Mischief Read online

  She reminded herself that Colchester’s impressive physical attributes were hardly unique. She had seen any number of well-muscled men. She lived in the country, after all. Most of her neighbors were farmers who worked in their own fields. Many of them had developed broad shoulders and strong legs. In addition, she was not entirely without experience when it came to the male of the species. First, there had been Philippe D’Artois, her dancing instructor. Philippe had been as graceful as a bird in flight. And then there had been Alastair Drake. Athletic and handsome, he had certainly not required any help from his tailor in order to do justice to his attire.

  But Colchester was as different from those men as night was from day. The strength that emanated from him had nothing to do with his sleekly muscled shoulders and thighs. It radiated from some inner core of inflexible steel. The force of his will was palpable.

  There was also a great stillness about him that belonged more properly to the shadows than to the daylight. It was the patient stillness of the predator. Imogen tried to imagine him as he must have looked on that fateful day when he finally mastered the labyrinth beneath the ruined city of Zamar and discovered the hidden library. She would have sold her soul to have been with him on that memorable occasion.

  Colchester turned his head at that moment and gave her an inquiring, slightly amused glance. It was as though he had read her thoughts. Imogen felt a wave of embarrassed warmth go through her. The teacup she was holding rattled on its saucer.

  The dark library was chilly, but Colchester had obligingly built a fire on the hearth. The room, which was crowded with a variety of bizarre sepulchral artifacts, would soon warm.

  Once she had been assured that Colchester was not a ghost or a vampire, Bess had recovered sufficiently to retreat to the deserted kitchens. There she had prepared a pot of tea and a cold collation. The simple meal consisted only of leftover salmon pie, some bread pudding, and a bit of ham, but Colchester seemed content with it.

  Imogen certainly hoped he was satisfied. The food had not come from the mansion’s empty cupboards. It had been packed in a hamper early that morning and brought along to sustain the women as they went about the business of cataloguing Selwyn Waterstone’s collection. Judging by the efficient manner in which Colchester was demolishing the repast, Imogen doubted that there would be much left over for Horatia, Bess, or herself.

  “I am, of course, delighted to make your acquaintance,” Matthias said.

  Imogen suddenly realized that his voice had an extremely odd effect on her senses. There was a dark, subtle power in it that threatened to envelop her. It made her think of mysterious seas and strange lands.

  “More tea, my lord?” Imogen asked quickly.

  “Thank you.” His long, elegant fingers brushed hers as he accepted the cup.

  A curious sensation began at the point where he had touched her. It traveled along Imogen’s hand, rendering her skin unaccountably warm. It was as though she sat too close to the fire. Imogen hastily set the pot down before she dropped it.

  “I am very sorry that there was no one here to greet you when you arrived last night, sir,” she said. “I sent the servants to their own homes for a few days while my aunt and I conduct the inventory.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “I was quite certain that I directed you to come to Waterstone Cottage, not Waterstone Manor.”

  “No doubt you did,” Matthias said softly. “But then, there were a great many instructions in your letter. I may have forgotten one or two along the way.”

  Horatia glared at Imogen. “Letter? What letter? Really, Imogen, I must have an explanation.”

  “I shall explain everything,” Imogen assured her aunt. She eyed Matthias warily. The cool mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. It cut her to the quick. “My lord, I fail to see anything amusing about the contents of my letter.”

  “I was not particularly amused by it last night,” Matthias admitted. “The hour was late. It was raining. My horse was exhausted. I saw no point wasting time in an attempt to locate a small cottage, when I had this vast house at my disposal.”

  “I see.” Imogen gave him a determined smile. “I must say, you appear remarkably unruffled by a night spent in a sarcophagus. My aunt and I have often remarked that Uncle Selwyn’s notion of a proper bed was certainly not to everyone’s taste.”

  “I have slept in worse places.” Matthias helped himself to the last of the ham and surveyed his surroundings with a considering expression. “I had heard tales of Selwyn Waterstone’s collection. The reality is even more unexpected than the rumors implied.”

