Mischief (34 page)

The door opened at the top of the steps. Ufton stood in the opening.

“Welcome home, madam.”

“Thank you, Ufton.” Imogen smiled at him as she untied her bonnet strings. “Is Colchester in the library?”

“No, madam. His lordship has gone out.”

Imogen was alarmed. “Gone out? Where?”

“He did not say, madam.”

“But what of his wound? Surely he should be resting here at home.”

Ufton closed the door behind her. “His lordship is not inclined to take advice in such matters, madam.”

“I shall speak to him about it the moment he returns.”

“Of course, madam.” Ufton hesitated. “Will you be needing the carriage this afternoon?”

Imogen, one foot on the bottom of the stairs, paused to glance back at him. “No. I do not plan to go out again. Why do you ask?”

Ufton inclined his head. “I merely wanted to be certain that you did not require transportation. Lady Patricia mentioned that she wished to pay a call on Lady Lyndhurst. I thought we might need two carriages today.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Imogen smiled and hurried on up the stairs.

When she reached the landing, she strode down the carpeted hall to her bedchamber. She was determined to
finish Lucy’s journal that afternoon. Now that she had a clear understanding of Lucy’s illness, she would be able to study the volume with a more detached, analytical eye. She had been so sunk in melancholy by what had appeared to be Lucy’s betrayal of their friendship that she had not been thinking at all clearly.

She opened the door to her bedchamber and swept into the room. She tossed her bonnet onto the bed and then came to a startled halt.

She was not alone in the bedchamber. Patricia stood near the window, clutching Lucy’s journal. She gazed at Imogen with a stricken expression.

“Patricia?” Imogen took a step toward her. “What on earth are you doing in here? Why have you got that journal? It belongs to me.”

“Imogen, please forgive me. I know you must think me a terrible person, but I pray you will understand when I tell you that I have no choice.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“The Rutledge Curse.”

“Not that ridiculous curse business again.”

“Don’t you see? Matthias was nearly killed the other night because of it. I am the only one who can put an end to this before someone dies.”

“Rubbish.”

“It’s real, Imogen. We all promised not to discuss it, but I have been so anxious. I cannot bear it any longer. Everything is happening just as the inscription on the tablet predicted.”

“What tablet?” Imogen asked sharply.

“Lady Lyndhurst has some ancient Zamarian clay tablets. The curse is written on one of them.”

“Impossible. Calm yourself, Patricia.” Imogen took another step toward her and paused as a thought struck her. “What has the Rutledge Curse got to do with my friend’s journal?”

“I overheard you and Matthias discussing it. I know
he took it from Vanneck’s house the night he was wounded. That was why he nearly died.”

“What do you think happened?” Imogen asked cautiously.

“Don’t you see? Vanneck was a victim of the Rutledge Curse. This journal is linked to him. Matthias took it from his house and was nearly killed because the journal is tainted with the curse. Everything that was Rutledge’s is tainted.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Patricia—”

“I cannot allow this to go any further. Someone has to stop it. Lady Lyndhurst has studied Zamarian curses. She will know what to do.”

“Nonsense.” Imogen walked to the bed to retrieve her bonnet. “I have heard quite enough about the Rutledge Curse. It is time to put an end to the foolish gossip.”

Patricia watched uncertainly as Imogen retied her bonnet strings. “What do you plan to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Imogen gave her a bracing smile. “I shall attend Lady Lyndhurst’s salon with you today, Patricia. I want to see the curse that is inscribed on that clay tablet for myself.”

M
atthias arrived home shortly after the Colchester carriage had departed. He had sought refuge from his bleak thoughts first at his club and then in Tattersall’s auctioneering yard. But not even the prime horseflesh paraded in front of the crowd of eager buyers had elevated his mood.

He was disappointed but distinctly relieved to learn that Imogen was not home. He ached to hold her in his arms, but a part of him dreaded looking into her eyes. He feared the dawn of truth far more than the shadows of the night. He was accustomed to ghosts, after all.

