Mischief

by Amanda Quick

  Shocked sympathy doused the smoldering embers of Imogen’s temper. She took a quick step closer to Matthias and then halted uncertainly. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not understand that this was such a personal matter for you.”

  “Unfortunately it was too late for either of the two parties involved to escape.” All inflection had vanished from Matthias’s voice. “My mother was pregnant with me. Her family demanded marriage. My father’s family wanted my mother’s inheritance. It was a match made in hell. My father never forgave my mother. He claimed she had tricked him into marriage. For her part, my mother never forgave my father for seducing her and then turning against her.”

  “What a dreadful experience your childhood must have been.”

  An icy amusement appeared in his eyes. “On the contrary, I consider that experience to have been a salutary one, Miss Waterstone. I learned a great deal from it.”

  “No doubt you feel you learned a terrible lesson.” Imogen suppressed a pang of sadness. Then a thought struck her. “You mentioned that you will be expected to wed now that you have come into the title. Surely you will seek happiness in your own alliance?”

  “You may be certain of that,” Matthias said grimly. “I intend to contract a marriage based on a far more substantial foundation than one built on foolish romantic passions and lust.”

  “Yes, of course,” Imogen murmured.

  Matthias took the glowing blue-green bowl from her hands and gazed at it with deep contemplation. “I seek a bride endowed with common sense rather than one who has muddled her brains with romantic poetry. An intelligent female who is ruled by an educated mind. One whose sense of honor will ensure that she does not develop a passion for every dark-eyed poet who comes along.”

  “I see.” It was difficult to comprehend how she could have been so wrong about this man, she thought wistfully. The Colchester of Zamar she had conjured in her mind was imbued with the very essence of romance. The real Colchester was obviously a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. “It is very odd, sir, but when I sent for you, I had convinced myself that we had much in common.”

  “Had you?”

  “Yes. But now I see that I was quite mistaken. We are as opposite as two people can be, are we not, my lord?”

  He looked abruptly cautious. “In some respects, perhaps.”

  “In every important respect, so far as I can see.” Imogen gave him a wan smile. “I hereby release you from your promise, my lord.”

  He scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was wrong of me to expect you to assist me in my scheme.” Imogen studied the manner in which his sensitive, long-fingered hands cradled the Zamarian bowl. “You have quite convinced me that you are not cut out for this type of adventure and that I have no right to insist on your services.”

  “I thought I made it clear that you are not going to get rid of me quite so easily, Miss Waterstone.”

  “Sir?”

  “I shall assist you in your plot. I may not be the man you believed me to be, Miss Waterstone, but I find myself consumed by a desire to prove myself something more than a milksop.”

  Imogen was horrified. “Sir, I never meant to imply that I thought you a … a milks—”

  He held up one hand to cut off her protest. “You have made yourself clear. You perceive me to be possessed of an overanxious, fainthearted temperament. I do not deny that there is some truth to that perception, but I’ll be damned if I will have you label me an out-and-out coward.”

  “Sir, I would never have dreamed of labeling you a coward. A certain tendency toward nervous weakness is not something that should cause shame. It is no doubt a family trait, rather like that blaze of white in your hair. It is something over which you have no control, my lord.”

  “Too late, Miss Waterstone. I have decided that I must fulfill my promise to your uncle. It is the only way I can retain even a few shreds of my pride.”

  “I was appalled, if you must know the truth,” Imogen confided to Horatia two days later as they set out for London in a post-chaise. They were alone in the carriage because Matthias had left the previous day with the list of instructions that she had given him. “He is doing this to prove that he is not lacking in nerve. I fear I wounded his pride. I never meant to do it, but you know how I sometimes get carried away when I feel strongly about a matter.”

  “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Colchester’s pride,” Horatia said crisply. “He has more than enough arrogance to last him a lifetime.”

  “I wish I could believe that, but I’m convinced he is possessed of rather delicate sensibilities.”

