"About bribing Baxter to get out of the country? Because I didn't want you to know."

"Why not?" Phoebe asked tightly.

"Because I thought you'd be hurt," Clarington snapped. "Not very pleasant for a romantical young female to learn that a man has only been toying with her affections in order to blackmail her father. You've always been the sentimental type, Phoebe. You saw Baxter as a young Sir Galahad or some such nonsense."

"Lancelot," Phoebe said softly. "I always thought of him as Lancelot."

Clarington scowled. "Beg pardon?"

"Never mind." Phoebe sat rigidly in the chair, her shoulders very straight. "You should have told me the truth, Papa."

"Didn't want to upset you."

"Well, it would not have been very pleasant to learn the truth, I'll grant you that," Phoebe said, "but at least I would not have spent the past year feeling guilty."

"Now, see here. How was I to know you'd been feeling guilty? You never mentioned the fact to me."

Phoebe tapped her gloved fingers on the edge of the chair. She frowned, thinking of what Neil had said the previous evening. "Did you pay him off directly?"

"Good God, no." Clarington looked offended. "A gentleman doesn't dirty his hands with that sort of thing. I had my solicitor handle it."

"Neil says he does not know who paid his passage to the South Seas. He was told a mysterious benefactor arranged matters."

Clarington's scowl darkened. "Nonsense. The man knows full well who paid his passage, and a good bit more besides. We made a deal. I agreed to give the bounder enough to set himself up very nicely on condition he got out of England."

Phoebe sighed. "It's rather difficult to know exactly what to believe."

Clarington was affronted. "Are you saying I'm not telling you the truth?"

"No, Papa, of course not." Phoebe smiled placat-ingly. "I do not think you are lying. But I cannot help but wonder if different people in this little play may have interpreted matters in somewhat different ways."

"Damnation, Phoebe, there was nothing to misinterpret. When my solicitor offered Baxter a small fortune to leave the country, the man grabbed it with both hands. That was all there was to it."

"Perhaps." Phoebe hesitated uncertainly. "Perhaps not. I wish I knew what to believe."

Clarington's thick brows twitched. "You will believe your papa. And your husband, by God. That's whom you will believe."

Phoebe smiled sadly. "Do you know what the problem is, Papa? The problem is that everyone spends entirely too much time and effort trying to protect me. I am left with bits and pieces of the truth, not the whole truth."

"Been my experience you don't always deal well with the whole truth."

"Papa, how can you say that?"

"It's true enough, Phoebe. You've always seen things in a different light, if you know what I mean."

"No, Papa, I do not know what you mean."

"You ain't always realistic, my dear, and that's a fact. Ever since you were a little girl, you've been different. You were never like the rest of us. I never really understood what you were about, if you must know the truth. You were always looking for adventure, always getting into scrapes."

"Papa, that's not true."

"As God is my witness, it is true." Clarington's eyes were grim. "Never knew quite what to do with you. Always terrified you'd get involved in a major catastrophe one day, no matter how I tried to protect you from your own reckless nature. You cannot blame a father for wanting to protect his daughter."

"I don't blame you, Papa. But sometimes I felt smothered by the rest of you. You were all so very clever."

"Clever, hah. That's a joke. The rest of us could hardly keep up with you." Clarington glowered at her. "I'll tell you something, Phoebe. As fond of you as I am, I'm damned glad that you're Wylde's responsibility now. It's his turn to try to pull in the reins, and he's welcome to the task. It's a relief to be able to stop worrying about you."

Phoebe looked down at her reticule in her lap. For some reason tears burned in her eyes. She blinked them away. "I'm sorry I've been such a problem for you all these years, Papa."

Clarington groaned. He went over to her and tugged her to her feet. "It was worth it, Phoebe." He hugged her with gruff affection. "Your Mama likes to say that you kept us all from turning into complete bores and maybe she's right. Life around you has always been interesting, I'll grant you that."

"Thank you, Papa. It's always nice to know one has a useful function." Phoebe dashed the tears from her eyes and smiled.

"Here, now, my girl, you're not going to cry or anything, are you? I ain't much good with crying females."

"No, Papa. I won't cry."

"Good." Clarington was clearly relieved. "Lord knows it hasn't always been easy and I may have made a few mistakes along the way. But I swear I only did what I thought I had to in order to keep you from coming to grief."

"I understand, Papa."

"Excellent," Clarington said. He patted her shoulder. "Excellent. Well, then. That's that, eh? No offense, my dear, but I'm rather glad you're Wylde's problem now."

"And he is definitely my problem." Phoebe retied her bonnet strings. "I must be off, Papa. Thank you for telling me what you know of the truth about the situation with Neil."

Clarington was alarmed. "See here, now, I told you the whole truth, not just bits and pieces."

"Good-bye, Papa." Phoebe paused at the door. "Oh, by the way, I am planning a wonderful house party at Devil's Mist at the end of the Season. I am anxious for you and Mama and everyone else to see my new home."

"We shall certainly be there," Clarington assured her swiftly. He hesitated. "Phoebe, you won't give Wylde any unnecessary trouble, will you? He's a good man, but I don't know how patient he'll be if you make life difficult for him. He's accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed. Give him time to get used to your ways."

"Do not concern yourself, Papa. I would not dream of giving Wylde any unnecessary trouble." Only the absolutely necessary amount, she added silently.

Phoebe was still mulling over the conversation in her father's study later that day when she alighted from the carriage in front of Green's Bookshop. George, the footman who had accompanied her on the shopping expedition, held the door open for her and her maid.

Phoebe glanced across the street as she was handed down from the vehicle. A small man in a green cap was watching her intently. When he saw her look at him, he jerked his eyes away from her and pretended to study the contents of a shop window.

"Betsy, do you know that man?" Phoebe asked as they started up the steps of the bookshop.

Betsy glanced at the small man and shook her head. "No, ma'am. Is somethirt' wrong?"

"I don't know," Phoebe said. "But I am almost certain I saw him earlier when we came out of the milliner's. I had the feeling he was watching me."

Betsy frowned. "Shall I tell George to run him off?"

Phoebe eyed the little man thoughtfully. "No, let's just wait and see if he is still about when we come out of Green's."

Phoebe went on up the steps and into the bookshop. She forgot all about the mysterious little man as Mr. Green came forward to greet her. The elderly bookshop owner was smiling in satisfaction.

"Welcome, welcome, Lady Wylde. I am delighted you have come so quickly. As I said in my note, I have the volume you requested."

"The precise copy?"

"I am certain of it. You may examine it at once."

"Wherever did you find it?" Phoebe asked.

"Through a contact in Yorkshire. Wait here and I shall fetch it."

Mr. Green disappeared into his back room and reappeared a moment later with an old volume bound in red Moroccan leather. Phoebe opened the book carefully and read the inscription on the flyleaf: