Mischief (9 page)

He opened a gaming hell.

In the years that followed Matthias’s discovery of
Zamar, there were several notes from Lord Colchester inviting him to visit his small family at their country home. Matthias had politely declined. He had managed to avoid meeting his stepmother and his half sister.

He had been en route home from Zamar a few months earlier when Thomas and Charlotte had been killed in a carriage accident. The funeral was held several weeks before he reached England. Patricia had gone to live with an uncle on her mother’s side immediately after her parents had been buried.

Matthias had arrived in London to discover that he had assumed the earldom and a few more ghosts.

If things got out of hand, he would play the one card he held, Matthias promised himself Tuesday evening as he walked into the glittering ballroom. There was a possibility that once Imogen’s scheme was launched, he might be able to sink it by making it clear to Vanneck and the ton that he had concluded her uncle’s map was a fraud.

It would be risky. There was no guarantee such a tactic would work. Imogen was I. A. Stone, after all. She was determined to keep her identity a secret, but she was perfectly free to quote Stone’s opinions at great length. If I. A. Stone, who had attracted an enthusiastic and devoted following who respected her opinions, let it be known that he considered the map to be genuine, Vanneck might very well go for the bait regardless of Matthias’s opinion. There were many in Society who would very much like to see Matthias proved wrong.

He disregarded the speculative glances and covert stares directed at him as he moved through the large room. He pretended not to hear the whispered comments that ebbed and flowed around him.

Cold-blooded Colchester
.

He had never lived down the reputation he had acquired a decade before. Then again, he had never made any effort to do so. He’d had more important things to accomplish in the intervening years. Lost Zamar had consumed him body and soul. At least it had until Imogen Waterstone dragged him into this outlandish scheme.

For the most part, Matthias ignored the Polite World. He made no secret of his disdain for the frivolous fashions and vicious gossip that were its lifeblood. As a consequence, the ton thought him fascinating.

Matthias exchanged cool nods with an acquaintance and helped himself to a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He lounged against one of the appallingly overwrought, heavily gilded columns that decorated the ballroom and drew his watch from his pocket. Nearly eleven. Curtain time.

In an extremely detailed note that had arrived very early at his town house that morning, Imogen had given him his instructions for his role in tonight’s performance. She had gone so far as to supply him with a short script designed to guide him through their first conversation together in front of the ton. He had been ordered to act as though he were being introduced to her for the first time.

After a cursory glance at the ridiculous lines of dialogue that he was supposed to memorize, Matthias had tossed the sheet of foolscap into the fire. He was no Edmund Kean, and Lady Blunt’s ballroom was not Drury Lane. Nevertheless, he was there.

And he was intrigued, in spite of himself.

Imogen’s little charade was outlandish, outrageous, and crazed in the extreme. He would no doubt live to rue his part in it. But he could not deny the sense of anticipation he felt.

It occurred to him that in the short while since he had known her he had experienced any number of unfamiliar sensations, everything from disbelief to a disturbing degree of desire. In between, he had suffered irritation,
astonishment, and bemusement, more sensations, in short, than he had been obliged to deal with in the past decade. The lady was dangerous.

“Good evening, Colchester. This is certainly a surprise. Something interesting must be scheduled to occur here in Lady Blunt’s ballroom this evening. I cannot imagine any other reason for you to have condescended to accept an invitation.”

At the sound of the familiar, throaty tones, Matthias turned to glance at the woman who had come up beside him. He inclined his head slightly. “Selena.” He raised his glass in a small toast. “My compliments. Spectacular, as always, madam.”

“Thank you, sir. One does one’s best.”

“And in your case, one always succeeds.”

If Selena, Lady Lyndhurst, was aware of the hint of mockery in his words, she did not allow it to show. She merely smiled with cool acceptance of the obvious. She
was
spectacular. Everyone in Town acknowledged that fact.

Selena was in her late twenties. She had taken up residence in London four years earlier following the death of her elderly husband. She had shown no inclination to remarry, but her name was occasionally linked, albeit discreetly, with certain gentlemen of the ton. Beautiful, stylish, and clever, she took advantage of the unique freedom she enjoyed as a wealthy widow.