  Briefly distracted, Horatia peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “I expect you are aware that my brother had an abiding interest in sepulchral art and tomb antiquities, sir.”

  Matthias’s arresting eyes lingered thoughtfully on an Egyptian mummy case propped in the corner. “Yes.”

  “It is all mine now,” Imogen told him proudly. “Uncle Selwyn left his entire collection to me along with the house.”

  Matthias gave her a speculative glance. “You are interested in sepulchral art?”

  “Only that which is Zamarian,” she said. “Uncle Selwyn claimed that he owned a few Zamarian artifacts and I have every hope that he did. But it will take time to find them.” She gestured to indicate the heap of antiquities and funereal oddities that littered the library. “As you can see, my uncle had no sense of organization. He never bothered to catalogue the items in his collection. There may be any number of rare treasures waiting to be unearthed in this house.”

  “It will certainly take a great deal of work to find them,” Matthias said.

  “Yes, it will. As I said, I plan to keep any antiquities that I can positively identify as Zamarian in origin. I shall offer the remainder to other collectors or perhaps give them to a museum.”

  “I see.” Matthias sipped tea and studied the library more closely.

  Imogen followed his gaze. There was no denying that her eccentric uncle had possessed a very strange taste for artifacts associated with death.

  Ancient swords and armor taken from Roman and Etruscan burial chambers were strewn about in a careless fashion. Sphinxes, chimeras, and crocodile motifs copied from Egyptian tombs adorned the furniture. Bits of statuary and cloudy glass bottles that had been discovered in antique sepulchral monuments reposed in the cupboards. Grim death masks stared down from walls.

  The bookcases were stuffed with dozens of worn volumes that dealt with ancient entombment practices and the embalming arts. Several large crates were stacked on the far side of the room. Imogen had not yet opened them. She had no idea what was inside.

  The situation was no better in the upstairs chambers, all of which were crammed with the tomb antiquities that Selwyn Waterstone had spent his life acquiring:

  Matthias finished his brief survey and looked at Imogen. “What you choose to do with Waterstone’s oddities is your affair, of course. Let us return to the business at hand. Would you mind telling me why you sent for me?”

  Horatia uttered a small, faint gasp. She whirled to confront Imogen. “I cannot believe that you have done this. Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  Imogen gave her a placating smile. “The thing is, I sent for his lordship a few days before you arrived here in Upper Stickleford. I was not entirely certain he would put in an appearance, so I saw no reason to mention it.”

  “This is folly,” Horatia snapped. Now that the initial shock had passed, she was apparently regarding her usual spirits. “Do you realize who this is, Imogen?”

  “Of course I know who he is.” Imogen lowered her voice to a properly reverential tone. “He is Colchester of Zamar.”

  Matthias raised his brows but made no comment.

  “As you said, my lord,” Imogen continued, “it is time to get to the heart of the matter. You were a good friend of Uncle Selwyn’s, I believe.”

  “Was I?” Matthias asked. “That is certainly news to me. I was not aware that Selwyn Waterstone had any
friends.”

  Alarm shot through Imogen. “But I was led to believe that you owed him a great favor. He claimed that you had vowed to repay him if it were ever possible to do so.”

  Matthias regarded her in silence for a moment. “Yes.”

  Imogen was vastly relieved. “Excellent. For a second there I thought I might have made a dreadful mistake.”

  “Do you make many such mistakes, Miss Waterstone?” Matthias asked gently.

  “Almost never,” she assured him. “My parents were great believers in education, you see. I was trained in logic and philosophy, among other subjects, from the cradle. My father always said that when one thinks clearly, one rarely makes mistakes.”

  “Indeed,” Matthias murmured. “As to your uncle, it’s true that I considered myself to have been in his debt.”

  “Something to do with an ancient text, was it not?”

  “Years ago he came across a very old Greek volume in the course of his travels,” Matthias said. “It contained some oblique references to a lost island kingdom. Those references, together with others I had discovered, gave me some of the clues I needed to locate Zamar.”

  “That is just what Uncle Selwyn told me.”