  “Delicate sensibilities? Colchester?”

  “I wore out my tongue attempting to dissuade him from assisting me, but as you saw, I had no success.”

  “Colchester certainly seems determined to help you pursue this mad scheme. I wonder what he is about.”

  “I just told you what he is about. He is attempting to prove himself a man of action. Anyone can see that he is no such thing.”

  “Hmm.” Horatia adjusted the skirts of her carriage dress and leaned back against the cushions. She fixed Imogen with a thoughtful gaze. “In the beginning, I told you that your plan was dangerous in the extreme because I feared Lord Vanneck’s reaction. But I am now persuaded that involving Colchester is an even more reckless move.”

  “Colchester is not dangerous.” Imogen wrinkled her nose. “Indeed, I only wish he were. I would not be so concerned. As it is, in addition to managing the details of my scheme, I shall be obliged to keep an eye on him. I must make certain that in his enthusiasm to prove himself, he does not get into trouble.”

  Horatia stared at her niece askance. “You are going to watch over Colchester?”

  “It is the least I can do under the circumstances.” Imogen gazed glumly out the window. “He is not at all what I expected, Aunt Horatia.”

  “You keep saying that. Be honest, Imogen, your expectations were built upon a fantasy that you had concocted out of vapor and smoke.”

  “That is not true. I developed my notion of his lordship’s temperament from the articles he wrote for the Zamarian Review. It only goes to prove that one cannot put much credence in everything one reads.”

  Horatia peered at Imogen through her spectacles. “My dear, you do not understand about Colchester. I have tried to tell you that his reputation was firmly established nearly a decade ago when he was in his early twenties. I know you will not believe this, but the truth is that he was considered extremely dangerous and utterly coldblooded.”

  Imogen grimaced. “Nonsense. One cannot know him for even five minutes without realizing that such a reputation is completely at odds with the true nature of the man. He is obviously the victim of nasty gossip, just as I was three years ago.”

  “He certainly seems to have convinced you of that,” Horatia muttered. “I wonder why.”

  “I appear to be stuck with his assistance,” Imogen said, resigned to the situation. “He will no doubt prove to be more trouble than he is worth.”

  “I would not be surprised if he is saying precisely the same thing about you at this very moment, my dear.”

  Imogen did not respond. She turned her attention back to the countryside that was passing by outside the carriage window. Fragments of the dream that had awakened her in the middle of the night returned. She’d had similar dreams for the past several weeks, but last night’s imaginings had been the clearest and most disturbing.

  She was standing in the library of Uncle Selwyn’s mansion. It was midnight. Pale moonlight slanted through the windows. Shadows bathed the chamber and its sepulchral furnishings.

  She turned slowly, searching for the man she knew was there. She could not see him. She had never seen him. But she sensed his presence. He was waiting, cloaked in deepest night.

  Something or someone stirred in the darkest corner of the chamber. She watched with trepidation as a figure detached himself from the surrounding shadow and walked slowly toward her. His face was
concealed by the gloom, but when he moved through a patch of moonlight she saw the glint of cold silver in his hair.

  Zamaris, Lord of the Night. Powerful, seductive. And very dangerous.

  He came closer, his hand outstretched.

  Not Zamaris, she realized. Colchester.

  Impossible.

  But for some reason, she could not seem to differentiate between the two. Colchester and Zamaris had coalesced into one single creature of the night.

  She looked at the hand that he held out to her and saw blood dripping from his long, elegant fingers.

  He was going to regret becoming involved with Miss Imogen Waterstone, Matthias told himself for what was no doubt the thousandth time since he had arrived in London. She was already having a damaging effect on his powers of concentration.

  He set down his quill and gazed unseeingly at the notes he was making for his next article in the Review. Thus far he had covered less than half of a sheet of foolscap with his speculations on Zamarian rituals. Thoughts of Imogen’s imminent arrival in Town kept intruding.

