Mischief (18 page)

“I have no notion, dear.”

“Exactly. I am trapped.” Imogen slammed a palm down on her desk as she went past it. The inkstand trembled. “One would almost think that Colchester did this deliberately.”

Horatia’s needle hovered in midair. “Deliberately?”

“You know very well that he has been opposed to my scheme from the start.”

“Well, he admitted at the beginning that he was extremely anxious about the thing,” Horatia conceded.

“Precisely.” Imogen frowned. “Mayhap his nerves were so frayed from the pressure of his role in this affair that he decided to put an end to my scheme in this underhanded fashion.”

“As I am forever telling you, Imogen, Colchester is not the sort to suffer from frayed nerves.”

“And as I am forever explaining to you, he is possessed of very delicate sensibilities. That sort often suffers from a weakness of the nerves.” Imogen narrowed her eyes as the suspicion built within her. “Last night, just before the disaster, he told me that Vanneck was attempting to form a secret consortium. My scheme was coming to fruition. I could see that the news had clearly shaken
Colchester. Evidently I failed to understand just how overset he was.”

“Indeed.”

“He must have panicked.”

“Panicked? Colchester?”

“Perhaps he was so disturbed and anxious that he took drastic action to crush my scheme before it could go any further.”

Horatia contemplated that notion. “I suppose this engagement does complicate your plans.”

“It has made a complete tangle of them,” Imogen snapped. “The idea was to make Vanneck believe that he was in competition with Colchester.”

“I know.”

“I wanted him to think that I was willing to form a partnership with whomever would finance an expedition to Zamar. I wanted Vanneck to believe that he had every chance of convincing me to let him become my partner.” Imogen swept out a hand and missed a vase of flowers by inches. “Now he will likely abandon any notion of forming his consortium.”

“True. Under the circumstances, Vanneck will naturally assume that he no longer has a chance at the Queen’s Seal. Colchester has cut him out very neatly, has he not? No lady can form a business partnership of the sort you intend with one man when she is engaged to marry another. It isn’t done.”

“Precisely.” Imogen came to a halt beside her desk and drummed her fingers on the polished surface. “It isn’t done. The lady’s loyalty must lie with her future husband, who will control her business affairs. Colchester knows that. Which is why I strongly suspect that this is a desperate ploy on his part. I fear it may have worked. He has effectively destroyed my scheme.”

Horatia glanced at Imogen over her spectacles. “You make this sound as if it were all Colchester’s fault. A nefarious plot to ruin your plans.”

“I suspect that is just what it was.”

“May I ask how he managed to compromise you on his own? Did he lure you into a secluded portion of the garden and force his attentions upon you?”

Imogen blushed furiously. “Not exactly.”

The memories of Matthias’s lovemaking had kept her awake for the better part of the night. The emotions that she had experienced in his arms had left her feeling unsettled and dazed. The mixture of excitement and unaccustomed sensations had been almost too much even for her strong nerves.

She had gazed at the ceiling for hours, wondering what sort of impact those strange sensations had had on Matthias. She was not altogether certain that he had felt anything particularly unusual. He had seemed very much in command of himself when Lady Lyndhurst and Alastair had appeared.

Imogen stifled a small sigh. She feared that whatever emotion Matthias had experienced last night had not been of a deeply stirring nature, as hers had most definitely been. The dream shortly before dawn had not helped settle her uneasy emotions.

Dawn, however, had brought a clearer head and a full realization of just what had been lost. And Horatia’s gentle accusation of complicity only made matters worse. Very well, she had kissed Matthias willingly, Imogen thought. But matters would have ended right there if he had not employed exotic Zamarian lovemaking techniques to seduce her senses.

“Well, dear?” Horatia prompted.

Imogen cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “I told you, we went out into the garden to discuss the progress of my plans. We were discovered together by Lady Lyndhurst and Alastair Drake.”

“Merely being discovered together in the garden would not have necessitated an engagement announcement. Not at your age, my dear.”

“I am aware of that.” Imogen sought for a way to change the subject. She did not want to go into detail
about the events of last night. “I fear Lady Lyndhurst and Alastair assumed the worst.”

“The gossip that went through the ballroom indicated that they discovered you in a state of complete dishabille,” Horatia said with rare ruthlessness. “I heard that your hair was down about your shoulders. Your dress was rumpled and one of your shoes had come off. The bodice of your gown appeared to have come partially undone. According to one report, Colchester’s gloves and your turban were lying on the grass.”

Imogen was horrified. “You heard all those lurid details?”

“And more.” Horatia sighed. “A great deal more. They are calling you Immodest Imogen again, my dear. You would have been ruined this morning if Colchester had not waved a magic wand and declared that the pair of you were engaged.”

Imogen collapsed into the chair behind her desk and covered her face with her hands. She tried to school her thoughts so that she could think logically and coherently. But her brain had gone to mush.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered. “What am I to do now?”

“You really must watch your language while we are in Town, dear,” Horatia chided. “I realize that you learned the habit of swearing from your mother, but I must remind you that she was considered unconventional.”

Imogen glared at Horatia through her fingers. “I beg your pardon, Aunt. But
bloody hell
seems to be the only adequate expression I can find at the moment.”

“Nonsense. A lady can always find the appropriate words for any occasion.”

