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 is said that the people of this far isle are skilled in the study of mathematics. They make calculations to determine the height of buildings and mountains. They predict the rise and fall of the tides.
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.
Imogen 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.”
“I see.” Imogen eyed the velvet-shrouded tablet as she accepted a cup of tea from the housekeeper.
Selena clapped her hands lightly and the small group fell into a respectful silence. She smiled coolly at Imogen.
“Lady Colchester, this is a pleasant surprise. I am delighted that you could join us today. May I ask what drew your attention to our little gathering?”
“Just curious,” Imogen said. “Lady Patricia has told me how much she has enjoyed your Zamarian salon.”
“We can hardly compete with your learned husband’s discoveries and writings,” Selena murmured. “As a matter of fact, I was under the impression that Colchester considered that only fashionable dilettantes and amateurs attended salons such as mine.”
“I will not stay long.” Imogen put down her teacup. “Lady Patricia tells me that you have been studying the Rutledge Curse.”
“That is true.” Selena’s gaze flickered to Patricia. Something that might have been anger flashed in her icy blue eyes. It vanished almost instantly behind a mask of cool charm. “But it was supposed to be a secret investigation.”
Patricia stiffened in her chair and cast an anxious glance at Imogen.
Imogen frowned at Selena. “You must not blame Patricia. I stumbled onto the truth this afternoon. As you know, I have a certain interest in things Zamarian.”
“You refer to the Queen’s Seal and the map your uncle left you in his will.” Selena’s smile was mocking.
“Indeed. But now that I am married to Colchester of Zamar, my interests extend well beyond the seal. I wish to examine the tablet that is inscribed with the so-called Rutledge Curse. I understand it is in that velvet case.”
A brittle silence settled on the drawing room. The elegant young members of the salon exchanged uneasy glances. They were obviously not accustomed to seeing Selena’s authority challenged.
Selena hesitated. Then she gave a small, graceful shrug. “As long as you are here, you are welcome to study it. But I must warn you that the curse is written in Zamarian. Only a handful of people in all of England can decipher it.”
“I am aware of that.” Imogen rose from her chair, took two long steps toward the table in front of Selena, and picked up the black velvet case before anyone realized what she intended.
There were several small, shocked gasps from the onlookers as Imogen unwrapped the tablet.
Selena’s eyes narrowed as she watched Imogen remove the ancient clay tablet. “The gossip concerning your rather eccentric manners is correct, I see.”
Imogen ignored her. She looked down at the heavy tablet. “How astonishing. This is a real Zamarian tablet.”
“What did you think it was?” Selena snapped.
“I was prepared to discover that it was a forgery. But it is definitely quite authentic.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” Selena said coldly. “Now, if you are quite finished—”
“But I’m not finished.” Imogen looked up from the tablet. “The tablet is definitely from ancient Zamar. Hardly surprising. I understand that it is fashionable to have one or two in one’s library. But the inscription on it is not a curse.”
“I beg your pardon,” Selena snapped.
“I fear that you have been sadly misinformed, Lady Lyndhurst.”
Selena flushed furiously. “How would you know what that inscription says?”
“I can read Zamarian script, both formal and informal.” Imogen smiled coolly. “This would be amusing if it were not for the fact that some people have taken the notion of a curse far too seriously.”
“Amusing?” Selena was incensed. “What do you mean by that?”
“The inscription on that tablet is nothing more than a bill of sale,” Imogen announced. “To be precise, it records the exchange of two measures of wheat for one ox.”
“That is a lie.” Selena shot to her feet. Her voice rose with her. “How could you possibly know anything of Zamarian script?”
There was a slight movement in the doorway. Everyone in the drawing room turned to see Matthias. His stance was deceptively casual.
“My wife reads ancient Zamarian script as well as I do,” Matthias said softly.
Imogen swung around so quickly that her reticule, which dangled from a satin cord, flew out in a wide arc. It struck a teacup and sent it crashing to the carpet. Several young ladies seated in the path of the splashing tea leaped to their feet with cries of dismay.
