Mischief (31 page)

“What would you know about me?” Matthias asked softly.

“I know what my mother told me after my father died. I know of the rumors surrounding your association with Rutledge. I know that you were accounted wild and reckless. That you shot a man named Exelby several years ago. Some say you killed Vanneck in cold blood only this morning. I know a great deal about you, sir.”

“So does my wife,” Matthias mused. “She has heard all the tales that you have heard. But she married me regardless. What do you think prompted her to do that?”

Hugo looked taken aback. “How would I know?” He cleared his throat. “Lady Colchester is said to be an Original.”

“She is that. Definitely one of a kind. And I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Matthias pulled himself out of his brief reverie. “She told me that you and I have something in common.”

“What could we possibly share?” Hugo demanded scornfully.

“Fathers who chose not to take responsibility for their sons.”

Hugo stared at him. “That is outrageous. The most outrageous thing that I have ever heard.”

“An hour ago I told my wife that she was talking nonsense. But now that I’ve pondered the matter further, I do believe she has a point.”

“What point?”

“Does it occur to you, Bagshaw, that your father and mine both left their sons to pick up the pieces of the messes that they themselves had created?”

“My father did not create a mess,” Hugo retorted passionately. “You ruined him at cards.”

“As I told Imogen, this was a complete waste of time.” Matthias glanced out the window and recognized
the neighborhood. The hackney coachman had followed instructions.

“So it was,” Hugo said sullenly.

Matthias rapped on the roof of the carriage to signal the coachman to halt. “I believe I shall walk from here. I need some fresh air.”

Hugo glanced out the window, confused. “This is not your address.”

“I am aware of that.”

The hackney rumbled to a halt. Matthias opened the door and got out. Then he turned to look back at Hugo. “Remember what I said, Bagshaw. Pursue your vengeance if you feel you must. But do not use my sister as a shield. You are not your father. Something tells me that you are made of sterner stuff than he was. You can face your problems as a man.”

“Damn you, Colchester,” Hugo whispered.

“You might start by making a few inquiries of your father’s old solicitor. He can tell you what really happened to the family finances.” Matthias started to close the carriage door.

“Colchester, wait.”

Matthias paused. “What is it?”

“You forgot to warn me that I must not pay my addresses to your sister.”

“Did I?”

Hugo scowled. “Well?”

“Well, what? I have other matters to attend to this evening, Bagshaw. You must excuse me.”

“Are you telling me that I will be welcome in your house?”

Matthias smiled slightly. “Why don’t you pay a visit and find out for yourself?” He slammed the door and walked off down the street without a backward glance.

He was in a quiet, respectable area of Town. The dark expanse of a long, narrow park loomed between two rows of modest town houses. A few of the residences were dark, but windows were still lit in the majority. The rumors
had been correct on one point, Matthias thought. Vanneck’s fortunes had definitely plummeted. Until a few months ago Vanneck had lived in a much larger house in a wealthier neighborhood.

The notion of paying a late night visit to Vanneck’s residence had occurred to him that afternoon as he reflected again on the events of the morning. Matthias had said nothing to Imogen of his plans because he suspected that she would have insisted on accompanying him.

He came to a halt and studied the twin rows of town houses. The one in which Vanneck had lived was darkened.

Matthias stood on the street for a long time, reflecting on the various possibilities that presented themselves. Eventually he walked around the corner and found the shadowed alley that would lead him to the back of Vanneck’s town house.

There was sufficient moonlight to allow Matthias to find his way to the gate that opened onto the small garden. The hinges squeaked in the darkness.

He closed the gate as gently as possible and went through the garden to the kitchen door. Fortunately, he was able to see very well at night. The ability had come in handy over the years.

He was surprised to discover that the kitchen door was open. The departing servants had evidently forgotten to lock up securely before they left for their own homes.

Matthias stepped into the kitchen and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the deeper shadows. Then he removed the candle he had brought with him from the pocket of his greatcoat. He lit it.

