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  MIsCHIEF

  BY AMANDA QUICK

  Prologue

  The weak flame of the candle made little impact on the flood of

  darkness that filled the interior of the deserted mansion. It

  seemed to Matthias Marshall, Earl of Colchester, that the vast

  house had absorbed the very essence of the night. It had the aura

  of a tomb, a place where only ghosts would willingly reside.

  The folds of Matthias's long, black greatcoat swirled around his

  mud-spattered boots as he climbed the stairs. He held the candle

  higher to light his path. No one had greeted him at the door when

  he had arrived a few minutes earlier, so he had let himself into the

  cavernous hall. It was clear now that there were no servants about,

  not even a maid or a footman. He had been obliged to take care

  of his horse himself, because no groom had come forth from the

  stables.

  At the top of the stairs he paused to glance down over the rail

  ing into the ocean of night that filled the front hall. The candle

  could not begin to penetrate the waves of darkness that ebbed and

  flowed there. Matthias walked down the gloom-filled corridor to

  the first chamber on the left. He stopped in front of it and twisted

  the old knob. The door gave a groan of despair as it opened. He

  held the candle aloft and surveyed the bedchamber.

  It resembled nothing so much as the interior of a mausoleum.

  In the center of the chamber was an ancient stone sarcophagus.

  Matthias glanced at the inscriptions and carvings that adorned it.

  Roman, he thought. Quite ordinary.

  He crossed the chamber to where the coffin stood beneath

  gauzy black hangings. The lid had been removed. The candlelight

  revealed the black velvet cushions that lined the inside of the

  sarcophagus.

  Matthias put the candle on a table. He stripped off his riding

  gloves and dropped them beside the taper, then sat down on the

  edge of the coffin and removed his boots.

  When he was ready, he wrapped himself in the folds of his

  greatcoat and settled onto the black cushions inside the sarcoph

  agus.

  It was nearly dawn, but Matthias knew that the heavy drapes

  that covered the windows would prevent the rays of the rising sun

  from invading the dark chamber.

  Some might have had difficulty finding sleep in such sepulchral

  surroundings. Matthias knew that he would have no problem. He

  was accustomed to the company of ghosts.

  Just before he closed his eyes he asked himself again why he

  had bothered to respond to the summons that had been issued by

  the mysterious Imogen Waterstone. But he knew the answer to

  that question. Long ago he had given his oath. His word was his

  bond.

  Matthias always kept his promises. Doing so was the only way

  he could be certain that he would not become a ghost himself.

  Chapter I

  Matthias was rudely awakened by a woman's bloodcurdling

  scream.

  A second female voice, this one as crisp as the green apples of

  ancient Zamar, interrupted the horrified cry.

  For heaven's sake, Bess," the apple-tart voice admonished.

  Must you screech at the sight of every cobweb? It is extremely

  irritating. I am trying to accomplish a great deal this morning and

  I can hardly do so if you shriek at every turn."

  Matthias opened his eyes, stretched, and sat up slowly in the

  sarcophagus. He glanced at the open door of the bedchamber just

  in time to see a young maid crumple to the floor in a deep swoon.

  The weak sunlight that seeped down the hall behind her told

  Matthias that it was late morning. He raked his fingers through his

  hair and then tested the stubble of his beard. He was not surprised

  that he'd scared the maid into a faint.

  Bess?" Crisp, fresh apples again. Light footsteps in the hall.

  Bess, what on earth is wrong with you?"

  Matthias rested one arm on the edge of the stone coffin and

  watched with interest as a second figure appeared in the doorway.

  She did not see him at first. Her full attention was focused on the

  fallen maid.

  There was no mistaking the fact that the second female was a

  lady. The long apron that she wore over her serviceable gray

  bombazine gown could not disguise the elegant line of her spine

  or the high, gently rounded curve of her breasts. The determined

  set of her shoulders bespoke an innate pride and a purposeful air

  that had been bred into her very bones.

  Matthias contemplated the lady in growing fascination as she

  hovered above her maid. He swept a critical eye over her, cataloguing the various parts of her form much as he would assess the

  carving of a Zamarian statue.

  She had made a valiant attempt to confine a voluminous mass

  of tawny brown hair beneath a practical little white cap. Several

  tendrils had escaped imprisonment, however, and bounced

  around her fine-boned face. That face was turned partially away

  from Matthias's view, but he could make out high cheekbones,

  long lashes, and a distinctive, arrogant nose.

  A strong, striking face, he concluded. It conveyed the essence of

  the forceful spirit that obviously animated it.

  The lady was no young chit fresh out of the schoolroom, but on

  the other hand, she was not nearly so ancient as himself. Then

  again, few people were. In truth he was thirty-four, but he felt

  centuries older. He estimated that Imogen was five and twenty.