  “I regret that he died before I could repay him,” Matthias said.

  “You are in luck, sir.” Imogen smiled. “As it happens, there is a way for you to fulfill your promise.”

  Matthias regarded her with an unreadable expression. “I fear that I do not entirely grasp your meaning, Miss Waterstone. You have just told me that your uncle is dead.”

  “He is. But in addition to his collection of tomb artifacts, my uncle also left me a respectable inheritance, and the promise that you owed him.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence. Horatia stared at Imogen as if she had gone mad.

  Matthias watched her with enigmatic eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  Imogen cleared her throat delicately. “Uncle Selwyn bequeathed me the promise that he claimed you made to him. It is quite clear in his will.”

  “It is?”

  This was not going as smoothly as she had hoped, Imogen reflected. She braced herself. “I wish to collect on that promise.”

  “Oh, dear,” Horatia whispered. She sounded resigned to a dreadful fate.

  “Just how do you propose to collect the debt that I owed to your uncle, Miss Waterstone?” Matthias finally asked.

  “Well, as to that,” Imogen said, “it is somewhat complicated.”

  “Somehow that does not surprise me.”

  Imogen pretended not to hear that unencouraging remark. “Are you acquainted with Lord Vanneck, sir?”

  Matthias hesitated. Cold disdain appeared briefly in his gaze. “He is a collector of Zamarian antiquities.”

  “He was also the husband of my good friend Lucy Haconby.”

  “Lady Vanneck died some time ago, did she not?”

  “Yes, my lord. Three years ago, to be precise. And I am convinced that she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” For the first time, Matthias actually showed a trace of surprise.

  “Oh, Imogen, surely you do not intend—” Horartia broke off and closed her eyes in dismay.

  “I believe she was murdered by her husband, Lord Vanneck,” Imogen said forcefully. “But there is no way to prove it. With your help, sir, I intend to see that justice is done.”

  Matthias said nothing. He did not take his eyes off Imogen’s face.

  Horatia rallied. “My lord, surely you will talk her out of this wild scheme.”

  Imogen scowled at Horatia. “I dare not wait. An acquaintance has written to tell me that Vanneck is preparing to marry again. He has apparently suffered some serious financial reverses.”

  Matthias shrugged. “That much is true. A few months ago Vanneck was forced to sell his large town house and move into a much smaller residence. But he still manages to keep up appearances.”

  “I suspect that he is even now prowling the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London in search of a wealthy young heiress,” Imogen said. “He might very well murder her too, once he has his hands on her fortune.”

  “Imogen, really,” Horatia said weakly. “You must not make such accusations. You have absolutely no proof.”

  “I know that Lucy feared Vanneck,” Imogen insisted. “And I know that Vanneck was frequently cruel to her. When I visited Lucy in London just before her death, she confided to me that she was afraid he might someday murder her. She said that he was insanely jealous.”

  Matthias set his cup down and rested his elbows on his thighs. He loosely clasped his hands between his knees and regarded Imogen with an expression of reluctant interest. “Just how do you intend to carry out your scheme, Miss Waterstone?”

  Horatia was horrified. “Good heavens, you must not encourage her, my lord.”

  “I find myself somewhat curious,” Matthias said dryly. “I would like to hear the details of this plan.”

  “Then all is lost,” Horatia muttered. “Imogen has a way of sweeping others up into her schemes.”

  “I promise you that I am not easily swept along by much of anything unless I so choose,” Matthias assured her.

  “I pray you will remember those bold words later, sir,” Horatia muttered.

  “My aunt is inclined to be overanxious at times, my lord,” Imogen said. “Do not worry, I have planned this out very carefully. I know what I am doing. Now then, as you just observed, Lord Vanneck is an extremely zealous collector of all things Zamarian.”

  “So?” Matthias’s mouth twisted humorlessly. “Vanneck may fancy himself an expert, but in truth he would not know a genuine Zamarian artifact from the hindquarters of a horse. Even I. A. Stone displays more perception.”