He walked into his library, annoyed by the unfamiliar mix of emotions that swirled within him. It occurred to him that he had experienced a remarkable variety of
strange sensations and moods since the day he met Imogen.

He untied his cravat, tossed it aside, and sat down at his desk. Opening a thick Greek text that contained references to a mysterious island, he tried to lose himself in his researches. He was convinced that the isle in question was actually ancient Zamar. If he was right, it would confirm some of his speculations concerning trade and commerce between the Greeks and the Zamarians.

The Greek words, which he read as easily as he read English, seemed jumbled on the page. He found himself having to go back to the beginning to read through the passage a second and third time. He was distracted and restless as he tried to focus on the text.

It was no use. Every time he looked at the words in front of him he saw a ghostly image of Imogen’s anguished eyes as she told him what she had read in the journal. He could almost feel the dampness of the tears she had shed. Matthias had lain awake for a long time during each of the past two nights. He had been racked by a sense of impending doom. It was a doom that he had brought down upon himself.

Why had he forced Imogen to read the journal? Over and over again he had asked himself the same damning question. He did not know the answer.

Matthias closed the volume on his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. An deep sense of weariness stole over him. He was a thoughtful, logical man when it came to his studies of ancient Zamar. But he could not seem to comprehend his own actions. What the devil was happening to him? he wondered.

The knock on the library door interrupted his grim musings.

“Enter.”

Ufton appeared. “Mrs. Elibank to see you, sir.”

“Horatia? I wonder what she wants. Send her in, Ufton.”

Horatia swept into the library, an expression of barely restrained fury on her face. She appeared more formidable than Matthias had ever seen her. He got to his feet slowly, somewhat warily.

“My lord.”

“Good day, Horatia.” He studied her as she took a chair on the other side of his desk. “Did Ufton inform you that Imogen is not at home?”

“I came to see you, Colchester.”

“I see. Is something wrong?”

“I will not beat about the bush, my lord,” Horatia said coldly. “Why did you give Lucy’s journal to Imogen?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You found Lucy’s journal, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave it to Imogen,” Horatia said. “You must have suspected that she would not find any comfort in it and that she might very well be hurt by what she would learn. Why did you give it to her?”

Only a lifetime of habit and practice enabled Matthias to keep his expression unreadable. Deliberately, he lounged back in his chair. “Lucy was Imogen’s friend. It seemed natural that Imogen should be the one to read it.”

“Rubbish. You gave that journal to Imogen because you wished to destroy her illusions about her friend. Do not trouble to deny it.”

Matthias said nothing.

“Just as I thought.” Horatia leaned forward and fixed
him with a furious gaze. “What did you hope to gain by crushing Imogen’s image of Lucy? What cruel purpose possessed you?”

“You were the one who first informed me that Lucy was not the fine, noble friend Imogen believed her to be. I have made a few discreet inquiries of my own since I returned to Town. All of them verified what you said regarding Lucy’s character.”

“What of it?”

Matthias toyed with a quill pen. “It is always wise to confront the truth, don’t you think? In the end, one must deal with it.”

“Lucy was the only friend Imogen had after her parents’ death. Imogen would have been utterly alone in Upper Stickleford had it not been for Lucy. She has a right to her illusions about her.”

“Lucy and that damned Alastair Drake used Imogen to conceal their illicit liaison. You call that friendship?”

“No, I do not.” Horatia narrowed her eyes. “But what good have you wrought by forcing the truth upon Imogen at this late date?”

“There are some questions about Vanneck’s death that need to be answered.” Matthias studied the nib of the pen. “I thought some of those answers might lie in Lucy’s journal.”

“You could have read that journal in private, my lord. There was no need to tell Imogen about it, let alone blackmail her into reading it.”

A painful sensation that might have been anguish or rage ripped through Matthias. “I did not blackmail her into reading that damned journal.”

“It appears to have been a case of blackmail to me, sir. She said that you threatened to read it if she did not. She thought to protect Lucy’s privacy.”

“Damnation, Horatia. I did what I felt was best. Imogen needed to confront the truth about Lucy.”