  He watched as she dropped a leather-bound journal onto the

  carpet and knelt impatiently beside her maid. There was no sign of

  a wedding ring on her hand. For some reason that fact pleased

  him. He suspected that the apple-tart voice and the commanding

  manner had had a great deal to do with her apparent status as a

  spinster.

  It was a matter of taste, of course. Most of Matthias's male

  acquaintances preferred honey and chocolate. He, however, had

  always favored something with a bit of a bite when it came to

  after-dinner delicacies.

  Bess, that is quite enough. Open your eyes at once, do you hear

  me?" Imogen produced a vinaigrette and waved it briskly under

  the maid's nose. I really cannot have you screaming and swoon

  ing every time you open a door in this house. I warned you that

  my uncle was a very odd man and that we were quite likely to

  come across some rather strange items when we inventoried his

  collection of sepulchral antiquities."

  Bess moaned and rolled her head on the carpet. She did not

  open her eyes. I seen it, ma'am. I swear it on me mother's grave."

  What did you see, Bess?"

  A ghost. Or maybe it were a vampire. I'm not sure which."

  Nonsense," Imogen said.

  What was that earsplitting noise?" another woman called from

  the top of the stairs. Is something amiss down there, Imogen?"

&nb
sp; Bess has fainted, Aunt Horatia. It is really too much."

  Bess? Not like her." More footsteps in the hallway announced

  the impending arrival of the woman who had been addressed as

  Aunt Horatia. Bess is a sturdy girl. Not at all prone to fainting

  spells."

  If she has not fainted, she is doing an excellent imitation of a

  lady suffering an attack of the vapors."

  Bess's lashes fluttered. Oh, Miss Imogen, it was dreadful. A

  body in a stone coffin. It moved."

  Don't be ridiculous, Bess."

  But I seen it." Bess groaned again, raised her head, and glanced

  anxiously past Imogen into the shadows of the bedchamber.

  Matthias winced as she caught sight of him and screamed again.

  Bess flopped back down onto the carpet with all the grace of a

  beached fish.

  The third woman arrived in the hall outside the doorway. She

  was dressed in the same practical fashion as Imogen, a plain gown,

  apron, and cap. She was an inch or two shorter than her companion and considerably broader about the waist and hips. Her gray

  ing hair was pinned beneath her cap. She studied Bess through a

  pair of spectacles. What on earth is upsetting the girl?"

  I have no notion." Imogen busied herself with the vinaigrette.

  Bess has an imagination that is easily overheated."

  I warned you about the dangers of teaching her to read."

  I know you did, Aunt Horatia, but I cannot bear to see a sound

  mind go uneducated."

  You're just like your parents." Horatia shook her head. Well,

  she's not going to be of much use if she continues to start at every

  unusual sight in this house. My brother's collection of funereal

  oddities is enough to give anyone a fit of the vapors."

  Nonsense. Uncle Selwyn's collection is a bit morbid, I admit,

  but rather fascinating in its way."

  This house is a mausoleum and well you know it," Horatia

  retorted. Perhaps we ought to send Bess back downstairs. This

  was Selwyn's bedchamber. She was no doubt startled by the sight

  of the sarcophagus. Why my brother insisted on sleeping in that

  old Roman coffin is beyond me."

  It is a rather unusual sort of bed."

  Unusual? It would inspire nightmares in anyone possessed of

  normal sensibilities." Horatia turned to peer into the shadows of

  the darkened bedchamber.

  Matthias decided that it was time to rise from the coffin. He

  stepped over the edge of the sarcophagus and pushed aside the

  thin black draperies. His greatcoat swirled around him, concealing

  the breeches and badly wrinkled shirt in which he had slept. He

  watched with amused resignation as Horatia's eyes widened in

  horror.

  Sweet God in heaven, Bess was right." Horatia's voice rose to a

  shriek. There is something in Selwyn's coffin." She staggered back

  a step. Run, Imogen, run."

  Imogen leaped to her feet. Not you, too, Aunt Horatia." She

  whirled to glower into the darkened bedchamber. When she

  caught sight of Matthias standing in front of the coffin, her lips

  parted in amazement.

  Good heavens. There is someone in there."

  Told ye so, ma'am," Bess whispered hoarsely.

  Matthias waited with keen curiosity to see if Imogen would

  scream or succumb to the vapors.

  She did neither. Instead, she narrowed her eyes in unmistakable

  disapproval. Who are you, sir, and what do you mean by frighten

  ing my aunt and my maid in this nasty fashion?"

  Vampire," Bess muttered weakly. I heard tell of em, ma'am.

  Suck yer blood, he will. Run. Run while ye still can. Save yerself."

  There is no such thing as a vampire," Imogen announced with

  out bothering to glance down at the stricken maid.

  A ghost, then. Flee for yer life, ma'am."

  She's right." Horatia plucked at Imogen's sleeve. We must get

  away from here."

  Don't be ridiculous." Imogen drew herself up and regarded

  Matthias down the length of her very fine nose. Well, sir? What

  have you to say for yourself? Speak up, or I shall summon the

  local magistrate and have you clapped in irons."

