Mischief (43 page)

The world spun again when Matthias lifted her into a hackney coach. She turned her face into Matthias’s shoulder and gritted her teeth. His arms tightened around her.

After what seemed a century of pain, she realized that the coach had come to a halt. Matthias carried her up the steps of the town house. The door opened.

Raised voices sounded from the vicinity of the drawing room. A violent quarrel was in progress, Imogen realized.

“Take your hands off her,” Hugo snarled. “Or I’ll smash your face.”

“She’s my niece,” another man roared. “I’ll do what I like with her.”

“Patricia is not going anywhere with you,” Hugo vowed. “Stand aside. I am prepared to defend her to the death.”

“Ufton,” Matthias bellowed. “Where in the name of God are you?”

“Here, sir,” Ufton said. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t hear you at the door. We’ve got a bit of a problem on our hands.”

“It can wait. Imogen has been shot.”

Imogen opened her eyes and saw Ufton peering down at her with deep concern. “Hello, Ufton.” She was startled at the weakness in her own voice.

“Bring her into the library at once,” Ufton said.

Voices rose again in the drawing room.

“That must be Patricia’s dreadful uncle, Mr. Poole,” Imogen whispered. “He’s here, isn’t he, Ufton?”

“Says he’s come to take Lady Patricia back to Devon with him,” Ufton explained as he opened the library door. “Mr. Bagshaw objects.”

Imogen smiled. “Good for Hugo.”

At that moment another fierce shout went up inside the drawing room. A tall, thin man with greasy hair crashed through the open doorway and sprawled on the hall floor.

For a moment the man lay, stunned, on the marble tile. Then he shook his narrow head and scowled up at Matthias with malevolent eyes. Yellow teeth flashed in his whiskers. He reminded Imogen of a rat.

“I say, you must be Colchester.” The man sat up, rubbing his jaw. “I’m Poole, Patricia’s uncle. Come to take the chit off yer hands, m’lord. That young bastard in there says you told her she could stay with you.”

Hugo came to stand in the doorway. Patricia hovered anxiously behind him.

“It’s the truth.” Hugo massaged the bruised knuckles of his right hand as he looked down at his victim. Then he met Matthias’s eyes. “You gave Patricia your word that you would not send her back to this vermin, did you not, Colchester?”

“Yes, I did.” Matthias walked into the library with Imogen in his arms. “Get rid of him, Bagshaw.”

“With pleasure.”

Imogen caught a blurred glimpse of Hugo as he reached down to haul Poole to his feet.

“Don’t touch me.” Poole reared back out of reach.
He skittered across the tile toward the front door. Hugo pursued him.

Patricia hurried across the hall as Hugo slammed the front door behind Poole. “What’s wrong with Imogen?”

“Lady Lyndhurst shot her.” Matthias settled Imogen gently down onto the dolphin sofa.

“Dear heaven,” Patricia whispered. “Is she going to … to be all right?”

“Yes,” Matthias said. The single word had the weight of a vow sealed with his own blood.

Imogen reclined against the arm of the sofa and managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m going to be fine. There is no call for all of you to look so anxious.”

“Let me see what we have here.” With an effort, Ufton managed to get Matthias out of the way so that he could examine the wound.

“Well?” Imogen demanded. The world was no longer spinning. She was feeling better by the minute, she thought.

Ufton nodded, looking quite satisfied. “Just a superficial wound, my lady. You’ll be fit in no time.” He reached for the brandy bottle. “If you’ll take a good, long swallow, madam?”

Imogen blinked. “What an excellent notion, Ufton.”

She allowed him to pour a large measure of the strong brandy down her throat. The liquid burned all the way to her stomach, but it sent a pleasant warmth through her veins. When she was finished she blinked again and gave Matthias a beatific smile. He did not return the smile. If anything, his expression became even more grim.

“If you’ll steady her, sir?” Ufton said softly.

Matthias sat down on the arm of the sofa and took hold of Imogen. He braced her against his leg, his hands gentle but unyielding.