A brief peremptory knock interrupted Imogen before she could think of a suitable response. Mrs. Vine opened the study door. Her heavy face was set in its customary morose lines.

“A message for ye, Miss Waterstone.” She held a
folded piece of paper in one work-worn fist. “A lad brought it round to the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

Imogen quickly lowered her hands and folded them on top of her desk. “Let me have it, please, Mrs. Vine.”

The housekeeper trudged into the room and put the note on the desk. Then she turned around and lumbered back toward the door.

“Hold a moment, Mrs. Vine.” Imogen picked up the paper and unfolded it. “I may wish to send a reply.”

“As you wish, ma’am.” Mrs. Vine waited stoically in the doorway.

Imogen glanced at the short message.

It was too much. “Overwrought?” Imogen growled. “Me? I am not the one with weak nerves.”

Horatia gave her an inquiring look. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” Imogen crumpled the note in her hand. “Yes, Mrs. Vine, I definitely wish to send a reply.”

Imogen snatched a sheet of foolscap from the drawer, dipped a quill in ink, and scrawled a hasty message.

Imogen carefully folded and sealed the letter and then held it out to Mrs. Vine.

“Please see that this is delivered immediately.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Vine shook her head as she took the letter. “Messages comin’ and goin’, goin’ and comin’. Puts me in mind of another tenant I had a few years back. A little demi-rep. Member of the fancy set her up here for a few months. The two of ’em was always sendin’ messages back and forth. When they weren’t tumblin’ about in the bed, that is.”

Imogen was briefly distracted. “Someone’s mistress once lived in this house, Mrs. Vine?”

“Charming little thing, she was. But she was French, y’know. Took a lover on the side. Another one of the fancy.” Mrs. Vine sighed. “She had good taste, I’ll say that for her. But her first lover, the one what paid the rent, found the pair of ’em in bed. Had a fit. Pulled a pistol out of her reticule and shot the bit o’ muslin in the shoulder. Terrible mess on the sheets. Next thing I know, her other lover—”

“One moment here, Mrs. Vine.” Horatia eyed her intently. “Are you saying that the member of the ton who paid the rent for the little demi-rep was a lady?”

“Aye. Lady Petry. Always paid the rent on time, she did.”

“What happened?” Imogen asked, fascinated.

“Well, the little demi-rep weren’t bad hurt. I fixed her up and then all three of ’em started cryin’ and apologizin’ and carryin’ on. The next thing I know they asked me to bring ’em a tray of tea in the parlor. By the time I got back from the kitchen, everything was settled.”

“Settled?” Horatia asked.

“Turns out that Lady Petry and Lady Arlon, that’s the
lady who was in bed with Lady Petry’s bit o’ muslin, had both secretly been in love with each other for years.”

“Good heavens,” Horatia breathed. “Lady Petry and Lady Arlon?”

“Neither of ’em had ever told the other,” Mrs. Vine explained. “Well, in the end they gave the bit o’ muslin a nice sum of money and sent her on her way. She was happy enough with what she got out of the whole thing. Set herself up in business as a dressmaker. Madame Maud, she calls herself. Very exclusive.”

T
he second note from Colchester arrived within the hour. When Mrs. Vine brought it into the study, Imogen eyed it askance. Something told her that she did not want to read it. Slowly she unfolded the crisp paper.

Horatia looked up expectantly. “From his lordship?”

“Yes.” Imogen crushed the second note in her fist. “Who would have thought that a man who suffered from a weakness of the nerves would be so good at intimidation?”

P
atricia returned from her first round of social calls at four-thirty that afternoon. Matthias was in his library. He was in the process of concluding some notes for a lecture he was scheduled to deliver to an audience at the Zamarian Society. He heard Ufton open the front door and greet his sister.

A moment later Ufton rapped once on the library door. Matthias put down his quill. “Enter.”

Ufton opened the door. Patricia, dressed in one of her new afternoon gowns, hurried into the room. She looked distraught.

“Matthias, I must speak with you.”

“Can it wait? I’m about to leave for an appointment. Miss Waterstone and I are to drive in the park this afternoon.”

“It is Miss Waterstone I wish to discuss,” Patricia said with surprising firmness.

Matthias leaned back in his chair and surveyed his sister. “You no doubt have some questions pertaining to my engagement.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Patricia removed her bonnet and clutched it very tightly in front of her with both hands. “I have just come from Lady Lyndhurst’s. She was kind enough to invite me to call upon her this afternoon.”

“I know. I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

“Very much. She conducts a salon, you know. The members are studying Zamar. It is really quite interesting. I have been asked to join them.”

“Indeed.”

“But that is not what I wish to speak to you about.” Patricia took a deep breath, obviously bracing herself for what she had to say next. “I must tell you, sir, that today I heard some extremely distressing news about Miss Waterstone.”

Matthias stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry to tell you this, Colchester, but Miss
Waterstone was a topic of conversation at the salon. I felt you should know.”

“A topic of conversation.” Matthias wrapped his hands around the carved arms of his chair. “Do you mean to say that you listened to gossip about my fiancée?”

Patricia blanched at his tone. “I thought you should know that her name is on everyone’s lips. Apparently she has a certain history. You will not believe it, but they actually call her Immodest Imogen.”