Selena had joined the Zamarian Society, but in Matthias’s opinion her interest in antiquities would be shortlived. She was certainly intelligent enough to study the subject, but, as was the case with a majority of the members, her concern with ancient Zamar was a matter of fashion rather than scholarly fascination. When Zamar ceased to be amusing, she would move on to some other entertainment.

Selena’s pale gold hair, sky-blue eyes, and strong tendency to favor celestial blue in her gowns had earned her the sobriquet the Angel. The young bloods of the ton
wrote odes to her “heavenly aspect” and “ethereal aura.” The older, more jaded gentlemen concentrated on trying to charm her into their beds. From what he had heard, Matthias knew that few were successful. Selena was extremely selective when it came to choosing her paramours.

His instincts told him that she was the sort of woman whose charm and beauty inspired passion in others but who was not strongly affected by it herself.

Tonight she was dressed in her customary hue of blue. The gown, which exposed a vast expanse of snowy bosom, was trimmed with a net of iridescent gold. The fine threads glittered in the light of the chandeliers. Gold plumes danced in her hair. Her hands were sheathed in long blue gloves. Blue satin slippers adorned her feet. The very picture of an angel, Matthias thought. He wondered what had become of her wings.

A brief vision of Imogen’s tawny hair and lively sea-colored eyes danced in his head. There was nothing ethereal about Imogen Waterstone. She was vivid and sharp and bright. The very opposite of the ghosts he saw in the fire. Any passion she indulged would be very real, not a practiced imitation of the emotion. The memory of the kiss they had shared flashed through Matthias’s head.

His mouth twisted ruefully as he took a sip of champagne. He was not particularly attracted to angels, but he seemed to have developed a taste for a certain lady who had a bit of the devil in her.

“Come, Colchester, tell me what it is that brings you here tonight.” Selena surveyed the room. “Is it true that you have decided to do your duty by your new title? Have you descended upon Society this Season to hunt for a bride?”

“Is that what the gossips say?”

“It is the prevailing theory at the moment,” she admitted. “Tell me, do you have your eye on one of the young ladies in this crowd?”

“And if I do?”

Selena uttered a laugh that was reminiscent of the
chime of crystal on crystal. “If you are truly shopping for a suitable bride, sir, I may be able to assist you.”

“In what way?”

“With introductions, of course. You may have heard that I have formed a small salon to amuse myself. We gather in my drawing room twice a week for the purpose of studying ancient Zamar. I invite only young ladies of the finest families to attend. Tell me what you seek in the way of looks, address, age, and inheritance, and I shall select one or two for your consideration.”

Matthias smiled humorlessly. “You sound as if you were employed in the auction yard at Tattersall’s, Selena.”

“Selecting a wife is not so very different from choosing a fine horse, is it, my lord?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Matthias swept a second glass of champagne off a tray and handed it to her. “I’ve never gone through the process. Tell me about your Zamarian salon, Selena. It does not sound quite your style. What possible amusement can you take from entertaining a group of young ladies twice a week?”

Selena’s eyes glinted above the rim of her glass. “Does it not occur to you that I might simply enjoy instructing others in the mysteries of ancient Zamar?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I suspect it is far more likely that you have discovered that the naive young ladies are an excellent source of fresh gossip concerning the highest-ranking families in Society.”

“I am, of course, crushed by your low opinion.”

“Don’t take it personally, Selena. I have a low opinion of most of the games played by the ton.”

“You are hardly in a position to criticize, Colchester. Given that only a few years ago you established a gaming hell for the specific purpose of divesting gentlemen of the ton of their inheritances.” Selena laughed softly. “And to think that you accuse me of playing games, sir. Your notion of entertainment takes away one’s very breath.”

No man had ever lost his entire inheritance at the gaming tables of The Lost Soul, Matthias reflected. He
had made certain of it. But he saw no reason to explain that to Selena. She was highly unlikely to believe him, in any event. Certainly no one else in Society believed it. Even after all these years, gossip maintained that he had destroyed any number of fortunes during the years he had owned the hell.