“Forgive me, Imogen,” he said.

“For what?” Imogen scowled up at him. “You have done absolutely nothing offensive, my lord. Indeed, you
were most heroic this afternoon. It was quite thrilling. I always knew that you were, at heart, a man of action, sir.”

Ufton poured brandy into the raw wound. Imogen shrieked and fainted for the second time in her life.

Three days later Imogen was again ensconced on the Zamarian sofa, chatting with Horatia, when Patricia breezed into the library.

“How are you feeling, Imogen?” she asked as she removed her bonnet.

“Very well, thank you,” Imogen said. “My shoulder has given me a few twinges, but on the whole it is healing nicely, thanks to Ufton and his brandy treatment.”

“Do not remind me.” Patricia grimaced as she dropped her flower-trimmed bonnet on a nearby table. “I vow, I shall never forget the expression on Matthias’s face when he held you still so that Ufton could pour the brandy into your wound.”

Imogen brightened. “What sort of expression was that, would you say?”

“He looked as if he yearned to murder someone.” Patricia sat down and reached for the teapot. “At that moment I realized how he came by the name Coldblooded Colchester.”

“I expect that he was concerned about me,” Imogen
said. She had hoped that Patricia would describe Matthias’s expression as one of impassioned, heartfelt anguish for the pain he had known she was about to experience. But
murderous
was sufficient, she told herself bracingly. It implied great depth of feeling.

Horatia looked at Patricia, who was flushed and sparkling. “You appear to be in excellent spirits this afternoon, my dear. Enjoy your drive?”

“Oh, yes.” Patricia’s blush deepened. “Very much. Hugo is a true master of the ribbons. We were the center of attention in the park. By the way, Imogen, he sends you his regards and regrets that he will not see you this evening at the Sheltons’ soiree.”

Imogen wrinkled her nose. “Matthias has forbidden me to stir from the house for a fortnight. He has been absolutely adamant on the subject. Thus far I have had no success in persuading him to change his mind.”

“He says you gave him a dreadful fright the other day.” Patricia finished pouring the tea and set down the pot. “He told me that he fully expects that his delicate sensibilities will take weeks to recover.”

“Hmm.” Imogen sipped her tea. “Lately it has occurred to me that Colchester lays claim to anxious nerves and delicate sensibilities only when it is convenient for him to do so. He seems quite oblivious of them the rest of the time.”

Patricia laughed. “I believe you may be correct. Pity you will miss the parties and balls this week though. You and my brother are going to be the chief topics of conversation at every affair in Town. Today in the park Hugo and I were stopped again and again. Everyone wanted to know about the dreadful events in the Zamarian museum.”

Horatia chuckled. “I suspect that is the principal reason Colchester has insisted that Imogen cannot accept any invitations for a fortnight. He has no interest in satisfying the curiosity of the ton.”

“You are absolutely correct, Horatia,” Matthias said
from the doorway of the library. “I have better things to do than make polite conversation about a matter that has so deeply affected my nerves.”

“Ah, there you are, Colchester.” Imogen smiled at him. “We have been waiting for you. Did your friend Felix have the information you sought?”

“He did.” Matthias crossed the room and leaned down to give her a quick, possessive kiss on the mouth.

“What information?” Patricia demanded.

Imogen glanced at her. “Why, the answer to the question of what happened in the north, of course. Mr. Drake and his sister refuse to confess to anything, you know. They have guessed, correctly, that Lucy never actually wrote down the dark secret she uncovered.”

“But with the information that Imogen and I had plus what Felix Glaston had discovered, I have finally managed to put the whole story together.” Matthias sat down on the sofa next to Imogen and glanced at Horatia. “You will no doubt find this rather interesting.”

“Why is that?” Horatia asked.

“Remember the lurid tale of the infamous Demon Twins of Dunstoke Castle?”

“Of course.” Horatia’s eyes widened. “Never say that Mr. Drake and Lady Lyndhurst are the evil twins.”

