by Amanda Quick
“What is that, sir?”
“Do you ever intend to wed? Or will you have your revenge against me by allowing the line to die out?”
“Why would I seek such revenge, sir?”
“Bloody hell. We both know that you blame me for your mother’s unhappiness. But you are old enough now to understand that there are two sides to any story. If you ever find yourself in my shoes, you will realize why I acted as I did.”
“Then I must make very certain that I never find myself in your position,” Matthias said gently. “Good day, sir.”
Thomas hesitated, as though there were something else he wanted to say. When he could not find the words, he turned and started to walk away.
Matthias watched him go. He was startled to see how old his father looked. Out of nowhere the long-suppressed wish to gain Thomas’s approval surfaced.
“Sir?”
Thomas turned back. “What is it?”
Matthias hesitated. “I intend to do my duty by the title one of these days. I will not allow the line to die with me, if I can help it.”
Something that might have been relief, even gratitude, appeared in Thomas’s face. “Thank you. I regret that I … Never mind. It is no longer important.”
“What do you regret, sir?”
“That I did not give you the money you needed to fund your first expedition to Zamar.” Thomas paused. “I know how much the venture meant to you.”
Matthias knew that he and his father had come as close as they ever had to a reconciliation that day in this club. He closed the door on the old memories and went into the coffee room.
He nodded at one or two acquaintances, picked up a copy of The Times, and settled into a large, overstuffed chair near the hearth. The newspaper was camouflage. He did not wish to read it. He wanted to think without being interrupted. In the past few days his calm, orderly existence had been thrown into an uproar.
He gazed unseeingly at the front page of the paper and considered Imogen’s tale of how she had been compromised by Vanneck. Then he forced himself to recall the sharp, unpleasant sensation he had experienced when he had seen Imogen in Drake’s arms. It was not jealousy he had felt, he assured himself, merely irritation. He had every right to be annoyed under the circumstances.
Imogen, Vanneck, and Alastair Drake. The three were linked together and the connection among them disturbed Matthias as nothing else had in a very long time. Damn it to hell, he thought. Maybe I have developed a case of weak nerves.
He forced himself to conjure up the unpalatable vision of Imogen in a bedchamber together with a half-dressed Vanneck and a distraught Alastair Drake. He reminded himself that Imogen was the daughter of unconventional parents. His fingers clenched around the edge of the newspaper, crumpling it.
“Colchester. I thought I saw you come in a few minutes ago.”
Matthias slowly lowered his paper and looked at the tight-lipped young man standing in front of him. “Have we been introduced?”
“Hugo Bagshaw.” A defiant glitter lit Hugo’s eyes. “Arthur Bagshaw’s son.”
“I see. As you obviously know my identity, perhaps we can end this conversation. I wish to finish reading the paper.” Matthias made to raise The Times.
“If I had realized that you were a member of this club, sir, I would have joined another.”
“Don’t let me stop you from canceling your membership here.”
“Damnation, sir. Do you know who I am?”
Matthias reluctantly folded the paper and regarded Hugo’s angrily flushed face. Bagshaw was an earnest-looking young man with blunt, sturdy features and a strong, athletic build. His crimped brown hair, extravagantly tied cravat, and snug-fitting coat marked him as a man of fashion. The seething expression in his serious brown eyes was not the poetic smoldering affected by so many of the young bloods of the ton, however. It was quite genuine.
“Hugo Bagshaw, I believe you said,” Matthias murmured.
“Arthur Bagshaw’s son.”
“You’ve already mentioned the connection.”
“You killed my father, Colchester. Just as surely as if you’d put a gun to his head.”
A great stillness descended on the coffee room.
“I was under the impression that your father was responsible for his own death.”
“How dare you, sir.” Hugo’s hands flexed into fists at his sides. His face worked furiously. “He shot himself after he lost everything playing cards in that damned hell you operated ten years ago.”
“That is not quite the way I recall the tale.”
