Meredith eyed her closely. "Forgive me for asking, but have you actually discussed this with Wylde?"

"Not yet." Phoebe chuckled. "But I am certain he will approve. It is just the sort of thing that will appeal to him."

"You are certain of that?"

"Quite certain."

Twenty minutes later Phoebe and Meredith left the shop. The footman they had brought with them carried two lengths of fine cloth, one purple, the other bright yellow. Phoebe was quite satisfied with her purchases. Meredith appeared resigned to the inevitable.

"We must stop in at Lacey's Bookshop while we are in the vicinity," Phoebe said to Meredith. "It is only a short distance from here."

"Very well." Meredith was quiet for a moment as they walked toward the bookshop. Then she moved a bit closer to Phoebe. "There is something I must ask you."

"Yes?" Phoebe could not wait to get to Lacey's. Gabriel had casually mentioned at breakfast that he had sent his newest manuscript off to his publisher that morning.

Phoebe had almost confessed to Gabriel that she was his publisher. She had tested the waters cautiously by suggesting that she should read his manuscript first.

"Absolutely not," Gabriel had said. "I have a very firm policy on that subject. No one reads my manuscripts except myself and my publisher." Then he had smiled with infuriating condescension. "Besides, what would you know of judging modern novels? Your expertise is in much older works, madam."

Phoebe had been so annoyed that she had brushed aside the guilt she felt about not having confided her secret activities as an editor and publisher to Gabriel.

Meredith hesitated. "Phoebe, dear, are you happy in your marriage?"

Phoebe looked at her in surprise. Meredith's lovely eyes were filled with anxiety. "For heaven's sake, Meredith. Whatever makes you ask that?"

"I know you felt rushed into this alliance. I am well aware that you wanted time for Wylde to get to know you." Meredith flushed. "The thing is, everyone was extremely upset the day you ran off."

"Were they, indeed?"

"Yes. We were all quite dispirited except for Wylde. He was in a cold rage. I worried that when he caught up with you he would still be angry. I was not certain what he would do, if you see what I mean."

"No, Meredith, I do not see what you mean. What are you trying to say?"

Meredith's flush deepened. "The thing is, because of my experience with Wylde eight years ago I know something of his temperament. Phoebe, I have worried so that he was not kind or patient with you."

Phoebe frowned. "He has not taken to beating me, if that is what eoncerns you."

"Not exactly." Meredith glanced quickly around and apparently decided the footman was not within hearing distance. "What I am trying to say is that I know he has probably not been, strictly speaking, a gentleman in the bedchamber. He always was somewhat rough around the edges, and I feared that if he were angry he would not be considerate of a lady's natural sensibilities."

Phoebe stared at her in amazement. "Good lord, Meredith. If it is Wylde's performance as a lover that concerns you, set your mind at ease. It is one of the few things he has got right thus far."

At Lacey's Bookshop, Phoebe told her sister that she wanted to view a special volume that was being held for her in the back of the shop. Neither the clerk nor Meredith were surprised. Phoebe frequently viewed "special volumes" that were being held for her at Lacey's.

"I'll browse out here while you see to your old books," Meredith said. "But do hurry, Phoebe. I want to visit the glovemaker's this afternoon."

"I won't be long."

Lacey, an oily rag in his hand, was hovering over his big printing press with the attentiveness of a lover. He looked up, squinting, as Phoebe let herself into the back room.

"Is it here, Mr. Lacey?"

"Over there on the desk. Came about an hour ago." Lacey pulled his gin bottle out of his apron pocket and took a swallow. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and regarded her with greedy speculation. "Reckon we'll make a tidy sum on it, do ye?

"I am sure of it, Mr. Lacey. I shall see you later."

Phoebe snatched up the bundle on the desk and breezed out of the back room.

Meredith glanced at the parcel in her arm and made a tut-tutting sound. "You decided to buy another book, I see."

"This one is very unique," Phoebe assured her.

Three nights later at a huge ball given by longtime friends of the Earl and Countess of Clarington, Phoebe ran into her mother.

Lydia peered at her. "There you are, my dear. I've been looking for you. Where is your husband?"

"Wylde said he would arrive later. You know he is not particularly fond of balls and soirees."

"Yes, I know." Lydia smiled blandly. "Speaking of Wylde, I suppose it is rather too soon to be asking him for a small loan to cover some of my recent losses? Ran into a bit of a bad patch yesterday at Lady Randey's card party. I'll soon come about, of course, but in the meantime I'm rather short of funds to cover my little debt of honor."

"Ask Wylde for anything you like, Mama. Just do not ask me to ask him for you."

"Really, Phoebe, I hardly think that it would be appropriate for me to go directly to him."

"I don't see why not. How did you happen to lose a large sum at Lady Rantley's? I thought you generally won when you played at her house."

"And so I do," Lydia said, not without a touch of pride. "But yesterday the gossip was just too delicious and I wound up concentrating on it rather than my cards. Always a mistake."

"What gossip?"

Lydia leaned closer. "It seems that Lord Prud-stone has been seen rather frequently of late in a fashionable brothel known as the Velvet Hell. His wife has found out about his visits there and she is furious. Word has it she may be plotting, revenge."

"And so she should," Phoebe declared. "What is this Velvet Hell place? I have never heard of it."

"I should think not," Lydia murmured. "But now that you are a married woman, it is time you learned a bit more of the world. The Velvet Hell is said to be one of the most exclusive brothels in London. Patronized only by very tonnish gentlemen."

"If I ever hear of Wylde stepping foot in the place, I shall throttle him."

Lydia started to respond to that but stopped short, her mouth open in shock. "Good lord. Phoebe, look behind you. Quickly. I do not have my spectacles on, but there is something very familiar about that gentleman."

"Which gentleman, Mama?" Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. The sight of the sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man moving toward her through the throng hit her like a blow in the stomach. "My God. It's Neil."

"I was afraid of that." Lydia grimaced. "He is supposed to be dead. Your father was quite right about him. Baxter has no consideration for others."

Phoebe was not listening. Still in shock, she took a step forward. She could hardly speak. "Neil?"

"Good evening, my beautiful Lady Phoebe." Neil took her gloved hand and bent over it with grave gallantry. His smile was sadly rueful. "I understand I must say Lady Wylde now."

"Neil, you're alive. We thought you were dead."

"I assure you, I am no ghost, Phoebe."

"My God, I cannot believe this." Phoebe was still too dazed to think clearly. She stared at him, shocked to sec the physical changes in him. The Neil she had known three years ago had been a much softer-looking man. Now there was a bitterness in his eyes and in the lines around his mouth that had not been there before. In addition, he looked stronger. There was an indefinable coarseness about him chat she did not recall from the past.

"Will you dance with me, my lady? It has been too long since I have known the pleasure of having my beloved Phoebe so near."

Without waiting for a response, Neil took her hand and led her out onto the floor. Phoebe went into his arms as the strains of a slow, dignified waltz filled the room. She danced mechanically, her mind whirling with questions.