Mischief (26 page)

He had been tempted to reassure her that his nerves were up to the task of dealing with a man such as Vanneck, but he had resisted. In the first place, he doubted that she would have believed him. Imogen was convinced that he was a man of delicate sensibilities. He saw no reason to disabuse her of that notion.

His greatest source of unease was that Imogen would one day realize that his reputation was based on fact, not fiction. Matthias dreaded the dawn of that day far more than he dreaded this one.

Inside the dressing room he lit a candle and reached for his breeches. There was no need to wake his valet. A man did not require an intricately folded cravat or his best linen shirt for such an occasion.

He dressed with swift efficiency and then pulled on his boots. Carrying the taper, he let himself out of the dressing room. He was relieved to see that Imogen was still asleep in his big bed. She had pulled the quilt up over
her head, but he could make out the rough outline of her body beneath the covers.

He intended to be home before she awoke.

The town house was as silent as a Zamarian tomb. Matthias made his way downstairs. The sound of wheels and hooves in the street told him that his coachman had followed the instructions he had been given last night.

Matthias set the candle on a hall table. He took his greatcoat from the small room at the foot of the stairs, slung it over his arm, and opened the front door.

A gray shroud of fog cloaked the streets. The carriage was just barely visible at the bottom of the steps. The horses were wraiths in the mist.

If the fog did not clear by the time he reached his destination, he and Vanneck would have a difficult time making out each other’s form from twenty paces. Assuming Vanneck showed in the first place, which was highly unlikely.

Matthias was mildly surprised that he had not received a message from his seconds notifying him that the duel had been canceled. The considered opinion of his friends was that Vanneck would quit London rather than face a dawn appointment. The man was not known for his courage. But there had been no word.

Matthias glanced up at his coachman as he strode down the front steps. “Cabot’s Farm, Shorbolt.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Shorbolt, bundled up against the cold in a many-tiered cape and a hat pulled down over his eyes, gestured to the young stable lad who held the horses’ heads. “Let ’em go, boy. His lordship’s in a hurry.”

“Aye.” The boy, whose face was concealed by a scruffy scarf and a slouchy cap, jumped back from the bridles and scrambled up onto the box beside Shorbolt.

Matthias vaulted into the carriage and settled back against the seat. Shorbolt gave the horses the signal to set off into the fog.

The streets of London were never truly quiet, not even at dawn. Elegant equipages filled with drunken gentlemen
returning from the stews and gaming hells passed Matthias’s carriage. The first of the farm carts was already making its way to the city markets. The last of the nightmen, their wagons laden with the contents of cesspits, drove past on their way to the outskirts of Town. Occasionally the rank fumes from their cargoes wafted through the air.

But eventually the crowded, bustling streets fell away to reveal fields and meadows draped in mist. Cabot’s Farm was not far outside the city. It had gained a certain notoriety over the years as a convenient location for dawn appointments.

Matthias glanced out the window as Shorbolt brought the horses to a halt at the edge of a meadow. Tendrils of fog flowed across the scene, creating skeletal ghosts out of leafless trees. A curricle loomed in the distance on the far side of the grassy field. It was horsed with two grays.

Vanneck was here after all. Cold anticipation uncoiled deep inside Matthias.

The stable lad clambered down from the box to take charge of the horses. Something hit the ground with a dull thud.

“ ’Ere now, watch yerself, ye clumsy lad,” Shorbolt grumbled. “That’s me tool kit ye just dumped in the dirt.”

“Sorry,” the boy said in a very low voice.

“No call to be jumpy,” Shorbolt went on with a gruff kindness. “It ain’t yerself who’s goin’ to be facin’ a bullet this mornin’.”

“Yes, sir. I know that.” The boy’s voice was barely audible.

“His lordship can ’andle ’imself. Ye needn’t fear that you’ll be lookin’ for a new post later today. Now, ’and me kit back up ’ere and then go take the beasts’ heads like a good lad. The poor creatures don’t much care for the sound o’ gunshots.”

“Don’t blame ’em,” the boy muttered.

