"Get out of here," Gabriel said softly.

"Right you are, mate. We're on our way." Both villains eyed the knife and the professional manner in which Gabriel held it. Then they cased back toward the alley entrance.

"No 'arm done," the first man said. "Like my friend says, she's all yers."

The two darted out of the alley and vanished.

Gabriel slipped the knife back into his boot and walked over to the flopping bundle. He was not particularly surprised when he caught a glimpse of a golden yellow muslin skirt. He reached down and extricated Phoebe from the folds of the blanket.

"Are you all right?" He surveyed her quickly from head to toe as he hauled her to her feet. She looked bedraggled but unhurt.

"Yes, I am fine. Oh, Gabriel, you saved me." Phoebe launched herself straight into his arms.

Gabriel heard the sound of carriage wheels outside the alley entrance just as his arms started to tighten around Phoebe.

"Hell." He released Phoebe and ran toward the front of the alley.

"Gabriel? What is it?" Phoebe hurried after him.

Gabriel did not wait for her. He saw the carriage with the obscured crest. The coachman was unfurling his whip, about to lash the team into full gallop.

"Hold," Gabriel shouted with the voice of authority he had once used to give orders in the South Seas. The coachman hesitated, turning his head to see who had given the command.

By the time the man realized Gabriel was in pursuit, it was too late. Gabriel had reached the door of the carriage. He jerked it open, reached inside, and clamped a hand around the arm of the occupant. He yanked the startled man out into the street.

Phoebe, clutching at her reticule and bonnet and hampered by her weak left leg, came to a startled halt. "Kilbourne."

Kilbourne did not look at her. He brushed off his sleeve with a disdainful movement and glowered at Gabriel with cool hauteur.

"I suppose you have an explanation for this unwarranted behavior, Wylde?"

"Of course." Gabriel kept his voice lethally soft so that Phoebe, who was still some distance off, would not overhear. "And I shall be happy to give it to you over a brace of pistols at dawn. My seconds will call on you this evening."

Kilbourne's composure faded rapidly. His face mottled with rage. "Now, see here, what do you think you're doing?"

"He is saving me from being kidnapped by you," Phoebe said furiously as she reached Gabriel's side. She was panting from her recent struggles and still frantically attempting to adjust her bonnet. "I know what this is all about."

"Phoebe, go back to your carriage," Gabriel ordered quietly.

She ignored him, her eyes bright with outrage as she glared at Kilbourne. "My mother told me this morning that it will soon be all over Town that you are done up, my lord. You knew my father would no longer be in the mood to entertain an offer for my hand if he learned you were penniless, did you not?"

"Phoebe," Gabriel said sharply.

"So you lured me here under false pretenses and tried to kidnap me," Phoebe continued triumphantly. "Well, you certainly did not get away with it, did you, sir? I knew Wylde would save me. He is very good at that sort of thing."

Gabriel clamped a hand around her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Not another word out of you, madam. Go back to your carriage and go directly home. We will discuss this later. Do you understand me?"

She blinked. "Well, yes, of course. You are quite clear, my lord, but I have a few things to say to Lord Kilbourne first."

"You will go home now, Phoebe." For a moment he thought she was going to argue further. Gabriel braced himself for the battle. Then Phoebe shrugged and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Oh, very well." She shot Kilbourne one last gloating look. "You will be very sorry for this, my lord." She whirled around and marched off, her golden skirts a vivid blot of color against the gray landscape.

Gabriel waited until she was once more out of earshot. Then he inclined his head with mocking formality. "Until our dawn appointment, Kilbourne. I shall be looking forward to it." He turned and started toward the hackney coach.

"Damn you, Wylde, come back here," Kilbourne sputtered. "How dare you challenge me?"

Gabriel did not look back.

When he reached the hackney coach, he gave his instructions to the driver. "Follow the maroon carriage until it reaches a better part of town. Then take me back to St. James Street."

"Aye, m'lord." The coachman set down his flask and picked up the reins.

Thirty minutes later Gabriel stormed back into his club and discovered to his great satisfaction that Anthony and Clarington were still there. They were immersed in copies of The Times and The Morning Post.

Gabriel dropped into the chair across from the other two men and waited until they had lowered their papers.

"I see you're back." Anthony said. "Why in hell did you rush off like that?"

"I rushed off," Gabriel said evenly, "to rescue your sister from being kidnapped by Kilbourne."

Anthony stared at him. Clarington slammed his copy of The Times down on a nearby table. "What the devil are you talking about, sir? Explain yourself."

"The message I received earlier informed me that Phoebe was on her way to examine a manuscript that had been offered for sale by a certain A. Rilkins. When I arrived at Mr. Rilkins's establishment, I discovered Phoebe in the process of being carted out of an alley by two members of the criminal class."

Anthony looked stunned. "Now, see here. You cannot expect us to believe such a tale."

Clarington's mouth dropped open. "Good God. Is this some sort of joke, Wylde?"

"I assure you, it is no joke." Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Kilbourne is apparently penniless. The word will soon be all over Town. He obviously realized his secret was out and he had no time left to court Phoebe, so he attempted to kidnap her."

"Good God," Clarington said again. He looked dazed. "She would have been ruined if he had succeeded in carrying her off. I would have been forced to agree to the marriage."

The three men stared at each other.

"Phoebe is safe?" Anthony's eyes were sharp with concern.

"She's on her way home, quite unharmed and with her reputation still intact." Gabriel reached for the claret bottle that stood on the table beside his chair. "Although one wonders for how long. At the rate she is going, disaster is inevitable."

"Damme," Clarington muttered, "I'll not allow you to talk like that about my daughter."

"Given that I have just saved her pretty neck, I shall talk about her in any way I like." Gabriel took a swallow of the claret. "Allow me to tell you, my lords, that I consider this entire debacle to be all your fault."

"Our fault?" Clarington bridled furiously.

"Yours in particular," Gabriel said. "As her father, you have allowed her to run wild. The woman is a menace to herself. She corresponds with strange men and arranges to meet them at midnight in remote country lanes. She goes haring off to the worst parts of London whenever she takes a fancy—"

"I say," Clarington interrupted.

Gabriel ignored him. "She is far too independent in her notions and she routinely courts disaster. One of these days she will almost certainly find it."

"Now, see here," Clarington growled. "This is my daughter we arc discussing. What is this about corresponding with strange men and meeting them at midnight?"

"How the hell do you think I met her?" Gabriel asked.

Anthony stared at him, astounded. "Are you saying she struck up a correspondence with you? Arranged to meet with you?"

"Damn right," Gabriel said. "And it was pure luck that it was me she arranged to meet in Sussex. What if it had been some other man?"

Clarington stiffened. "What are you suggesting, sir?"