Hugo ignored him. “I was only fourteen years old at the time. Too young to avenge him. But one of these days I will find a way to do so, Colchester. One of these days you will pay for what you did to my family.”
Hugo spun around on his heel and stalked off toward the door. None of the other men in the coffee room looked up from their newspapers, but Matthias knew they had all overheard Bagshaw’s accusation. He exhaled slowly. So much for finding a quiet place to think.
He gazed into the flames on the hearth and contemplated the ghost of Arthur Bagshaw.
“Young Bagshaw has only recently arrived in Town,” Vanneck drawled from behind Matthias’s chair. “A distant relative died and left him some money. Do you think we were inclined to be so emotional in our younger days, Colchester? Or is it the influence of the new poets on this generation of young men that makes them so damnably melodramatic?”
“Personally, I can scarcely recall being that young, and what bits and pieces I do recollect are not inspiring.”
“I am of a similar opinion regarding my own youth.” Vanneck strolled around the chair and came to a halt in front of the fire. “A word of warning, Colchester. Bagshaw bears you a great deal of ill will and could be dangerous. I hear that he is taking boxing lessons at Shrimpton’s and practicing his aim at Manton’s. He is accounted a decent shot.”
“Young Bagshaw’s skills in such matters are of no great concern to me. I have other, more pressing interests at the moment.”
“I see.” Vanneck made a show of warming his hands at the fire. “And would those other interests be connected to Miss Waterstone and a certain Zamarian artifact?”
Matthias gave Vanneck a quizzical glance. “Wherever did you gain that notion? I am not in the market for antiquities just now. I have other plans. I fear I must find myself a wife this Season.”
“I am well aware that you have come into your title, sir. You have your obligations to see to, as do I, devil take it.”
“I heard you were in search of a wife, yourself.”
Vanneck snorted. “My first wife could not be bothered to give me my heir. She cared only about parties and balls and clothes. Just between you and me, she was a cold fish in bed. Married me for my title. And I was fool enough to let it happen.”
“You surprise me, Vanneck. I would not have thought you the sort to be charmed by a pretty face.”
“You never saw Lucy.” Vanneck paused. “She was really quite spectacular. But not a penny to her name. I got nothing out of that damned bargain. Made my life a living hell. Believe me, I shall not make that mistake again.”
“Indeed.”
Vanneck gave him a sidelong glance. “We were discussing you, sir.”
“Were we?”
“You cannot convince me that you seriously consider Miss Waterstone a suitable candidate for a wife.”
“Why do you find that so difficult to believe?”
“Come, sir, what do you take me for?” Vanneck gave him a man-to-man look. “Miss Waterstone is five and twenty years of age. Sitting rather high on the shelf, wouldn’t you say? One can hardly envision her as a blushing bride.”
“Personally, I prefer mature women.” Matthias turned the page of his newspaper. “They tend to have more interesting conversation.”
Vanneck frowned. “Even if her age is a virtue in your eyes, there are rumors to the effect that she lacks virtue of another sort. They call her Immo
dest Imogen, you know.”
Matthias put down his paper and locked straight at Vanneck. “Anyone who refers to her in those terms in my presence had best be prepared to finish the discussion over a brace of pistols.”
Vanneck flinched. “See here, Colchester, don’t expect me to believe that you actually intend to make an offer for Imogen Waterstone. If you’re pursuing her, it’s got to be for another reason. And I can think of only one possibility.”
Matthias rose to his feet. “You may believe whatever you wish, Vanneck.” He smiled faintly. “But I would advise you to be extremely careful about what you say.”
Patricia glanced uneasily around the interior of the bookshop. “Are you quite certain my brother will not object if I make a purchase?”
“Leave Colchester to me,” Imogen said firmly. “I shall deal with him if he raises any objections. But I doubt that he will. The cost of a book or two will be so paltry compared to the bills for your gowns that I daresay he will not even notice it.”