Shielding the weak flame with one hand, he started down the long hall that divided the first floor of the house. He was not certain what he was looking for, but he intended to start his search in Vanneck’s study. It was the most logical place to begin.

He found the cluttered chamber on the left side of the hall. Vanneck’s desk was littered with a jumble of
papers. Matthias glanced at the inkstand and saw that the lid was open on the small bottle of ink. A quill pen lay nearby. It was as if Vanneck had been interrupted in the midst of writing a letter or a note.

Matthias set down the candle and picked up the first sheet of foolscap. He paused when he noticed several small, dark stains on one of the papers. He held the paper closer to the light. Not ink spots. It was possible that the dried droplets had been caused by spilled tea or claret, but Matthias did not think that was the case.

He was almost certain that the stains were dried blood.

Glancing down, he saw a much larger, more ominous-looking patch on the carpet near the toe of his boot.

Something stirred the hair on the nape of his neck just as he bent down to take a closer look at the dark stain. He did not need the almost inaudible scrape of a shoe on the carpet to warn him that he was not alone in the study.

He flung himself to the side just as something very large and very heavy slammed downward toward his head. There was a splintering crash as a heavy candlestick struck the edge of the desk.

Matthias twisted and came up out of the crouch just as his attacker raised the candlestick for another blow.

Matthias avoided the second swing of the candlestick by no more than scant inches. He did not allow his assailant time for a third attempt. He slipped to the side, using one of the movements he had learned from an ancient treatise on Zamarian fighting methods.

Before his opponent could alter course, Matthias kicked out with his booted foot. The blow slammed his attacker back onto the top of the desk. Quill, papers, and inkstand cascaded off the far side.

The attacker grunted heavily and scrambled to get off the desk. He was hampered by his cloak and a thick woolen scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. His hair was covered by a cap that was jammed securely onto his head.

A rustle of sound in the hallway alerted Matthias just as he was about to launch himself across the desk. There was not one, but two people in the house with him. The face of the second figure was lost in the shadows of a cloak hood and scarf.

Even as Matthias watched, the newcomer raised one
arm. Candlelight glinted on the barrel of a small pistol in a heavily gloved hand. Matthias seized the candlestick that had nearly broken his skull and hurled it toward the figure in the doorway.

The pistol exploded just as the heavy candlestick struck the second attacker in the chest. Matthias heard the ball thud into the oak paneling behind him and knew he now had some time. It would take a few minutes for the second assailant to reload the tiny one-shot pistol.

Matthias leaped over the top of the desk and came down on top of the first man, who was struggling to get to his feet.

The impact sent both men down onto the carpet. They rolled violently into a chair and then back toward the desk. Matthias avoided a bunched fist and raised his own hand for a blow. At the last instant he sensed the approach of the second villain.

Resorting again to one of the Zamarian techniques he had practiced for years, he twisted to the side and uncoiled to his feet. Cold fire lanced through his arm.

He ignored the pain and lashed out with one booted foot in a swift, brutal arc that caught the first man just as he rose from the floor. The man reeled back against the desk.

Matthias readied himself for the next onslaught, but to his surprise, both of his assailants turned and rushed from the study. Their shoes echoed on the tile in the hall as they dashed toward the rear of the house.

Prepared and braced for another attack, Matthias was momentarily disconcerted by his opponents’ flight.

He raced out of the study into the hall, but he knew he was too late. He heard the kitchen door slam shut behind his quarry.

“Hell’s teeth.”

He put out a hand and flattened it against the wall to steady himself while he drew several deep breaths. He was feeling oddly dazed.

Matthias frowned. What the devil was the matter with
him? he wondered. The battle had not lasted more than a few minutes, and he considered himself to be in excellent physical condition.

It occurred to him that the fire in his left arm was no longer an icy flame. It was now a hellish blaze. He glanced down and saw that the sleeve of his coat had been slashed open. There was enough light from the single candle that still burned in the study to see the color of his own blood as it saturated the expensive fabric.