“That is precisely the case,” Matthias said.

Patricia frowned in confusion. “But they aren’t twins.”

“Not all twins are identical,” Imogen reminded her as she reached for the teapot to pour a cup for Matthias.

“Just so.” Matthias frowned. “Here, let me do that. You are not to exert yourself yet.” He took the pot from Imogen’s hand. “Selena and Drake escaped the fire they set to kill old Lord Dunstoke, just as the rumors claimed. What is more, they got out with Dunstoke’s hoard of gems and jewels. They have been living off the profits for the past three years.”

Imogen’s imagination leaped to fill in the missing parts. “They assumed new identities and moved to London.
They had the money to keep up appearances and the acting skill to play the parts they had chosen. No one thought to question them.”

Matthias agreed as he poured his own tea and sat back. “But when they reached London they learned that everyone in Society was talking about the Demon Twins. An unknown brother and sister appearing on the scene would have been suspect. So, as an added measure of caution, they decided to keep their relationship a secret.”

“And then had to go on maintaining the secret after the gossip had died down,” Horatia murmured. “They could hardly announce that they were brother and sister after letting people think otherwise for several months.”

“Exactly,” Matthias said. “But then Drake began the affair with Lucy. At some point he made the slip of the tongue that made her suspicious. Probably said something about the theater or about his own acting talent. Whatever it was, it was enough to make her hire a runner, who, in turn, must have learned something of interest.”

Imogen grew thoughtful. “And three years later Lord Vanneck found Lucy’s journal. He did not learn the precise nature of the secret, but he realized that there
was
a secret of some sort. It was enough. He needed money, so he decided to try blackmailing Alastair.”

“He convinced Drake that he knew what Lucy had known, and in the process he signed his own death warrant,” Matthias concluded. “The Polite World was everything to Drake and his sister. They were willing to kill to protect the positions they had created for themselves.”

Patricia shuddered. “Will they hang, do you think?”

“Transported to Australia, most likely,” Matthias said. “It’s the usual fate for that sort, now that we can no longer ship convicts to America.”

Imogen grimaced. “Something tells me Selena and Alastair will do very well in the colonies.”

She was standing in a black-draped bedchamber this time. Somehow she knew that it was nearly midnight. The windows were open. Cold night air caused the candles to flicker. There was no sign of Matthias. She turned slowly, calling his name. There was no answer
.

She was suddenly seized by a sense of panic. She had to find Matthias. She hurried out of the bedchamber and ran through Uncle Selwyn’s funereal house. Desperation and dread consumed her. If she did not find him, they would both be lost forever in this dreadful mausoleum
.…

She searched every dark room in the mansion until only the library remained. She looked at the closed door, afraid to open it. If Matthias was not inside, she would never find him. They would both be alone forever
.

Slowly she reached out her hand to twist the knob
 …

“G
ood morning, my dear,” Matthias said.

The fragments of the dream dissolved in a heartbeat. Imogen opened her eyes and saw Matthias standing at the foot of the bed. He had a small, ornately carved chest tucked under one arm and a copy of the
Zamarian Review
in his hand.

“Sorry to awaken you,” he said. “But I thought you’d like to know that the newest edition of the
Review
has just arrived. You will never guess what that arrogant, presumptuous, overbearing I. A. Stone has dared to write this time.”

Imogen yawned and sat up against the pillows. She examined Matthias surreptitiously. He looked very solid and quite real. He was dressed in his shirt-sleeves and breeches. Sunlight gleamed on the icy silver in his hair. His eyes were the clear gray of an early dawn.

She suddenly realized that there was a great deal of light pouring through the window. “Good heavens, what time is it?”

“Not quite ten o’clock.” Matthias looked amused.

“That is impossible. I never sleep late.” She glowered
at the clock on the dresser and saw that it was, indeed, five minutes until ten o’clock. “It is your fault. You kept me up until all hours last night, sir.”