  She and Horatia were due to arrive that day. Her wild, reckless plan would no doubt be set in motion shortly thereafter. All she required were a few invitations to the right levees and balls. Horatia seemed convinced they could be obtained.

  Matthias rose from his chair and walked around the corner of his vast ebony desk. He went to stand in front of the fire, aware of a deep, gnawing restlessness. It had been troubling him since he had returned to London.

  He was a fool to become embroiled in Imogen’s mad scheme. The only positive note that he could see in the murky picture was that the damnable plot was highly unlikely to work. Unfortunately, there would doubtless be some extremely trying moments ahead before Imogen would be convinced to give up her grand plan of vengeance. Matthias glumly contemplated the fact that it would be up to him to keep her out of trouble until she accepted defeat.

  She was determined to set forth on a path fraught with the threat of scandal and danger. Matthias considered her scheme once more, attempting to be objective. He did not believe that Vanneck had actually murdered his wife. Vanneck was a sly, dissipated, unprincipled rake who had an unpleasant reputation in the brothels and hells, but he did not strike Matthias as a killer. The ruthless seduction of an innocent, naive young lady such as Imogen was more Vanneck’s style. Matthias’s hand flexed into a tight fist at his side.

  He closed his eyes and thought about the way Imogen had responded to him when he had taken her into his arms. A wave of sweet, searing heat went through him, stoking the fire that had been smoldering in his loins since he had left Upper Stickleford. He could not remember the last time a woman’s kiss had produced such a lingering effect on his senses. He tried to will away the desire that had flared within him. When that failed, he pictured Imogen with Vanneck in the bedchamber above the Sandowns’ ballroom. His gut turned to ice.

  Matthias knew what was happening, and it worried him as nothing else had for a long while. He wanted Imogen for himself. The vision of her in Vanneck’s debauched embrace was almost enough to make him contemplate murder.

  He took a deep breath, gazed into the heart of the fire, and searched for the ghosts. They were there, as they always were, reaching out for him as though to draw him down into the flames to join them. So damn many of them.

  Matthias had been ten years old when his father, Thomas, had raged through the house for the last time, shouting at Elizabeth, who was, as usual, in tears.

  Matthias had witnessed the final battle through the posts of the upstairs balustrade. The awareness of his own inability to stop the dreadful words or stem the flood of his mother’s tears had made his hands shake. He wanted to run and hide. Instead, he had made himself watch as the father he had never been able to please did battle with the mother he could never comfort.

  He had heard the same terrible accusations hurled back and forth between his parents many times, but this was the first occasion on which he had actually understood them.

  After all these years the words still burned in his brain.

  “You trapped me, you conniving, coldhearted bitch,” Thomas had shouted as he faced his wife in the front hall. “You used your body to seduce me and then you deliberately got yourself pregnant.”

  “You told me that you loved me,” Elizabeth had flung back. “I was an innocent, but you had no scruples about bedding me, did you?”

  “You lied to me. You told me that you knew how to keep from getting yourself with child. Damn you, I never intended to marry you. I never felt anything but a fleeting lust for you. No more than I would feel for a whore.”

  “You talked of love,” Elizabeth wailed.

  “Bah. I have had enough of this loveless marriage. You wanted the title, well, you have it, but, by God, Elizabeth, that is all you shall have from me.”

  “You cannot leave me, Thomas.”

  “I cannot rid myself of you by any legal means. Divorce is out of the question. But I refuse to condemn myself to a lifetime of unhappiness. Enjoy the title you used your body to obtain. You shall have this house and an allowance, but I shall never step foot in this hall again. I shall take up residence in London. If you must communicate with me about any matter of grave importance, you will do so through my solicitors.”

  “What of Matthias?” Elizabeth asked desperately. “He is your son and heir.”

  “I have only your word for that,” Thomas said harshly. “For all I know, you slept with half the members of my club.”