“I prefer to find my amusements in other ways these days.” Matthias surveyed the crowd, searching for Imogen. She should have arrived by then.

“Looking for someone in particular?” Selena asked. “Perhaps I should warn you that I noticed Theodosia Slott among the guests tonight.”

Matthias suppressed a groan and kept his tone entirely devoid of inflection. “Indeed.”

“Someday you really must tell me what actually happened when you shot her lover at that dawn meeting.”

“I have no notion of what you’re talking about,” Matthias said smoothly. He would give Imogen another fifteen minutes, he decided. If she had not put in an appearance by then, he would abandon her to her own devices.

But he had no sooner made that firm resolve than he hastily changed his mind. The thought of Imogen left to her own devices was enough to chill his blood.

Selena slanted him a curious glance. “So you still refuse to discuss the duel even though it occurred several years ago? How very disappointing. Still, I cannot say that I am surprised. You are notorious for refusing to converse about anything other than ancient Zamar.”

“There is little else in Society that is worth a lengthy conversation.”

“I fear you are somewhat cynical, my lord.” Selena paused as a small commotion broke out at the far end of the ballroom. “Well, well. It appears that someone interesting other than yourself has arrived.”

Matthias followed Selena’s glance. There was no mistaking the sly, eager buzz of the murmurs that rippled through the crowd. The anticipation reminded him of the atmosphere that hovered around a pack of hounds shortly
before the start of the hunt. The scent of blood was in the air.

A name rode the crest of the conversational wave that splashed across the ballroom. Matthias caught it as it flowed past him.

“Immodest Imogen. The Waterstone chit. Do you not recall, my dear?”

“Don’t know the details m’self. Happened three years back. All hushed up because of the family connection to the Marquess of Blanchford. Understand she came into a respectable portion when her uncle died.”

“Her name was linked to Vanneck’s in a most unpleasant fashion. Found together in a bedchamber at Sandowns’, you know. Lady Vanneck killed herself because of the incident.”

“Indeed. And she’s still received in polite circles?”

“Immodest Imogen is nothing if not amusing, my dear. And her aunt is connected to Blanchford.”

Selena fluttered her blue-and-gilt fan. “Immodest Imogen. I had almost forgotten her. Well, this should certainly prove amusing, my lord.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, indeed. You were not in Town three years ago when she caused such a stir. An Original, to say the least. Quite the blue-stocking.” Selena smiled. “You will appreciate this, Colchester. She was absolutely impassioned about ancient Zamar.”

“Was she?”

“As I recall, she had no taste and absolutely no notion of style. I wonder if she ever learned to waltz properly.”

Matthias slanted her a glance. “Did you know her well?”

“
Everyone
knew of her after the incident with Vanneck. It was the talk of the Season. I cannot see her from where I stand, sir. You are tall enough. Can you catch a glimpse of her over the heads of the crowd?”

“Yes,” Matthias said softly. “I can see her quite clearly.”

He watched Imogen’s progress with mingled fascination and amused respect. Whether she intended to or not, she was certainly cutting a swath through the ballroom.

She was dressed in a high-waisted gown of Zamarian green. The color alone was not what made it distinctive, Matthias thought. After all, Zamarian green was popular this Season. It was the dolphin-and-shell design that trimmed the low neckline and the three tiers of flounces on her skirts that made one look twice. He smiled faintly. The motifs were certainly characteristic of Zamarian art, but the dolphins and shells looked rather odd on a ball gown.

Imogen wore a rather large Zamarian-green turban that concealed all but a few stray curls. The style was more suited to an elderly matron. A gold dolphin pin decorated the front of the imposing headdress.

Horatia, resplendent in a silver damask gown, was at Imogen’s side. She had substituted an elegant lorgnette for her usual pair of spectacles.

Matthias swallowed a grin as he watched Imogen progress through the crowd. She did not walk with the tiny, airy steps that most of the other women had practiced so diligently. Rather, she strode forward with energetic enthusiasm.