Patricia paled. “I knew your aunt went too far at the modiste’s. So many gowns. And such expensive fabrics. Colchester will be furious when he discovers how much we spent.”
“Nonsense. I shall explain matters to him if necessary.” Imogen gave Patricia a reassuring smile. “Now, run along and browse a bit. I want to inquire whether or not Garrison’s new book on antiquities is available. By the time we are finished, Aunt Horatia will have concluded her conversation with Mrs. Horton. She will be waiting for us in the carriage.”
Patricia looked doubtful, but she obediently moved off to study the titles on a nearby shelf. Imogen crossed to the counter. While she waited for the shopkeeper to finish with another customer, she idly examined several volumes lying on a nearby table. When the shop bell tinkled behind her, she glanced absently over her shoulder to see who had entered.
She chilled at the sight of Vanneck standing in the doorway. It was the first time she had run into him since she had seen him at Lady Blum’s ball.
His appearance in the bookshop could be a coincidence, she told herself. But it was far more likely that he had finally taken the bait. About time, she thought.
“Miss Waterstone.” Vanneck gave her an oily smile as he walked toward the counter. “What a pleasant surprise. It has been three years, has it not?”
“I believe it has.”
“Are you looking for a particular book?” Vanneck inquired politely.
Imogen summoned what she hoped was a serene smile. “I am hoping to find something on Zamarian antiquities.”
“Naturally. It does not surprise me that you have retained your interest in ancient Zamar. You were quite passionate about the subject, as I recall.” Vanneck casually propped himself against the counter and surveyed her with ill-concealed eagerness. “There is a rumor going round that you have recently come into a most interesting inheritance.”
“I was very fortunate. In addition to a pleasant income, my uncle left me his entire collection of antiquities. There are some fascinating items in it.”
Vanneck glanced around quickly and then edged closer. “Including a certain map that purports to show the location of an extremely valuable Zamarian artifact, I understand.”
“Word travels swiftly here in Town.” She had to force herself to stand still. The urge to step away from Vanneck was almost overwhelming.
“It’s true, then?” Vanneck searched her face with an avid expression. “You believe this map can lead you to the Queen’s Seal?”
Imogen shrugged lightly. “Quite possibly, though it is of little use to me at the moment. I cannot afford to mount an expedition to search for the seal. But I have hopes that my financial problems will soon be remedied.”
“You refer to Colchester, do you not?”
“He has been kind enough to take an interest.”
“Damnation. So I was right.” Vanneck’s hand clenched on the counter. “I thought that was why he’d attached himself to you. The whole Town’s talking about it, you know.”
Imogen looked down the length of her nose. “Indeed, sir?”
“He thinks to get his hands on your map. Colchester would do anything to find the Queen’s Seal.”
“It’s certainly common knowledge that his lordship is a great collector of the finest Zamarian antiquities,” Imogen allowed.
Vanneck bent his head and lowered his voice. “I know that you harbor a certain degree of ill will toward me because of that unfortunate incident three years ago. But I assure you that I was just as much a victim of circumstance as you yourself were.”
“There is something I have always wondered about that incident, sir. Just what were you doing in that bedchamber?”
“If you must know, I was waiting for someone. A lovely widow whose name I will not mention for obvious reasons. I was certainly not expecting you. It was all a dreadful mistake.”
“A mistake that cost poor Lucy her life.”
Vanneck looked confused. “Lucy?”
“You remember her, my lord? She was your wife.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Vanneck ran a finger between the towering folds of his cravat and his neck. “Of course I remember her. But she has been dead some three years now and a man must get on with his life.”
“Indeed.” Imogen’s hand tightened on the book she held. She forced herself to stay calm. She would jeopardize the entire scheme if she gave in to her rage.
Vanneck scowled. “You and Lucy were friends, Miss Waterstone. Surely it did not escape your notice that my wife was often possessed of an unstable temperament? It took very little to depress her spirits. You must not blame yourself for her death.”
