when he had decided to make a
serious attempt to write a real novel, he had recalled those early efforts.
The knights of the Round Table had been good company for a young man. Unfortunately, they had not
been able to teach him life's hard, realistic lessons. Those he had been forced to learn on his own.
Gabriel had purchased Devil's Mist shortly after returning to England. Something about the magnificent
towers, turrets, and ramparts had appealed to him. When he looked out of the narrow windows, he
could almost see knights in full battle armor mounted on huge destriers riding through the massive gates.
Devil's Mist was not a rich man's architectural folly, like so many other grand houses. Built in the
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
thirteenth century, it had once been a working castle whose lord had apparently had a taste for secret
passages and doors that were operated by hidden mechanisms. After taking up residence, Gabriel had
spent weeks exploring the catacombs beneath the castle. The project had given him much inspiration for
his newest novel.
Gabriel went down another twisting flight of stone steps and strode into the vast hall. Rollins, the butler,
materialized from a side door.
"My lord, the post has arrived." The salver Rollins held out with grave formality contained only a single
letter. Devil's Mist did not receive a great deal of mail. Most of the letters recently had been from the
Veiled Lady.
Gabriel paused beneath a particularly fine thirteenth century battle shield that was one of several hanging
from the hall ceiling. "Thank you, Rollins. I'll read it on my walk."
"Very good, sir." Rollins turned and moved off between two stately rows of highly polished armor suits.
At the far end of the hall he opened the huge doors.
The motto carved into the stone over the doors had not been there when Gabriel had purchased the
castle. He had ordered it engraved shortly after moving into Devil's Mist. Gabriel was rather pleased with
it. It was succinct and to the point.
It was not the traditional motto of the earls of Wylde. There was no traditional Wylde motto. Gabriel
had invented this one for himself and for his heirs. Now that the title had come to his side of the family, he
had every intention of keeping it there.
It occurred to him that whatever else might be said about the Veiled Lady, she certainly suited the
Wylde motto.
Gabriel examined the letter he had received as he walked out the door. A flicker of excitement coursed
through him. It was from his London solicitor. With any luck it would contain the information for which he
had been waiting.
The world of solicitors was a small one and money talked loudly in it, just as it talked in every other
world. Gabriel had been certain his man would know Peak, the solicitor who handled the affairs of the
Veiled Lady. There could not be that many women in London who collected medieval books.
He tore open the letter as he went down the stone steps and out into the chilly April sunshine. The name
that leaped off the carefully penned page made him stop short. He stood gazing down at it in a gathering
fury.
Lady Phoebe Lay ton, youngest daughter of the Earl of Clarington.
"Hell and damnation." Gabriel could not believe his eyes. Rage poured through him. His mysterious,
illusive, fascinating Veiled Lady was none other than Clarington's youngest chit.
Gabriel crumpled the letter savagely in his fist.
The youngest daughter. Not the one who had begged him to save her from an arranged marriage eight
years ago. Not the one who had nearly gotten him killed in a duel with her brother. The other one. The
one he had never met because she had still been in the schoolroom at the time.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
She would have been no more than sixteen when Clarington had destroyed Gabriel financially and
forced him out of England. She would have
serious attempt to write a real novel, he had recalled those early efforts.
The knights of the Round Table had been good company for a young man. Unfortunately, they had not
been able to teach him life's hard, realistic lessons. Those he had been forced to learn on his own.
Gabriel had purchased Devil's Mist shortly after returning to England. Something about the magnificent
towers, turrets, and ramparts had appealed to him. When he looked out of the narrow windows, he
could almost see knights in full battle armor mounted on huge destriers riding through the massive gates.
Devil's Mist was not a rich man's architectural folly, like so many other grand houses. Built in the
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
thirteenth century, it had once been a working castle whose lord had apparently had a taste for secret
passages and doors that were operated by hidden mechanisms. After taking up residence, Gabriel had
spent weeks exploring the catacombs beneath the castle. The project had given him much inspiration for
his newest novel.
Gabriel went down another twisting flight of stone steps and strode into the vast hall. Rollins, the butler,
materialized from a side door.
"My lord, the post has arrived." The salver Rollins held out with grave formality contained only a single
letter. Devil's Mist did not receive a great deal of mail. Most of the letters recently had been from the
Veiled Lady.
Gabriel paused beneath a particularly fine thirteenth century battle shield that was one of several hanging
from the hall ceiling. "Thank you, Rollins. I'll read it on my walk."
"Very good, sir." Rollins turned and moved off between two stately rows of highly polished armor suits.
At the far end of the hall he opened the huge doors.
The motto carved into the stone over the doors had not been there when Gabriel had purchased the
castle. He had ordered it engraved shortly after moving into Devil's Mist. Gabriel was rather pleased with
it. It was succinct and to the point.
It was not the traditional motto of the earls of Wylde. There was no traditional Wylde motto. Gabriel
had invented this one for himself and for his heirs. Now that the title had come to his side of the family, he
had every intention of keeping it there.
It occurred to him that whatever else might be said about the Veiled Lady, she certainly suited the
Wylde motto.
Gabriel examined the letter he had received as he walked out the door. A flicker of excitement coursed
through him. It was from his London solicitor. With any luck it would contain the information for which he
had been waiting.
The world of solicitors was a small one and money talked loudly in it, just as it talked in every other
world. Gabriel had been certain his man would know Peak, the solicitor who handled the affairs of the
Veiled Lady. There could not be that many women in London who collected medieval books.
He tore open the letter as he went down the stone steps and out into the chilly April sunshine. The name
that leaped off the carefully penned page made him stop short. He stood gazing down at it in a gathering
fury.
Lady Phoebe Lay ton, youngest daughter of the Earl of Clarington.
"Hell and damnation." Gabriel could not believe his eyes. Rage poured through him. His mysterious,
illusive, fascinating Veiled Lady was none other than Clarington's youngest chit.
Gabriel crumpled the letter savagely in his fist.
The youngest daughter. Not the one who had begged him to save her from an arranged marriage eight
years ago. Not the one who had nearly gotten him killed in a duel with her brother. The other one. The
one he had never met because she had still been in the schoolroom at the time.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
She would have been no more than sixteen when Clarington had destroyed Gabriel financially and
forced him out of England. She would have
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