by Amanda Quick
“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.”
Imogen 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?”
“Yes. He is in charge of my inheritance and he is stealing it. Last year Mama and Papa gave me my first Season. Mama said I was to have another this year, but my uncle refuses to pay for it. I realize that he does not want me to marry and thereby escape his household. As long as I am forced to live in his home, he will have control of my money. I have been trapped in Devon since my dear parents died.”
“Trapped? That sounds something of an exaggeration,” Matthias muttered.
“It’s the truth.” Patricia snatched a hankie from her reticule and began to sob into the little square of linen. “When I protest my uncle’s treatment of me, he laughs. He tells me that he deserves the money because he was the only one who was willing to give me a home after Mama and Papa died. He reminds me that you want nothing to d
o with me, my lord. I know that is true, but now I must throw myself on your mercy.”
At the sight of her tears, bleak memories howled across Matthias’s soul. He hated tears in a woman. They never failed to bring back those occasions on which he had been expected to deal with his mother’s periodic bouts of weeping. He had always felt helpless to comfort her and at the same time consumed by rage because his father had walked out and left him to handle the situation.
“I shall have my solicitor look into the matter of your finances.” Matthias downed a large swallow of the brandy and waited for the heat of it to warm him. “Something can be worked out.”
“It will do no good. My lord, I beg you, do not send me back to my uncle’s house.” Patricia clenched her hands in her lap. “You do not know what it is like there. I cannot go back. I’m afraid, my lord.”
“Of what, for God’s sake?” Matthias narrowed his eyes as an unpalatable thought occurred to him. “Your uncle?”
Patricia shook her head quickly. “No, my lord. He ignores me for the most part. He is interested only in my inheritance. But two months ago my cousin Nevil came to stay with us after he was sent down from Oxford.” She lowered her gaze to her tightly clasped hands. “He frightens me, sir. He is always watching me.”
Matthias scowled. “Watching you? What the devil are you talking about?”
Miss Grice cleared her throat and fixed him with a steely gaze. “I trust you can hazard a guess, my lord. You are a man of the world. Think of it. A young man with a distinctly unsavory reputation moves into the household. The young lady of the house does not feel well protected from unwanted advances. I’m sure that there is no need to go into details. I myself was in a similar situation at one time in my younger days. Very difficult.”
“I see.” Matthias rested an arm along the black marble mantel and tried to marshal his thoughts. “Surely you must have other relatives, Patricia? Someone else on your mother’s side?”
“No one else who will take me in, sir.”
Matthias drummed his fingers on the cool marble. “Something can be arranged.” He looked at Miss Grice, seeking inspiration.
“Lady Patricia informs me that you are her brother, my lord,” Miss Grice said as if that summed up the entire matter. “You will, of course, want to provide her with a proper home.” She glanced around dubiously at her surroundings.
Matthias could read the woman’s thoughts as clearly as if she spoke aloud. Miss Grice was not at all certain that this household constituted a proper home.
Patricia ignored the fantastical room. She watched Matthias with the sort of hope that only the young and the naive can successfully conjure. “Please, my lord. I throw myself on your mercy. I beseech you not to toss me out into the streets. Papa told me that you promised him you would give me a home if it became necessary.”
“Bloody hell,” Matthias said.
“There be a gentleman to see ye, Miss Waterstone.”
Imogen looked up quickly from the copy of the Zamarian Review she was reading. Mrs. Vine, the housekeeper, who also happened to be the landlord, hovered in the doorway of the drawing room. The gentleman she referred to must be Vanneck. The rumors must have reached him quickly, just as she had hoped. But now that the moment was upon her, she felt fear flash through her veins. She suddenly wished that Matthias were with her.
Nonsense, she told herself in the next instant. This was her scheme. She was in command and she was responsible for making it work properly. Matthias had warned her that he was not a man of action.
Slowly she put down the Review. “Send him in, Mrs. Vine. And then please inform my aunt that we have company.”
“Aye, madam.” Mrs. Vine was a tall, dour woman of indeterminate years. She nodded in a long-suffering fashion, as though the task of ushering a guest into the parlor was a great imposition.
It seemed to Imogen that Mrs. Vine’s position as both landlord and housekeeper gave her a distinctly skewed view of the proper relationship between herself and her tenants.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Imogen braced herself. This first encounter with Vanneck was critical to the success of her plans. She must keep her wits about her. Once again she thought wistfully of Matthias. He might not be the adventurous sort, but he was extremely clever. He would prove a useful ally in a situation such as this.
Mrs. Vine reappeared in the doorway, looking more put upon than ever. “Mr. Alastair Drake to see you, ma’am.”