Matthias ignored the byplay between Shorbolt and the stable boy. He opened the door of the carriage and
got out. No one emerged from the curricle. The hood of the small two-wheeled carriage was raised against the cold. Matthias could not see the face of the man inside. There was no sign of Vanneck’s seconds. The horses stood placidly munching grass as if they had been there for some time.

Matthias was reaching for his watch when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. He glanced up as it rumbled into view through the fog. The coachman brought the horses to a halt nearby. A familiar figure threw open the door and jumped down onto the damp grass.

“Colchester.” Fairfax, tall, thin, and dressed in the height of fashion, flashed a grin as he walked forward to greet Matthias. “You’re a bit early, man. Expect you’re eager to get back home to your lady wife, eh?”

“Very eager.” Matthias glanced at the elegantly carved wooden box Fairfax carried. “I trust you have made certain that the powder is dry?”

“Do not concern yourself. I’ve taken excellent care of your pistols.” Fairfax nodded toward the carriage. “Jeremy and I brought along the doctor in case he’s needed.”

“Where is Jeremy?”

“Right here.” Jeremy Garfield, a short man with merry eyes and a shock of blond hair, descended sedately from the carriage. “Morning, Colchester. I trust you’ll get this over with quickly so that I can go home to my bed. Been up all night. Why must these affairs always be conducted at dawn? Ungodly hour of the day for this sort of thing.”

“It’s an ungodly business,” Fairfax offered cheerfully. “Well, at least the fog has lifted sufficiently to allow Colchester to take good aim at Vanneck. Assuming he shows, which ain’t likely.”

Matthias inclined his head toward the curricle in the distance. “It would seem that Vanneck is even more eager than I am to conclude the matter.”

Jeremy snorted at the sight of the small carriage. “So
he put in an appearance after all. That’s a bit of a surprise. Where are his seconds?”

Fairfax eyed the curricle. “His seconds gave me the impression Vanneck would leave Town rather than face you.”

Matthias started toward the curricle. “Let us see what is keeping him.”

“Fear, most likely.” Jeremy trotted to catch up with Matthias. “Whole world knows Vanneck lacks bottom. Man’s an out-and-out coward. Must have spent the night pouring courage from a bottle.”

Matthias did not respond. He glanced absently at the stable lad as he strode past his carriage. The boy was watching him intently from beneath the brim of his battered cap. The scarf was still wrapped closely around his face to ward off the dawn air.

Awareness went through Matthias. A chill that had nothing to do with the fog made him frown. He tried to place the stable lad. He was suddenly very certain that he had not encountered this particular boy in his stables. Yet there was something disturbingly familiar about him. It had to do with his stance and the way he held his head.

“Very odd, if you ask me,” Fairfax said.

Matthias was briefly distracted from the small, niggling puzzle of the stable lad. He glanced at his friend. “What’s odd?”

“Whole thing.” Fairfax looked around. “Jeremy and I met with Vanneck’s seconds last night. They both stated that if Vanneck did not leave Town, they would be here to examine the pistols.”

Matthias heard soft, hesitant footsteps behind him. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the stable lad had left the horses to follow the three of them as they made their way toward Vanneck’s curricle.

“ ’Ere now, where d’ye think yer goin’, boy?” Shorbolt yelled. “Come back ’ere. This ain’t yer affair.”

The lad halted and glanced uncertainly back at Shorbolt. The sense of familiarity deepened within Matthias.
He noticed the elegant line of the boy’s spine that not even the old coat could disguise. For an instant he refused to believe what his eyes told him. And then disbelief flashed into fury.

“Hell’s teeth,” Matthias whispered.

Fairfax scowled at him in alarm. “Something amiss, Colchester?”

He took a deep breath. “No. Nothing.” He pinned Imogen briefly with his gaze, letting her see the anger that was seething in him. Her eyes widened as she registered the fact that he had recognized her.

“You and Jeremy go talk to Vanneck,” Matthias said softly to his friend. “Discover what’s keeping him. I want to have a word with one of my staff concerning the horses.”

“Be back in a moment,” Fairfax promised. “Come along, Jeremy. Let us see if Vanneck’s courage has evaporated already.”

Matthias waited until the two were out of earshot. Then he whipped around to find Imogen standing a short distance behind him. He walked slowly, deliberately, toward her, reminding himself with every step that above all, he must keep her identity a secret from Vanneck and the others.