“Colchester.” Imogen smiled. “I didn’t see you there. Perhaps you would care to give your opinion on this silly tablet?”
Matthias inclined his head in a graceful nod that conveyed both amusement and unmistakable respect. “Your translation is correct. That tablet is an ancient Zamarian business document. In short, a bill of sale.”
Chapter 17
Matthias vaulted into the carriage and took the seat across from Imogen and Patricia. He glanced reflectively at the front door of Selena’s town house as the vehicle moved off into the street. This visit in search of Imogen and Patricia constituted the first time he had ever stepped foot inside the Angel’s residence. He felt as though he had just plucked Imogen and Patricia from a spider’s web.
“This is a surprise, my lord,” Imogen said cheerfully. “What made you come in search of us? Is something wrong?”
“No.” Matthias settled back against the cushion and turned to face her. He forced himself to examine her closely, searching for signs of melancholy, anger, or resentment.
He saw none. Much to his amazement, Imogen’s customary excellent spirits appeared to have revived. The shadows that had darkened her eyes for the past two days had miraculously evaporated. She had evidently recovered from the crushing blow he had delivered. He was not certain what to make of that fact.
Patricia looked at Imogen and then at Matthias. Her eyes brimmed with puzzlement and hope. “Was that inscription on the clay tablet truly nothing more than an ancient bill of sale?”
Imogen patted Patricia’s gloved hand. “Yes, indeed. Most of the Zamarian clay tablets that the fashionable use to decorate their studies and libraries are ancient records of business transactions, or other equally mundane matters.” She looked at Matthias. “Is that not right, Colchester?”
“Yes.” Matthias glanced at Patricia. “I assure you, Imogen is expert at reading Zamarian script. I saw the symbols for wheat and oxen on that tablet myself, from where I was standing. The message was definitely not a curse.”
“I don’t understand,” Patricia whispered. “So many dreadful things have occurred lately. The duel. Lord Vanneck’s death. And then, two nights ago, you were nearly killed, Matthias. I was certain that Lady Lyndhurst was right when she said that the Rutledge Curse had struck again.”
“The Rutledge Curse is rubbish,” Mat
thias said. “It was invented by a group of cork-brained dilettantes in the Zamarian Society shortly after word reached them that Rutledge had died in the labyrinth. One can only hope that the Polite World will soon grow bored with ancient Zamar and return to its interest in Egypt.”
“Not likely,” Imogen scoffed. “How could ancient Egypt possibly compete with lost Zamar? Besides, we already know everything there is to know about Egypt.”
Matthias was briefly distracted by that notion. “I’m not so certain. If someone ever succeeds in deciphering the inscriptions on that chunk of black basalt that they are calling the Rosetta Stone, there could well be a renewed interest in ancient Egypt.”
Imogen wrinkled her nose. “I shall always prefer the wonders of Zamar.”
“You are nothing if not loyal, my dear,” Matthias said softly.
Patricia looked down at her hands. “Lady Lyndhurst claimed that she could translate Zamarian script. She said she could read the inscription on that clay tablet. Why would she lie about such a thing?”
“Lady Lyndhurst enjoys playing games.” Matthias did not bother to conceal his disgust. “Henceforth, you will both keep your distance from her.”
Patricia shuddered. “I have no wish to attend any more of her salons.”
Imogen’s brows snapped together. “Patricia, there is something I want to ask you. It was your idea to take Lucy’s journal to the salon this afternoon, was it not?”
Matthias’s insides went cold. “What’s this about the journal?”
Patricia stiffened at his tone. “I am very sorry about the journal. I thought that what I was doing was for the best.”
Matthias opened his mouth to repeat his demand for an explanation but Imogen silenced him with a quick, tiny shake of her head. Reluctantly he subsided. It had occurred to him on one or two occasions lately that Imogen’s methods of dealing with Patricia were more effective than his own.
Imogen smiled at Patricia. “It’s quite all right. No harm was done. I merely wondered if you had mentioned the journal to anyone since it, uh, came into our possession.”