“Alastair.” Imogen leaped to her feet so quickly that she knocked over her teacup. Fortunately the cup was empty. It bounced harmlessly on the carpet. “I was not expecting you,” she said as she stooped to pick up the cup. “Please, sit down.” She straightened quickly, set the cup back in the saucer, and summoned up a smile for the handsome man in the doorway. Old, wistful memories tumbled through her mind.
“Good day, Imogen.” A slow smile curved Alastair’s sensual mouth. “It’s been a long while, has it not?”
“Yes, it has.” She stared at him, searching for any changes the past three years had made.
If anything, Alastair was more attractive than she remembered. He was nearly thirty now, she realized. Experience had rendered his face more interesting. His light brown hair was cut short and crimped in the latest fashion. His blue eyes still held that beguiling expression that was a combination of little-boy-lost and man-of-the-world. Lucy had once told him it was his most charming quality.
Alastair sauntered into the room. “Sorry to surprise you. Were you anticipating a visit from someone more interesting perhaps? Colchester, for example? I hear that he fastened himself on to you last night at the Blunts’ ball.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Imogen gave him what she hoped was a bright, convincing smile. “I was startled to see you because my housekeeper did not mention the identity of my caller. Would you care for tea?”
“Thank you.” Alastair studied her from beneath his lashes. “I can well comprehend that after the unfortunate manner in which we parted three years ago, you have no reason to greet me with any warmth today.”
“Nonsense, sir. I am delighted to see you again.” Now that she had recovered from her initial shock, Imogen was pleased to feel her pulse slow to a more normal rate.
Lucy had once remarked that Alastair was the good-natured older brother every woman wished she had. Imogen had never seen him as a brother, however. He had drifted into Lucy’s social sphere three years earlier when the pair had met at a meeting of the Zamarian Society. When Imogen had arrived in Town to visit, Lucy had introduced her to Alastair. The three of them had become inseparable.
Alastair had been welcome initially because he could be counted upon to serve as an escort Vanneck was rarely available to take Lucy and Imogen about in the evenings. He preferred to spend his time at his club or with his mistress. Lucy had confided to Imogen that she was grateful that her husband spent his time with another woman. She had dreaded the nights that he came to her bedchamber.
More memories washed through Imogen. There was a time when she had thought that Alastair might be falling in love with her. He had kissed her as if she were made of fragile silk.
There had been only a handful of such embraces, most of them stolen in dark gardens or on shadowed terraces during the course of a soiree or ball. Imogen had quite enjoyed them. Alastair had not been as good at that sort of thing as Philippe D’Artois, her dancing instructor, but then, Philippe was French. Not that the comparison mattered now, she thought. The frail ghosts of the kisses she had received from both men had been well and truly incinerated a few days before in the blaze of Matthias’s fiery embrace.
Although she was unable to summon up more than the tattered remnants of the warm feelings she’d once had for Alastair, she could not help but note that he looked very fine. His coat and trousers were expertly cut and his cravat was folded in the stylish manner she thought she recognized as the Waterfall. His blue waistcoat complemented his eyes. Alastair had always been in the first stare of f
ashion.
“I could scarcely believe my ears when I learned that you were in Town, Imogen.” Alastair took the cup and saucer from her. His eyes were eloquent. “It’s good to see you again, my dear. My God, how I have missed you.”
“Indeed.” Imogen had a sudden vivid recollection of the shock and outrage that had marked his face the night he had discovered her with Vanneck. Alastair had never given her a chance to explain. “I have certainly missed Lucy.”
“Ah, yes. Poor Lucy.” Alastair shook his head. “Such a sad situation. I often think about the wonderful times the three of us shared together.” He paused meaningfully. “But I must confess, my fondest memories are of you, Imogen.”
“Really?” She took a breath. “Then why did you never write, sir? I had rather hoped to hear from you after Lucy’s funeral. I thought that we were friends, at least.”
“Friends?” His voice abruptly hardened. “We were more than friends. I shall be perfectly honest with you, Imogen. After the incident, I could not bear to reopen the wounds.”
“Wounds? What wounds?”
“I was … hurt.” His mouth tightened. “Shattered, if you must know the truth. It took me a very long time to get over the sight of you in Vanneck’s arms.”
“I was not in his arms,” she said tartly. “I, oh, never mind. It’s all in the past now and it would no doubt be best to leave it there. May I ask why you chose to call upon me today?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Alastair put down his cup and rose. “I came to see you because when I learned you were in Town I realized that what I had once felt for you had not entirely died.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Alastair, please.” Imogen was so shaken by his declaration that she could not think of a graceful way to retrieve her hand from his.
“There is something I must tell you. Something that has been plaguing me for three long years. I want you to know that I forgive you for what happened that dreadful night.”