  “He’s your son, you bloody bastard. The law will not allow you to deny it.”

  “I am well aware of that, madam,” Thomas said. “But one day I shall learn the truth concerning just how badly I was deceived. Every man in my family develops a streak in his hair by the age of twenty.”

  “So will Matthias. You’ll see. In the meantime, you cannot ignore him.”

  “I shall do my duty by him,” Thomas vowed. “It is past time that Matthias was sent away to school. If he stays in this house a moment longer, you will no doubt bind him to you so tightly with your damned tears and apron strings that he will never become a man.”

  “You cannot send him away. He is all I have. I will not allow it.”

  “You have no choice, madam,” Thomas had retorted. “I have already made the arrangements. His tutor has been dismissed. With any luck Eton and Oxford will undo the damage you have tried to inflict.”

  School had not been altogether unpleasant. Having spent the first ten years of his life attempting to please his father, Matthias continued the futile effort. He had thrown himself into his studies.

  Thomas had paid little attention to the boy’s scholarly successes, but something unusual did occur during those years. Unlike the majority of his companions, Matthias had actually become enthralled by the classical texts that formed the core of the curriculum. As he grew older they continued to draw him with an inexplicable power. He sensed the secrets hidden deep within them.

  Long, melancholic letters from Elizabeth had kept him informed of her endless complaints about his father’s selfish, tight-fisted ways, the house parties she had planned, and her illnesses. Matthias dreaded going home between terms, but he did so because something inside him told him that it was his duty. As the years passed, he saw enough of his mother to realize that between house parties she had begun to treat her depressed spirits with increasing quantities of wine and laudanum.

  The letters from his father had been few and far between. They were concerned primarily with the high cost of Matthias’s school expenses and angry diatribes about the relentless financial demands Elizabeth made through the solicitor.

  Elizabeth drowned in an estate pond the winter of Matthias’s fourteenth year. The servants said that she had had a great deal of wine at dinner that night and several glasses of brandy afterward. She had told her staff that she wished to take an evening walk alone.

  Her death had been declared an accident, but Matthias sometimes wondered if his mo
ther had committed suicide. Either way, he was doomed to bear a measure of guilt for the rest of his life because he had not been there to save her. His mother would have wanted it that way, he thought wryly.

  He could still see his father standing on the other side of Elizabeth’s grave. It was a memorable occasion for many reasons, not the least of which was that Matthias had made his first serious promise to himself that day. He had looked into his father’s face and silently vowed that he would never again bother to try to please him. A coldness had settled somewhere inside him that day. It had never disappeared.

  Thomas had been blithely unaware of Matthias’s mood. He had taken him aside immediately after the funeral and jubilantly announced his intention to wed again, Thomas’s relief at being free of Elizabeth and his happy anticipation of his forthcoming nuptials had stood in sharp contrast to the colors of mourning that surrounded them.

  “Her name is Charlotte Poole, Matthias. She is lovely and gracious and pure. A noble paragon of womanhood. She will bring me a happiness I have never known.”

  “How nice for you, sir.”

  Matthias had turned on his heel and walked away from his mother’s grave. He had known then that her ghost would follow him.

  The letter from Thomas announcing the birth of a daughter, Patricia, had come a year after the earl’s marriage to Charlotte. Matthias had carefully read the joyful, glowing words his father had penned describing his “deep and abiding affection” for his infant daughter and her mother. When he was finished, Matthias had consigned the birth announcement to the hearth. As he watched the letter burn, he thought he saw his mother’s ghost in the flames. Hers proved to be the first of many.

  The streak of silver appeared in Matthias’s hair almost overnight. Thomas began to send increasingly earnest letters to his son, inviting him to visit his new family. Matthias ignored them.

  By the time he had finished his studies, Matthias was well steeped in Greek, Latin, hazard, and whist. Regular trips down to London with his friends had given him an intimate familiarity with the worst gaming hells and with the contents of the British Museum.