  Matthias walked slowly toward her, his eyes fixed on her face.

  She did not retreat. Instead, she fitted her hands to her waist and

  began to tap the toe of one half-boot.

  An odd but unmistakable sense of awareness, almost a thrill of

  recognition, went through him. Impossible. But when he was close

  enough to see the intense clarity of Imogen's wide blue-green

  eyes, eyes the color of the seas that surrounded the lost island

  kingdom of Zamar, he suddenly understood. For some whimsical

  reason he could not explain, she made him think of Anizamara,

  the legendary Zamarian Goddess of the Day. The mythical lady

  dominated much of the lore of ancient Zamar and a great deal of

  its art. She was a creature of warmth, life, truth, energy. Her power

  had been equaled only by Zamaris, the Lord of the Night. Only

  Zamaris could embrace her brilliant spirit.

  Good day to you, madam." Matthias pulled his fanciful

  thoughts back under control and inclined his head. I am

  Colchester."

  Colchester." Horatia took another startled step back and came

  up against the wall. Her eyes went to his hair. She swallowed heavily. Cold-blooded Colchester?"

  Matthias knew that she was staring at the icy white streak that

  lanced through his black hair. Most people recognized it immediately. It had identified the men of his family for four generations.

  As I said, I am Colchester, madam."

  He had been Viscount Colchester when he had earned the

  appellation of Cold-blooded. The fact that both of the family titles

  went by the same name, Colchester, had made things convenient

  for the gossips in the ton, he thought bitterly. There had been no

  need to lose the alliteration.

  Horatia's mouth worked. What are you doing here in Upper

  Stickleford, sir?"

  He is here because I sent for him." Imogen favored him with a

  blindingly bright smile. I must say, it's high time you arrived, my

  lord. I dispatched my message more than a month ago. What kept

  you?"

  My father died several months ago, but I was delayed return

  ing to England. When I arrived, there were a number of matters

  pertaining to his estate that required my attention."

  Yes, of course." Imogen was acutely embarrassed. Forgive me,

  my lord. My condolences on the death of your parent."

  Thank you," Matthias said. But we were not close. Is there

  anything to eat in the kitchens? I am feeling quite famished."

  The first thing one noticed about the Earl of Colchester, Imogen

  decided, was the swath of silver in his midnight-dark hair. It

  burned in a cold white flame through the unfashionably long

  black mane.

  The second thing one noticed was his gaze. His eyes were colder

  than the icy silver in his hair.

  The fourth Earl of Colchester was magnificent, she thought as

  she waved him to a chair in the library. He would have been altogether perfect had it not been for those eyes. They glittered in his

  hard, ascetic face with the chillingly emotionless light of an intelligent an
d very dangerous ghost.

  With the exception of those spectral gray eyes, Colchester was

  exactly as she had envisioned. His brilliant articles in the

  Zamarian Review had accurately reflected his intellect as well as

  a character forged by years of harsh travel in strange lands.

  Any man who could calmly lie down to sleep in a sarcophagus

  was a man who possessed nerves of iron. Just what she needed,

  Imogen thought ebulliently.

  Allow me to introduce myself and my aunt properly, my lord."

  Imogen seized the teapot and prepared to pour. She was so

  excited to have Colchester at hand that she could scarcely contain

  herself. Wistfully she toyed with the notion of blurting out the

  whole truth concerning her identity. But caution prevailed. She

  could not, after all, be entirely certain how he would react, and at

  the moment she needed his willing cooperation. As you have no

  doubt concluded, I am Imogen Waterstone. This is misses Horatia

  Elibank, my late uncle's sister. She was recently widowed and has

  kindly consented to become my companion."

  misses Elibank." Matthias nodded once to acknowledge the

  introduction.

  Your lordship." Horatia, perched stiffly on the edge of her

  chair, darted an uneasy, decidedly disapproving glance at Imogen.

  Imogen frowned. Now that the initial fright had passed and

  proper introductions had been made, there was no reason for

  Horatia to look so anxious. Colchester was an earl, after all. More

  significantly, at least so far as Imogen was concerned, he was

  Colchester of Zamar; the distinguished discoverer of that ancient,

  long-lost island kingdom, founder of the Zamarian Institution and

  the prestigious Zamarian Review, and trustee of the Zamarian

  Society. Even by Horatia's high standards, he should have been

  eminently acceptable.

  For her part, it was all Imogen could do not to stare at him. She

  still could not quite bring herself to believe that Colchester of

  Zamar was sitting there in the library, taking tea as though he

  were an ordinary man.

  But not much else was ordinary about him, she thought.

  Tall, lean, and powerfully built, Colchester was imbued with a

  sinewy masculine grace. The years of arduous travel in search of

  Zamar had no doubt honed his physique to its present admirable

  state, Imogen reasoned.

  She reminded herself that Colchester's impressive physical