Mischief

by Amanda Quick

  “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…

  “Good 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.”

  He gave her a devilish grin. “Your insistence upon practicing half the positions illustrated in my Zamarian marriage instruction scroll inspired me, my sweet.”

  Imogen blushed at the memory of his passion and her own. “Not half. Merely a select few that appeared especially interesting.”

  “All of those positions that featured the lady on top, as I recall.” Matthias’s grin widened. “But never fear, my dear. You know how it heats my blood when you take command.” He walked around the bed and handed her the Zamarian Review.

  “You woke me up to show me my own article?” she asked, beginning to take an interest. She opened the Review.

  “Well, no, actually. That was not why I awakened you.”

  “Oh, look, Matthias, the editors printed my article ahead of yours.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “But as to why I woke you, Imogen—”

  “This is the first time that they have actually printed one of my articles in front of yours,” she said with gathering enthusiasm. “Perhaps they have finally come to the conclusion that my observations are as well reasoned and as interesting as your own, my lord.”

  “I intend to speak to them about the matter. They seem to have forgotten that I founded that damn journal.” Matthias sat down on the edge of the bed. “But first there is something I wish to give to you, my dear.”

  “One moment, sir. Let me see if there are any letters concerning my last article on the relationship of Zamaris and Anizamara in Zamarian mythology.”

  “I have something for you, Imogen.”

  “Ah-ha. Here is a letter from that idiot Bledlow. I knew he would try to dispute my arguments.” Imogen paused. “What did you say?”

  He smiled faintly. “I have a gift for you.”

  “How lovely.” She sensed that he was trying to tell her something very important. “Is it in that chest?”

  “Yes.” He put the carved box into her hands.

  Slowly she opened the lid and peered inside.

  Nestled against black velvet was a magnificent object about the size of her hand. It was fashioned of gold, heavily inscribed on one side in the formal script of ancient Zamar. The other side was crusted with gems and crystals of singular beauty. They glowed with such brilliant clarity that Imogen could scarcely believe that they were real.

  “The Queen’s Seal,” she breathed.

  “You are looking at the artifact that caused Rutledge to attempt to murder me.”

  She searched his eyes. “You have had it all this time? You kept it hidden away and allowed the legends to grow?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Yes. I suppose it represented a ghost.”

  “Why have you given it to me?”

  He touched her cheek with his elegant fingers. “Because you saved me from the ghosts. You are my Anizamara.”

  “Oh, Matthias. I do love you so.” Imogen tossed the priceless seal aside and reached for him.

  “I am glad to hear that.” Matthias managed to grab the seal just before it tumbled off the bed and fell to the floor. He set it down very carefully on the nightstand. “Because I love you too. I will love you for the rest of my life and beyond.”

  “Is that a promise, my lord?”

  “Yes. The most important one that I have ever made.”

  Imogen wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her with joyous enthusiasm. The whole world knew that Colchester always kept his promises.

  Author’s Note

  “Horrid” novels—chilling tales of romantic gothic horror—were enormously popular in the early 1800s. The most successful authors in the genre were women. Everyone, including such notables as Jane Austen and Percy Shelley, read the books. Not everyone approved of them, however.

  The critics deplored the taste for thrills and dark mysteries. But novels with titles such as The Mysterious Hand, or, Subterranean Horrors and The Enchanted Head found a wide and enthusiastic audience.

  In the end, the critics managed to keep most of the horrid novels and their authors out of the respectable literary establishment. But no amount of criticism could dampen the enthusiasm of the readers. The archetypal nature of the stories proved too powerful to subdue.

  We seldom study the horrid novels in English literature classes today, but that does not mean that their influence is not strongly felt. The authors left a lasting impact on modern popular fiction. The genres of romance, science fiction, fantasy, suspense, and horror are especially indebted to them.

  Incidentally, one horrid novel did make it into the modern era. The critics at the Quarterly Review savaged it when it was first published in 1818, but today everyone knows the title. That novel was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

  Sometimes it takes only one book.