His opponents had been well armed. One had carried a pistol. The other had wielded a knife. Whatever it was that they had sought in Vanneck’s house had been very important to them.

Matthias wondered if they had found it.

He ripped off his neck cloth, tied it quickly around his bleeding arm, and then turned back to examine Vanneck’s study. He made himself think the way he had trained himself to think when he had searched the ghostly ruins of ancient Zamar.

A
n hour later Matthias reposed on the dolphin sofa in the comfort of his own library and listened as Imogen flew down the stairs. He grinned in spite of the discomfort he was experiencing as Ufton finished stitching up the knife wound.

“
Injured?
” Imogen’s voice penetrated the closed door of the library with no difficulty. Matthias would not have been astonished to learn that passersby outside in the street heard her. “What the bloody hell do you mean, he is injured? Where is he? How badly is he hurt? Has Ufton sent for a doctor?”

Imogen’s rapid string of questions was punctuated by the staccato beat of her footsteps on the stairs. “Ufton is tending him? Ufton?
Ufton?
Ufton is a butler, for heaven’s sake, not a doctor.”

“Madam is concerned,” Ufton noted as he carefully secured the white bandage around Matthias’s arm.

“Apparently.” Matthias closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa. He smiled to himself. “Odd, having a wife around the house.”

“No offense, my lord, but Lady Colchester is a trifle more odd than most wives.”

“Yes, I suspect she is,” Matthias said.

He listened contentedly as Imogen continued to hurl orders and demand more information.

“See to it that his bed is turned down at once,” she said to someone. “You. Charles, yes, you. Prepare a litter of some sort that we can use to carry his lordship upstairs.”

Matthias stirred and reluctantly opened his eyes. “I suppose one of us had better stop her before she converts the entire house into a hospital.”

Ufton blanched. “Pray, do not look at me when you suggest that someone should attempt to halt Lady Colchester’s chosen course of action, sir.”

“I have never before known you to lack nerve and fortitude, Ufton.”

“I have never before been obliged to deal with a lady of madam’s peculiar temperament.”

“That makes two of us.”

Outside in the hall, Imogen’s voice rose. “That is blood on the tile, is it not? Colchester’s blood. Dear God. Bring bandages. Water. And a needle and thread. Hurry, for God’s sake.”

“Brace yourself, Ufton.” Matthias glanced toward the door. “She is almost upon us.”

Ufton sighed as he tended to the bandage.

The library door slammed open and Imogen, garbed in a chintz wrapper and a frilly little white cap, rushed into the room. Her wide, alarmed eyes went instantly to the sofa. Matthias tried to look both heroic and tragic.

“Matthias, what on earth has happened?” She skidded to a halt near the sofa. Her eyes flew to the white bandage around his left arm and then to the torn, bloodstained
shirt that lay wadded up on a tray. Matthias could have sworn that she paled.

“It’s all right, Imogen,” he said. “Calm yourself, my dear.”

“Dear heaven, this is all my fault. I should never have sent you off alone in a hackney carriage tonight. The streets are so dangerous. If only you had come home with the rest of us. Whatever was I thinking of when I told you to talk to Mr. Bagshaw?”

Matthias raised his hand, palm out. “You must not blame yourself for this, my dear. As you can see, I am not at death’s door. Ufton has had some experience with this sort of thing. He is far more competent than the average London doctor, I assure you.”

Imogen glared suspiciously at Ufton. “What sort of experience?”

Ufton looked down his austere nose. “I accompanied his lordship on his travels abroad in search of ancient Zamar. Accidents and adventures of all varieties were rather commonplace. I became quite adept at attending to wounds, broken bones, and the like suffered by our companions both on board ship and during the excavations.”

“Oh.” Imogen looked briefly nonplussed. Then she nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Well, if you are certain that you know what you are about, Ufton, I suppose we can rely upon you.”

“Yes, we can,” Matthias assured her. “Ufton has always had a flair for medical matters. During our travels he picked up all sorts of interesting techniques and recipes for medicines.”

“What sort of techniques and recipes?” Imogen asked.