  Horatia set her cup down with a small crash. Her eyes darted from Matthias to Imogen and back again.

  Imogen took a very deep breath and composed herself. “You have frequently argued with I. A. Stone’s conclusions in the pages of the Zamarian Review, I believe.”

  Matthias was politely amused. “You have kept up with our little squabbles?”

  “Oh, yes. I have maintained a subscription to the Review for several years, my lord. I always find your articles extremely enlightening.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I also find I. A. Stone’s writings to be quite thought-provoking,” she added with what she hoped was a bland smile.

  Horatia frowned in warning. “Imogen, we seem to be straying from the subject. Not that I am particularly desirous of returning to that other topic, however—”

  “I. A. Stone has never even been to Zamar,” Matthias said through his teeth. A flare of genuine emotion lit his ghostly eyes for the first time that morning. “He has no firsthand knowledge of his subject, yet he feels free to make observations and reach conclusions based upon my work.”

  “And the work of Mr. Rutledge,” Imogen pointed out hastily.

  The warm emotion died in Matthias’s eyes as swiftly as it had appeared. “Rutledge died four years ago on his last trip to Zamar. Everyone knows that. His old writings are sadly out of date. I. A. Stone should know better than to use them in his researches.”

  “I was under the impression that I. A. Stone’s papers were quite well received by the members of the Zamarian Society,” Imogen said tentatively.

  “I will admit that Stone has a certain superficial familiarity with Zamar,” Matthias allowed with gracious arrogance. “But it is the sort of knowledge one gleans from studying the work of a more informed expert.”

  “Such as yourself, my lord?” Imogen asked politely.

  “Precisely. It is obvious that Stone has read virtually everything I’ve written on Zamar. And then he has the incredible gall to disagree with me on any number of points.”

  Horatia coughed discreetly. “Er, Imogen?”

  Imogen resisted the urge to pursue the matter. Horatia was right. She had other priorities. “Yes, well, back to Vanneck. Regardless of his intellectual limitations, you must adm
it that he is known to be consumed with a passion for Zamarian artifacts.”

  Matthias looked as though he would have preferred to continue the heated discussion of I. A. Stone’s lack of expertise. But he allowed himself to be drawn back to the subject of Vanneck. “He covets anything said to be from ancient Zamar.”

  Imogen steeled herself. “I shall be blunt, sir. Rumor has it that you are of a like-minded nature. The difference between the two of you is that you are the undisputed authority on Zamarian antiquities. I’m sure you collect with exquisite taste and discretion.”

  “I allow only the finest, rarest, and most interesting Zamarian artifacts under my roof.” Matthias watched Imogen with an unblinking gaze. “In other words, only those that I personally unearthed. What of it?”

  Imogen was astonished by the tiny chill that went down her spine. There were very few things that could unsettle her nerves, but some quality in Matthias’s voice did just that on occasion. She took a deep breath. “As I told you, I have no proof with which to accuse Vanneck of murder. But I owe Lucy too much to allow her killer to go entirely unpunished. For three years I have tried to devise a plan to accomplish my goal, but it was not until Uncle Selwyn died that I finally saw a way to avenge Lucy.”

  “What, exactly, do you intend to do to Vanneck?”

  “I have hit upon a way to destroy him in the eyes of the ton. When I have finished, Vanneck will be in no position to prey on innocent women such as Lucy.”

  “You are quite serious about this, are you not?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Imogen lifted her chin and met his eyes without flinching. “I am extremely serious. I intend to set a trap for Vanneck, one that will ruin him financially and socially.”

  “A trap requires bait,” Matthias pointed out softly.

  “Quite right, my lord. The hue I intend to use is the Great Seal of the Queen of Zamar.”

  Matthias stared at her. “Are you claming to possess the Queen’s Seal?”

  Imogen frowned. “Of course not. You of all people should know that the seal has never been found. But shortly before he disappeared, Rutledge sent a letter to the Zamarian Review informing the editors that he believed he was on the trail of the seal. The rumors that he died in the underground labyrinth while searching for the thing inspired the Rutledge Curse.”