The worst that could happen was that Imogen would learn the truth about him.
Matthias hesitated until he could wait no longer. The dreadful silence from the adjoining room threatened to drive him mad. He shoved aside the quilt and got out of bed. A powerful sense of urgency hit him with the force of a blow. He had been a fool. Perhaps it was not too late to save himself.
He found his black robe, struggled briefly to get his injured arm into the sleeve, and then abandoned the attempt. Flinging the robe around his shoulders as though it were a cape, he went to the connecting door.
He paused, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
A chill of intense regret swept through him at the sight of Imogen seated in the chair near the window. Lucy’s journal lay facedown in her lap. Matthias knew without being told that his suspicions about the contents of the wretched volume had been accurate. He stood gripping the doorknob, bleakly aware of a terrible sense of doom.
“Imogen?”
She turned to look at him. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Lucy was having an affair.” Imogen’s voice broke on a sob. “I suppose, given her unhappy marriage, that is not so surprising. And I do not blame her for seeking her happiness elsewhere. Truly, I do not. But, oh, Matthias, why did she use me? I thought she was my friend.”
He felt his gut clench. He had known it would be something like this. “Lucy used you?”
“That was why she invited me to visit her three years ago.” Imogen dabbed at her eyes with a hankie. “Indeed, that was the only reason she wanted me here in London. She hoped to prevent Vanneck from learning of the affair, you see. She was afraid that he would cut off her funds. Perhaps send her to rusticate in the country. He was furious with her already because she had not given him an heir.”
Matthias walked slowly toward Imogen. “I see.”
“Lucy writes that she could not abide Vanneck’s touch. She married him for his title and his money.” Imogen shook her head as though she could not fully comprehend what she had learned. “She is quite forthright about it all.”
Matthias stopped in front of Imogen. He said nothing.
“She thought that if I were her constant companion here in Town, Vanneck would assume that I was the object of her lover’s affections.”
Matthias put the pieces of the small puzzle together in his mind. “Alastair Drake.”
“What?” Imogen slanted a sidelong glance at him as she blew her nose. “Oh, yes. It was Alastair, of course. He was her paramour. She seems to have loved him with a great passion. She writes that she intended to run off with him, but until the time came to do so, she wanted to be able to be in his company as much as possible.”
“And you made it possible for her to be in Drake’s company without arousing Vanneck’s suspicions.”
“Yes.” Imogen dried her eyes with the edge of her hand. “Alastair conspired with her to make it appear that I was the lady who had captured his affection. Vanneck and everyone else, including me, believed him. He certainly gave a … a convincing performance. For a while I even considered … Well, that does not matter now.”
“I’m sorry that you had to learn the truth in this manner.”
“Do not blame yourself, Matthias. You could not have known what I would discover in Lucy’s journal.” She gave him a small, sad smile. “I have been obliged to conclude that you were right. It seems I am rather naive in some respects. And gullible.”
“Imogen—”
“It is astonishing, when I think about it. All that time that I spent in Alastair’s company and I never once sensed that he was in love with Lucy. I never guessed that he was using me to meet with her openly as well as secretly. No wonder she was in such fine spirits whenever the three of us went about together.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthias whispered. He could think of nothing else to say. He reached down to haul her gently up out of the chair.
“Matthias, how could I have been so foolish?” Imogen leaned her head against his chest. “She wrote such unkind things about me. She mocked me. It is as though I never knew Lucy at all.”
Matthias had no words with which to comfort Imogen or himself. He folded her close and gazed out into the night.
He wondered if he really did possess weak nerves. Then again, perhaps the savage sense of despair that had turned his insides to ice was the price one paid for trampling on the fragile flower of innocence.
Chapter 16
Two days later Imogen paced Horatia’s small parlor, a teacup in her hand. “I still cannot bring myself to believe that I was so entirely mistaken in my judgment of her.”
“I know you do not wish to think ill of Lucy.” Horatia, seated on the sofa, watched Imogen with deeply troubled eyes. “You imagined her to be a friend, and it is your nature to be fiercely loyal to those you care for.”
“She was my friend. I did not imagine it.” Imogen paused in front of the window and gazed out into the street. “She was kind to me when we were neighbors in Upper Stickleford.”
“You were kind to her. You were forever inviting her to stay the night.”
“She gave me her gowns.”
“Only after they had gone out of fashion,” Horatia muttered.
“Fashion was not important in Upper Stickleford.”
“It was to Lucy.”
Imogen ignored the comment. “She often came to visit and share a cup of tea with me after my parents died.”
“She visited you because she was constantly on the verge of expiring from boredom. Life in the country was not to her taste.”
“We talked of ancient Zamar.”
“You talked,” Horatia said deliberately. “I fear Lucy only pretended to take an interest in Zamar.”
Imogen whirled around so quickly that her teacup clattered in its saucer. “Why do you say that?”
Horatia heaved a small sigh. “I will admit that I did not know your friend Lucy well, but what I did learn of her character was not inspiring.”
“Gossip,” Imogen insisted. “Nothing but gossip.”
“I am sorry, my dear, but all indications were that she was selfish, willful, reckless, and possessed of a strange, unpredictable temperament.”
“She was desperate to escape her uncle’s house. George Haconby was a most unpleasant man. My parents never cared for him.”
“I know,” Horatia admitted.
Imogen remembered Lucy’s eyes the first night she had come to the door and asked to spend the night. “Haconby frightened her, especially when he was in his cups. There were many times when she begged to stay with me rather than be alone with him.”
