner or later they would learn that he was not the fortune hunter they believed him to be. They might not ever learn to like him, but they could not disapprove of him. He was, after all, everything they wanted in a husband for Phoebe.

It would mean he would have to find a way to handle a bold, adventurous wife who would no doubt lead him a merry dance for the rest of his days.

It would mean having Phoebe in his bed.

Gabriel realized he was smiling slightly at his own reflection in the window.

Bloody hell. He could do worse. She certainly lived up to the newly invented Wylde motto: dare. She had courage. She would make a good mother for his sons.

Furthermore, Phoebe was the only woman he had ever met who might actually enjoy living at Devil's Mist. Any other respectable female of the ton would probably refuse to step foot inside the ancient, drafty castle.

Yes, he could do worse.

The realization that he was on the point of abandoning his revenge staggered him. He would have to give the matter a great deal more thought before he made his decision.

Gabriel turned and walked over to his desk. He put down the brandy glass and reached toward the lamp. He hesitated as he glanced down at his desk.

Something was wrong. One of the drawers was partially open, as if someone had been in a hurry and forgotten to close it completely.

He had left the drawers closed. And locked.

Someone had gone through his desk.

The writer in him nearly succumbed to panic. He yanked open the drawer that contained A Reckless Venture and hurriedly checked page numbers. He lowered himself slowly into his chair and swore in profound relief when he realized there were no missing pages.

Then common sense took over. Gabriel stood up again and calmly checked the contents of his small library. On close inspection it was clear several books had been moved about on their shelves, but nothing appeared to be missing. He glanced around the room, noting the furnishings. He wondered why the intruder had not taken the silver candlesticks or the handsome basalt ware urn. Either could have brought the thief a nice price.