The flames of rage within him were not fed solely by the knowledge that Imogen had taken yet another risk with her reputation. Matthias knew that his anger was based on a gathering sense of anguished desperation. Imogen would learn the truth about him if she saw him put a bullet into Vanneck. All her pretty illusions about his delicate sensibilities and weak nerves would be shattered once and for all.

Imogen took a single step back as Matthias reached her. Then she braced herself. Her chin rose. “Matthias, please, I had to come with you.”

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re about?” He wanted to shake her. “Have you gone mad? Do you
have any notion of what would happen to your reputation if word of this charade got out?”

“My reputation has never been of particular importance to me, sir.”

“Well, it is to me.” It was the only logical argument he could summon in that bleak moment. “You’re the Countess of Colchester now, and you will damn well act like it. Get into the carriage.”

“But, Matthias—”

“I said, get into the carriage and stay there until this is over, do you hear me? I shall deal with you later.”

Imogen drew herself up in a way that Matthias was coming to know all too well. “I will not allow you to go through with this stupid duel.”

“Just how do you intend to stop it?”

She glowered. “I shall convince Vanneck to apologize. If he does so, you will be obliged to cancel the duel. I have studied the rules for this sort of thing, and I know very well that an apology ends the matter.”

“There is nothing Vanneck can say that will convince me to let him go unpunished for what he tried to do to you,” Matthias said very softly. “Nothing at all.”

“But, Matthias—”

“Get into the carriage.”

“I cannot let you do this.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“
Colchester
,” Fairfax shouted across the meadow. “You’d better come here and see this for yourself.”

Matthias glanced impatiently at his friend. “What is the problem, for God’s sake?”

“Bit of a muddle here, Colchester,” Jeremy called. “Changes everything.”

“Damnation.” Matthias turned briefly back to Imogen. “Wait for me in the carriage.” He strode off without bothering to see if she had obeyed him.

The gray geldings harnessed to the curricle continued to crop grass as the small crowd gathered. Matthias saw that the horses’ reins had been secured to a fallen branch.
Jeremy’s face was troubled. Even Fairfax looked more sober than usual.

“Where is Vanneck?” Matthias asked as he reached the curricle.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “Inside.”

“What the devil is he doing? Writing his will?”

“Not exactly,” Fairfax said.

Matthias peered into the cab and saw the slumped figure sprawled against the seat. Vanneck’s head had fallen to one side. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at nothing. He wore a cloak but he no longer needed any protection against the cold. A large quantity of blood stained the front of his shirt.

“One would hope,” Matthias said, “that he had already tended to the matter of his will.”

“B
ut who shot him?” Imogen demanded as the Colchester carriage set off from Cabot’s Farm. She prided herself on possessing sturdy nerves, but she was obliged to concede that the dizzying course of events and emotions that she had endured during the past few hours had left her feeling shaken.

“How the devil should I know?” Matthias lounged in the corner of the seat and contemplated Imogen with a dark, brooding expression. “Given his unpleasant nature, I suspect that there are any number of candidates. I would send a bouquet to the appropriate party if I knew his identity.”

“Whoever it was must have known about the duel. The killer went to the trouble of driving Vanneck’s curricle all the way out here to Cabot’s Farm and left the body for you to discover.”

“The list of people who knew about the duel no doubt includes half the ton.”

“But why would someone leave Vanneck’s body at the scene of his dawn appointment?”

Matthias shrugged. “Fairfax no doubt had the right
of it. He suspects that Vanneck was attacked by a highwayman shortly after he arrived at Cabot’s Farm. Jeremy agrees with him. It’s as sound a speculation as any.”

“A highwayman. I suppose that is a possibility.”

“A distinct possibility.”

Imogen considered that. “It all seems very odd.”

“Indeed. Almost as odd as learning that one’s bride has a penchant for disguising herself as a stable lad.”

She blinked. “Really, Matthias, that is a very small matter compared to Vanneck’s murder.”

“Not to me.”

“I fail to see how you can concern yourself with such a trivial incident, when we are faced with something so extremely serious and perplexing.”