Mischief (11 page)

“My unfortunate reputation sometimes has that effect on people.”

Matthias leaned into the carriage just before the footman closed the door. He pinned Imogen in the glow of the carriage lamps, his gaze grim with frustration. “I wish to speak with you, Miss Waterstone. Obviously that is not possible tonight.” He cast a brief, irritated glance over his shoulder at Lady Blunt’s crowded front steps, where guests were arriving and departing in a scene of mild chaos. “I shall call on you tomorrow at eleven. Make certain that you are at home.”

Imogen raised her brows at his cool presumption, but she told herself that she must make allowances. It had obviously been a trying evening for him, although for her part she thought things had gone rather well. “I shall look forward to your visit, my lord.”

She gave him an encouraging smile, hoping to bolster his flagging spirits, but the expression in his eyes merely darkened in response. He inclined his head in a brusquely civil farewell. The lamplight iced the streak of silver in his hair.

“I shall bid you both good evening.” He stepped back and turned away. The footman closed the door.

Imogen watched Matthias disappear into the shadows that gathered in the street. Then she glanced at the front door of the large town house. Vanneck emerged onto the front step. His eyes met hers for an instant before the movement of the carriage broke the connection.

Imogen sat very still against the cushions. This was the first glimpse she’d had of Vanneck since the funeral. Three additional years of intemperate living had not been kind. He appeared to have grown more malevolent.

“I must say, nothing is ever dull when Colchester is in the vicinity.” Horatia raised her lorgnette to peer at Imogen. “And as the same can be said of you, my dear, I suspect we are in for a lively time of it.” She did not appear pleased by the prospect.

Imogen drew her thoughts back from the problem of Vanneck. “Who was the lady who fainted at the sight of Colchester?”

“He does have a peculiar effect on certain females, does he not? First Bess, and now Theodosia Slott.”

“Bess’s reaction was understandable, given the circumstances. She took him for a ghost or a vampire. But what of this Theodosia Slott? What is her excuse?”

Horatia gazed out into the crowded street. “It’s an old tale and, as is the case with so many of the old stories concerning Colchester, I have no notion of how much of it is true and how much is fiction.”

“Tell me what you know, Aunt Horatia.”

Horatia glanced at her. “I thought you did not wish to hear gossip about his lordship.”

“I have begun to wonder if perhaps it would be wiser to be more fully informed. It is difficult to know how to respond to a situation when one does not know what is going on.”

“I see.” Horatia settled back with a thoughtful expression. “Theodosia Slott was the reigning belle of her Season. She contracted an excellent marriage to Mr. Harold
Slott. His family was in shipping, I believe. Mr. Slott was somewhat elderly, as I recall.”

Imogen grew impatient. “Yes, yes. Do go on. What happened?”

“Nothing all that unusual. Theodosia did her duty by her husband. Gave him an heir. And then she promptly formed a connection with a dashing young man named Jonathan Exelby.”

“Are you saying Theodosia and Exelby were lovers?”

“Yes. Exelby frequented the most notorious gaming hells. One in particular, The Lost Soul, was said to be his favorite haunt. It was very popular with the young bloods of the ton. Still is, for that matter. In any event, one night he encountered Colchester there and the two men got into a violent quarrel. A dawn meeting was arranged.”

Imogen was horrified. “Colchester was in a duel?”

“That is the story.” Horatia made a small, dismissing movement with one hand. “No one will ever confirm it, of course. Dueling is illegal. The parties involved rarely discuss the matter.”

“But he could have been killed.”

“From all accounts, it was Exelby who was killed.”

“I don’t believe it.” Imogen felt her mouth go dry.

Horatia gave a small shrug. “To my knowledge, Exelby was never seen again following the events of that dawn. He simply disappeared. Dead and buried in an unmarked grave, people say. He had no family to raise questions.”

“There must be more to the story.”

“There is, actually.” Horatia warmed to her tale. “Theodosia claims that to add insult to injury, Colchester showed up on her doorstep later that same morning to claim her favors.”

“
What?
”

“Colchester apparently told her that she had been the subject of the quarrel and, as he had won the duel, he naturally expected to take her lover’s place in her bed. She claims she had him thrown out into the street.”