Imogen sucked in her breath. I blame you, she thought. Not myself. But was that true? she wondered suddenly. Was it possible that her quest to punish Vanneck had its roots in her own sense of guilt about what had occurred that night? She shivered.
“There is no point dwelling on the past,” Vanneck continued forcefully. “As you and I were once acquainted because of your friendship with my wife, I feel a certain responsibility to advise you.”
Imogen stilled. “Advise me?”
“I must warn you against forming any sort of connection with Colchester.”
So he has, indeed, taken the lure. Imogen gave him a brittle smile. “But I am determined to find the Queen’s Seal, sir. Colchester can help fund an expedition.”
“Forming a business alliance with Colchester would be akin to dancing with the devil himself.”
“Nonsense. Surely you exaggerate, sir.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Vanneck spat out. “The man is called Cold-blooded Colchester for good reason. If he agrees to finance an expedition to search for the seal, it will be only because he expects to possess it when it’s discovered.”
“I’m sure the two of us can work out a mutually satisfying arrangement.”
“Bah. That is undoubtedly what poor Rutledge thought. We all know what happened to him.”
“Do we?”
“He never returned from lost Zamar,” Vanneck snapped. “There are those who think that Colchester knows exactly how he died.”
“I do not believe that ridiculous gossip for one moment. Colchester is a gentleman to his fingertips. He had nothing to do with Rutledge’s death.”
“A gentleman? Colchester?” Vanneck’s eyes widened and then slitted with sudden understanding. “Good God. Surely you haven’t allowed him to convince you that he’s developed a genuine tendre for you, Miss Waterstone. You cannot be that naive. Not at your age.”
There was no need for Vanneck to look quite so incredulous at the notion of Matthias falling in love with her, Imogen thought. “My relationship with Colchester is a private matter.”
“Forgive me, but I would be remiss in my responsibility as an old friend if I did not warn you that Colchester may attempt to seduce you in order to get his hands on the map.”
“Rubbish. I resent that, sir.”
He stared at her with disbeli
ef. “You surely don’t think that a man in Colchester’s position would make an honorable offer to a woman of your years and, uh, unfortunate reputation?”
Imogen planted her hands on her hips and began to tap her toe. “To be perfectly honest, sir, I am not nearly so interested in marriage as I am in finding someone who can help me finance my expedition. At the moment I do not see a lot of alternatives to Lord Colchester. He is the only gentleman I know who can afford to mount an expedition and who has an interest in doing so.”
“There are other methods of financing an expedition,” Vanneck said quickly. “Methods that would be far less dangerous than dealing with Cold-blooded Colchester.”
Imogen pursed her lips. “Do you think so? I did consider forming a consortium at one time, but I do not have the knowledge or connections to forge such a complex business arrangement.”
Vanneck blinked. A gleam of excitement glowed in his eye. “Forming a consortium would be child’s play for me, Miss Waterstone. I have extensive experience in matters of business.”
“Really? How interesting.” Good Lord, was she going to have to steer him every step of the way through this tricky waltz? Imogen wondered. She made a show of studying the face of the little watch pinned to her pelisse. “It is getting late. If you will excuse me, sir, I am in a hurry. My aunt is waiting for me.”
Vanneck frowned. “I shall see you tonight, I trust?”
“Perhaps. We have a number of invitations. I am not certain yet which ones we shall accept.” Imogen smiled vaguely and moved away from the counter. “Good day to you, sir.”
“Until tonight.” Vanneck nodded brusquely. He turned and strode to the door with a determined expression.
“Miss Waterstone?” Patricia came up to her, a volume in her gloved hand. “I have made my selection.”
“Excellent.” Imogen watched the door close behind Vanneck. Then she glanced out the window. “I believe I see Aunt Horatia being handed into the carriage. Let us be off. We must get you home so that you can unpack your purchases. The gown you are to wear tonight is to be delivered at five o’clock. There is much to do before it arrives.”