“And you took her in.” Horatia lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “Imogen, I certainly do not wish to quarrel with you about the matter. Lucy is dead. Nothing is to be gained from probing her past at this late date.”
“No, I suppose that is true.”
Horatia watched her with an expression of grave disapproval. “You say you learned about this liaison between Lucy and Mr. Drake from Lucy’s journal?”
“Yes. I know it was not right to read it, but Colchester was convinced that it might contain some clues about why Vanneck was shot. I am two-thirds of the way through it, but thus far I have found no information that would explain murder.”
Horatia frowned. “I thought Vanneck was killed by a highwayman.”
“We are not entirely certain of that. In any event, Colchester said that if I did not read the journal, he would. I felt I had an obligation to Lucy to protect her personal writings from a stranger’s gaze.”
“Indeed. And may I ask how Colchester came into possession of this journal?”
Imogen cleared her throat. “He, er, discovered it when he paid a call at Lord Vanneck’s residence.”
“Why on earth did he go to Vanneck’s house?”
“He has been concerned about some of the details surrounding Vanneck’s murder,” Imogen explained. She thought quick
ly. “He believed he would learn something of the truth if he talked to some of the servants.”
“I see.”
Imogen did not like Horatia’s skeptical tone of voice. “Perfectly natural, given his circumstances,” she said quickly. “After all, gossip has linked Colchester’s name to Vanneck’s murder. But I do wish he had informed me of his intentions.”
Horatia’s brows rose. “I’ll grant you that Colchester is in a rather awkward situation. But that is nothing new for him.”
Imogen glared at her. “He wished to clear his name and put the gossip to rest.”
“I fear that is an impossible task and I suspect he knows it,” Horatia said dryly. “People have always enjoyed gossip about Cold-blooded Colchester. A little thing such as the truth of the matter is unlikely to change that.”
“Do not call him cold-blooded.”
“My apologies.” Horatia did not sound the least apologetic. She sounded quietly furious.
Imogen frowned in consternation. “Aunt Horatia? What is wrong?”
“Nothing important, my dear,” Horatia said smoothly. “Let us return to the matter at hand. You say Colchester discovered Lucy’s journal and gave it to you to read?”
“Yes. I intend to finish it tonight. But I doubt I shall learn anything other than what I already know. Poor Lucy was clearly obsessed with Alastair Drake. She was determined to run off with him. She dreamed of going to Italy, where the two of them could be free to celebrate their love.”
“I presume that while in Italy, Lucy wished to live in the style to which she had become accustomed?”
“She notes in her journal that Alastair appeared to have a liberal income.”
“Indeed.”
“But he was unwilling to take her to Italy.” Imogen recalled the tone of rising desperation in Lucy’s journal entries. “She was distraught. She loved him very much, you know.”
“Did she?”
“She wrote that Vanneck often flew into a rage because she tried to refuse him whenever he attempted to exert his marital rights. He forced himself on her on several occasions.” Imogen shuddered. “And I can well believe it. At one point she actually took steps to rid herself of Vanneck’s babe which she did not want to bear. There is something in the journal about consulting a woman in Bird Lane who dealt in such services.”
“I see.”
“I believe that Vanneck either learned of the abortion or discovered her plans to leave him.”
“And became so enraged that he murdered her?”
“Yes.” It was a neat summary of events, Imogen told herself. But every time she repeated it, she thought of how Vanneck had strongly denied any involvement in Lucy’s death.
“Well, if Vanneck killed Lucy, he has paid for his crime,” Horatia said.
“Yes, but who killed him?” Imogen asked quietly.
“We shall likely never know.”
“You are right, I suppose.” Imogen gazed out at the row of town houses across the street.
“Is something else troubling you, my dear?”
“I have been contemplating a theory about Lucy’s behavior for two days,” Imogen said slowly.
“What is that?”
“It occurs to me that she might have been ill.”
“Ill?”
“A form of madness, perhaps.” Imogen swung about to face Horatia with a sense of growing certainty. “That would explain so much. Her recklessness. Her desperation. Her strange moods.”
“Oh, Imogen, I really don’t think—”
“It makes sense, Aunt Horatia. I suspect that she suffered much at the hands of her uncle, perhaps more than she ever admitted. Perhaps it affected her mind. It was no doubt a condition that gradually worsened through the years. No wonder she seemed so different after she left Upper Stickleford.”
“I am not at all certain that she was so very different,” Horatia said.
Imogen paid no attention. She was consumed by a growing enthusiasm for her new theory. “Now I understand why she plotted to use me to conceal her affair with Alastair Drake. Don’t you see, Aunt Horatia? By the time I came to stay with her here in London, Lucy was desperate. She was no longer herself.”
Horatia gazed at her for a long time. “Perhaps you are correct, my dear.”
“It is the only reasonable explanation,” Imogen said firmly. “Lucy was never very strong. The dreadful treatment that she received, first from her uncle and then from her husband, no doubt made her unbearably anxious and distraught. It destroyed her in the end, just as surely as the laudanum. Yes. An illness of the brain explains everything.”
A sense of peace descended on Imogen. She had not been wrong about her friend after all. Lucy had been ill and desperately unhappy. She had not been in her right mind when she had written those cruel things about Imogen in her journal.
Imogen alighted from the carriage and went up the town house steps with a far lighter heart than she’d had when she set out for her aunt’s house. Nothing would bring Lucy back, but the warm memory of her friendship was safely enshrined once again in Imogen’s heart. Poor Lucy. How she had suffered.
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, Patr
icia.” 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.”
Matthias 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.