“Bah. The truth is not the issue here. You deliberately tried to demolish Imogen’s cherished memories of her only friend. Sir, allow me to tell you that you deserve to be called Cold-blooded Colchester. What you did was callous and unkind. I wondered when your true nature would show itself. Unfortunately, it has surfaced too late to save my niece from what will no doubt prove to be a disaster of a marriage.”

The quill pen snapped in half. Startled, Matthias looked down at the broken bits he held in his fingers. Very carefully he placed them on the desk. “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, Mrs. Elibank.”

“One can only wonder at your motives.” Horatia rose from the chair and looked down her nose at him. The very old, very blue blood that flowed in her veins was much in evidence. At that moment it was not difficult to see that she enjoyed a connection to a marquess.

Matthias surged to his feet. He met Horatia’s eyes across the width of the desk. “I had no motive other than to bring out the truth.”

“I do not believe that for a moment. Damnation, sir, I was actually convinced that you cared for my niece. How could you do this to her?”

Matthias clenched one hand into a fist, whirled around, and slammed the other against the wall. “Has it occurred to you, madam, that I may have grown weary of living a damned lie with my own wife?”

There was a short, heavy pause.

“What in the name of heaven do you mean?” Horatia asked quietly.

Matthias fought to pull himself together. He drew a deep breath and wrapped himself in the armor of his self-mastery. “Never mind. It is not important. Good day to you, Mrs. Elibank. Ufton will see you out.”

Horatia stared at him for a moment and then, without a word, she turned and walked toward the door.

Matthias did not move until Horatia was gone. Then
he went to the window and stood looking out into the garden for a long time.

He finally had the answer to the question he had been asking himself. He now knew precisely why he had given Lucy’s journal to Imogen.

He had ripped the veils from Imogen’s eyes not because he had wanted to force her to confront the truth about Lucy. He had done so because he wanted her to face the truth about him.

What he had said to Horatia in that burst of frustrated rage a moment before had been all too painfully honest. He could not continue to live a lie with Imogen. He needed to know if she could care for him once she had faced the reality of his own nature. He needed to know if she could love Cold-blooded Colchester.

Imogen was too intelligent not to realize what he had revealed about himself when he had forced her to read the journal. She was I. A. Stone, after all.

I
mogen surveyed the other members of the Zamarian salon as they sat in a half circle around their elegant hostess. The first thing she noted about the group was that with the exception of Selena and herself, it was composed entirely of very young ladies. Imogen was willing to hazard a guess that not one of the brightly garbed females sitting in the circle was above nineteen years. Many were younger and in their first Season.

Selena, dressed in a blue gown trimmed with blue roses, smiled graciously at her guests as her housekeeper served tea.

Imogen realized that until that day she had seen Selena only from a distance or at night, when she appeared in the chandelier-lit ballrooms of the ton.

It was no secret that candlelight was far more flattering to a lady than sunlight. Nevertheless, Imogen was surprised to note that Selena suffered more than most in the glare of the sun. The light of day rendered the lady
hailed as the “Angel” somehow harder and colder than one would have expected. Her celestial-blue eyes made Imogen think of glittering sapphires rather than the heavens.

The salon guests were clearly enthralled by their fashionable hostess. They chattered and giggled and gossiped excitedly as they waited for Selena to signal the beginning of the afternoon’s activities.

Selena held court with the air of a fairy-tale queen. The accoutrements of a high-minded philosophical salon surrounded her. Several impressive leather-bound volumes were stacked on a nearby table. A wooden box containing shards of pottery and some ancient glass bottles were arranged next to the books. An object wrapped in a black velvet case lay on the table. Bits and pieces of Zamarian artifacts, none of them particularly notable in Imogen’s opinion, were scattered artfully about the drawing room. There was a rather poor copy of a statue of Anizamara near the window.

Patricia leaned close to Imogen and lowered her voice. “Lady Lyndhurst keeps the tablet with the curse inscribed on it in that velvet cover. She says it is the most valuable item in her collection.”