Imogen was speechless for a second. When she managed to pull herself together, she exploded in protest. “Outrageous.”

“I assure you, it was the
on-dit
of the Season. I recall it well because the scandal even replaced the dreadful story of the Demon Twins of Dunstoke Castle which had been on everyone’s lips that year.”

Imogen was briefly distracted. “Demon Twins?”

“A brother and sister who conspired to burn down a house in the north. It happened shortly before the Season began,” Horatia explained. “Apparently the sister’s aged husband was in his bed at the time. Charred him to a cinder. The Demon Twins were said to have made off with the husband’s hoard of gems.”

“Were the twins ever caught?”

“No. They disappeared along with the fortune. For a time everyone wondered if they would show up in London and attempt to seduce and murder another wealthy old man, but they never appeared. Left for the Continent, no doubt. In any event, as I said, people stopped talking about the Demon Twins after the Colchester affair.”

Imogen frowned. “Colchester would never have gotten involved in such a thing.”

“Well, as he has never bothered to confirm or deny the tale, it stands to this day. And Theodosia still dines out on it. As you can see, she works hard to keep the drama alive.”

Imogen wrinkled her nose. “She certainly does. That was a fine bit of theater she staged tonight. But it is too ridiculous to be true. Colchester would never engage in a duel, let alone kill his opponent and then attempt to seduce the poor man’s lover.”

“You did not know Colchester in those days, my dear.” Horatia paused. “In point of fact, you do not know him very well today either.”

“On the contrary, I am beginning to believe that I am better acquainted with him than with anyone else in Town.”

Horatia was amazed. “What makes you think that?”

“We have so much in common,” Imogen said. “And I can assure you that he is far too sensible to allow himself to be drawn into a silly quarrel over a female such as Theodosia Slott. His nerves would never survive a violent encounter. Furthermore, I cannot for one moment imagine Colchester frequenting sordid gaming hells.”

“No?”

“Of course not,” Imogen said. “He is a man of delicate sensibilities and refined taste. He is simply not the sort to seek his entertainments in gaming hells.”

“My dear, Colchester owned the hell in question.”

I
mogen would not escape so easily the next time, Matthias promised himself as he alighted from his carriage. He went up the steps of his town house with a sense of resolve. He would get the answers to his questions tomorrow when he called upon her. One way or another, he intended to find out exactly what had happened between Vanneck and Imogen three years ago. At the moment he was inclined to believe that Society’s version was not entirely accurate. It seldom was.

Ufton opened the door with perfect timing. His entirely bald head gleamed in the light of the wall sconces. He regarded Matthias with his customary air of unflappable composure. “I trust you had a pleasant evening, sir.”

Matthias stripped off his gloves and tossed them to the butler. “I had an interesting evening.”

“Indeed. I fear it is about to become even more so, my lord.”

Matthias paused halfway across the hall and turned to glance back over his shoulder. He and Ufton had known each other a very long time. “What the devil does that mean?”

“You have guests, my lord.”

“At this hour? Who is it? Felix? Plummer?”

“Your, uh, sister, my lord. And her companion.”

“If this is your notion of a joke, Ufton, allow me to inform you that you are growing senile.”

Ufton drew himself up and contrived to appear mortally offended. “I assure you, sir, I do not jest. Indeed, I never jest. You should know that. You have told me often enough that I have absolutely no sense of humor.”

“Damnation, man, I haven’t got a sister—” Matthias broke off abruptly. He stared at Ufton. “Bloody hell. You cannot mean my half sister?”

“Lady Patricia Marshall, sir.” Ufton’s eyes held a certain sympathy. “And her companion, a Miss Grice.” Reaching around Matthias, he silently opened the library door.

Matthias went cold as he gazed into the firelit chamber. The library was his sanctum sanctorum, his retreat, his lair. No one should be in this room without his personal invitation.

Many found the chamber strange and oppressive with its Zamarian decoration and exotic hues. Others thought it fascinating, although some said it made them uneasy. Matthias was not concerned with the opinions of his visitors. The library had been created to remind him of ancient Zamar.