  LOOK FOR AMANDA QUICK’S NOVEL

  SLIGHTLY SHADY

  Available from Bantam Books

  Turn the page for a preview.

  PROLOGUE

  The intruder’s eyes blazed with a cold fire. He raised a powerful hand and swept another row of vases off the shelf. The fragile objects crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred shards. He moved on to a display of small statues.

  “I advise you to make haste with your packing, Mrs. Lake,” he said as he turned his violent attention to a host of fragile clay Pans, Aphrodites, and satyrs. “The carriage will leave in fifteen minutes, and I promise you that you and your niece will be aboard, with or without your luggage.”

  Lavinia watched him from the foot of the stairs, helpless to stop the destruction of her wares. “You have no right to do this. You are mining me.”

  “On the contrary, madam. I am saving your neck.” He used a booted foot to topple a large urn decorated in the Etruscan manner. “Not that I expect any thanks, mind you.”

  Lavinia winced as the urn exploded on impact with the floor. She knew now that it was pointless to berate the lunatic. He was intent on destroying the shop and she lacked the means to stop him. She had been taught early in life to recognize the signs that indicated it was time to stage a tactical retreat. But she had never learned to tolerate such annoying reversals of fortune with equanimity.

  “If we were in England, I would have you arrested, Mr. March.”

  “Ah, but we are not in England, are we, Mrs. Lake?” Tobias March seized a life-size stone centurion by the shield and shoved it forward. The Roman fell on his sword. “We are in Italy and you have no choice but to do as I command.”

  It was useless to stand her ground. Every moment spent down here attempting to reason with Tobias March was time lost that should be spent packing. But the unfortunate tendency toward stubbornness that was so much a part of her nature could not abide the notion of surrendering the field of battle without a struggle.

  “Bastard,” she said through her teeth.

  “Not in the legal sense.” He slammed another row of red clay vases to the floor. “But I believe I comprehend what you wish to imply.”

  “It is obvious that you are no gentleman, Tobias March.”

  “I will not quarrel with you on that point.” He kicked over a waist-high statue of a naked Venus. “But then, you are no lady are you?”

  She cringed when the statue crumbled. The naked Venuses had proved quite popular with her clientele.

  “How dare you? Just because my niece and I got stranded here in Rome and were obliged to go into trade for a few months in order to support ourselves is no reason to insult us.”

  “Enough.” He whirled around to face her. In the lantern light, his forbidding face was colder than the features of any stone statue. “Be grateful that I have concluded that you were merel
y an unwitting dupe of the criminal I am pursuing and not a member of his gang of thieves and murderers.”

  “I have only your word that the villains were using my shop as a place to exchange their messages. Frankly, Mr. March, given your rude behavior, I am not inclined to believe a single thing you say.”

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Do you deny that this note was hidden in one of your vases?”

  She glanced at the damning note. Only moments ago she had watched in stunned amazement while he shattered a lovely Greek vase. A message that looked remarkably like a villain’s report to his criminal employer had been tucked inside. Something about a bargain with pirates having been successfully struck.

  Lavinia raised her chin. “It is certainly not my fault that one of my patrons dropped a personal note into that vase.”

  “Not just one patron, Mrs. Lake. The villains have been using your shop for some weeks now.”

  “And just how would you know that, sir?”

  “I have watched these premises and your personal movements for nearly a month.”

  She widened her eyes, genuinely shocked by the infuriatingly casual admission.

  “You have spent the past month spying on me?”

  “At the start of my observations, I assumed that you were an active participant in Carlisle’s ring here in Rome. It was only after much study that I have concluded you probably did not know what some of your so-called customers were about.”

  “That is outrageous.”

  He gave her a look of mocking inquiry. “Are you saying you did know what they were up to when they came and went in such a regular fashion?”

  “I am saying no such thing.” She could hear her voice climbing but there was little she could do about it. She had never been so angry or so frightened in her life. “I believed them to be honest patrons of antiquities.”

  “Did you indeed?” Tobias glanced at a collection of cloudy green glass jars that stood in a neat row on a high shelf. His smile was devoid of all warmth. “And how honest are you, Mrs. Lake?”