Every time he walked into this room, he strode into another world, a place where the long-lost past enveloped him and locked out the present and the future. There, among the ghosts of an ancient people, he could occasionally forget the ghosts of his own past. He spent hours at a time in this chamber, engaged in the task of unraveling the clues left by those who had inhabited mysterious Zamar.

Years earlier Matthias had discovered that if he concentrated sufficiently on the quest to understand ancient Zamar, he could ignore the unanswerable need that seethed deep beneath the ice inside him.

This chamber was a perfect replica of his most astounding
discovery, the great library he had found hidden in the labyrinth beneath the ruins of the lost city.

Rich, heavily fringed hangings of Zamarian green and gold were suspended from the ceiling. The floor was covered in matching carpet. Elaborately carved and gilded columns jutted out from the walls of the room, giving the impression of an ancient colonnade.

The bookcases were crammed with volumes of all shapes and sizes. Greek, Latin, and other far more obscure texts filled their pages. Inscribed clay tablets and documents written on rolls of a material that resembled papyrus but had proved more durable over the centuries were stacked on several shelves. Matthias had brought the tablets and the scrolls out of the secret library as though they had been fashioned of solid gold and priceless gems. Indeed, their true value to him had been far higher than the glittering treasures Rutledge had craved.

Painted scenes of the ruins of Zamar decorated the walls between the elaborate columns. Stone statues depicting Zamaris and Anizamara loomed in opposite corners. The furniture was ornamented with the dolphins and shells that were so prevalent in Zamarian art.

Matthias walked slowly into the firelit chamber.

Two women, one young, one of middle years, sat stiffly on the dolphin sofa in front of the hearth. They hovered close together, evidently intimidated by their surroundings.

Both women were garbed in dusty traveling gowns. There was an air of weariness and apprehension about them. Each gave a start when Matthias entered the library, as if the time they had spent waiting for him had unnerved them. The younger one turned an anxious face toward Matthias.

He found himself looking into silvery-gray eyes that were mirror images of his own. She would have been quite pretty if she had not looked so desperate, he thought dispassionately. A classical nose and an elegant chin promised a hint of backbone beneath the nervous expression.
Her hair was somewhat lighter than his, a dark brown hue that had no doubt come from her mother. She was willowy and graceful. He was surprised to note that her gown was somewhat worn and shabby.

This was Patricia, the half sister he had never met, never wanted to meet. This was his father’s other offspring, the beloved daughter who had been wanted, adored, sheltered, and protected; the babe whose mother had not been obliged to coerce her seducer into marriage.

This was the daughter of the woman who had played her cards far more cautiously than his own mother had played hers, Matthias thought. The daughter of the paragon.

He came to a halt in the center of the library. “Good evening. I am Colchester. It’s rather late. May I ask what brings you here?” Matthias kept his voice very even. It was an old trick, one he had developed before he was twenty and which had become a habit over the years. It effectively concealed all emotion, all doubt, all hope. It asked no quarter and it promised none.

Patricia was apparently struck speechless by his icy greeting. She gazed at him with huge, frantic eyes, looking as if she were about to burst into tears.

It was the older woman, the one with years of bitterness and resignation etched into her face, who drew herself up and regarded him with a degree of determination. “My lord, I am Miss Grice,” she announced. “I accompanied your sister on her journey to London. She informed me that you would reimburse me for my expenses and pay me a fee for my services as her companion.”

“Did she?” Matthias crossed the room to the brandy table. He removed the top of the crystal decanter and deliberately poured himself a healthy dose of the contents. “And why does she not pay you herself? My solicitor informs me that she is well provided for according to the terms of my father’s will.”

“I cannot pay her because I haven’t got any money,” Patricia burst out. “Every time my quarterly allowance
arrives, my uncle takes it all and spends it on his hounds and his horses and his gaming. I was obliged to pawn my mother’s necklace to purchase a ticket on the stage.”

Matthias paused with the glass halfway to his mouth. “Your uncle?” He recalled the name his solicitor had mentioned. Someone on her mother’s side. “That would be Poole?”