spectacles. “My dear, you do not understand about Colchester. I have tried to tell you that his reputation was firmly established nearly a decade ago when he was in his early twenties. I know you will not believe this, but the truth is that he was considered extremely dangerous and utterly cold-blooded.”
Imogen grimaced. “Nonsense. One cannot know him for even five minutes without realizing that such a reputation is completely at odds with the true nature of the man. He is obviously the victim of nasty gossip, just as I was three years ago.”
“He certainly seems to have convinced you of that,” Horatia muttered. “I wonder why.”
“I appear to be stuck with his assistance,” Imogen said, resigned to the situation. “He will no doubt prove to be more trouble than he is worth.”
“I would not be surprised if he is saying precisely the same thing about you at this very moment, my dear.”
Imogen did not respond. She turned her attention back to the countryside that was passing by outside the carriage window. Fragments of the dream that had awakened her in the middle of the night returned. She’d had similar dreams for the past several weeks, but last night’s imaginings had been the clearest and most disturbing.
She was standing in the library of Uncle Selwyn’s mansion. It was midnight. Pale moonlight slanted through the windows. Shadows bathed the chamber and its sepulchral furnishings.
She turned slowly, searching for the man she knew was there. She could not see him. She had never seen him. But she sensed his presence. He was waiting, cloaked in deepest night.
Something or someone stirred in the darkest corner of the chamber. She watched with trepidation as a figure detached himself from the surrounding shadow andwalked slowly toward her. His face was concealed by the gloom, but when he moved through a patch of moonlight she saw the glint of cold silver in his hair.
Zamaris, Lord of the Night. Powerful, seductive. And very dangerous.
He came closer, his hand outstretched.
Not Zamaris, she realized. Colchester.
Impossible.
But for some reason, she could not seem to differentiate between the two. Colchester and Zamaris had coalesced into one single creature of the night.
She looked at the hand that he held out to her and saw blood dripping from his long, elegant fingers.
H e was going to regret becoming involved with Miss Imogen Waterstone, Matthias told himself for what was no doubt the thousandth time since he had arrived in London. She was already having a damaging effect on his powers of concentration.
He set down his quill and gazed unseeingly at the notes he was making for his next article in the
Review
. Thus far he had covered less than half of a sheet of foolscap with his speculations on Zamarian rituals. Thoughts of Imogen’s imminent arrival in Town kept intruding.
She and Horatia were due to arrive that day. Her wild, reckless plan would no doubt be set in motion shortly thereafter. All she required were a few invitations to the right levees and balls. Horatia seemed convinced they could be obtained.
Matthias rose from his chair and walked around the corner of his vast ebony desk. He went to stand in front of the fire, aware of a deep, gnawing restlessness. It had been troubling him since he had returned to London.
He was a fool to become embroiled in Imogen’s mad scheme. The only positive note that he could see in the murky picture was that the damnable plot was highly unlikely to work. Unfortunately, there would doubtless besome extremely trying moments ahead before Imogen would be convinced to give up her grand plan of vengeance. Matthias glumly contemplated the fact that it would be up to him to keep her out of trouble until she accepted defeat.
She was determined to set forth on a path fraught with the threat of scandal and danger. Matthias considered her scheme once more, attempting to be objective. He did not believe that Vanneck had actually murdered his wife.
Imogen grimaced. “Nonsense. One cannot know him for even five minutes without realizing that such a reputation is completely at odds with the true nature of the man. He is obviously the victim of nasty gossip, just as I was three years ago.”
“He certainly seems to have convinced you of that,” Horatia muttered. “I wonder why.”
“I appear to be stuck with his assistance,” Imogen said, resigned to the situation. “He will no doubt prove to be more trouble than he is worth.”
“I would not be surprised if he is saying precisely the same thing about you at this very moment, my dear.”
Imogen did not respond. She turned her attention back to the countryside that was passing by outside the carriage window. Fragments of the dream that had awakened her in the middle of the night returned. She’d had similar dreams for the past several weeks, but last night’s imaginings had been the clearest and most disturbing.
She was standing in the library of Uncle Selwyn’s mansion. It was midnight. Pale moonlight slanted through the windows. Shadows bathed the chamber and its sepulchral furnishings.
She turned slowly, searching for the man she knew was there. She could not see him. She had never seen him. But she sensed his presence. He was waiting, cloaked in deepest night.
Something or someone stirred in the darkest corner of the chamber. She watched with trepidation as a figure detached himself from the surrounding shadow andwalked slowly toward her. His face was concealed by the gloom, but when he moved through a patch of moonlight she saw the glint of cold silver in his hair.
Zamaris, Lord of the Night. Powerful, seductive. And very dangerous.
He came closer, his hand outstretched.
Not Zamaris, she realized. Colchester.
Impossible.
But for some reason, she could not seem to differentiate between the two. Colchester and Zamaris had coalesced into one single creature of the night.
She looked at the hand that he held out to her and saw blood dripping from his long, elegant fingers.
H e was going to regret becoming involved with Miss Imogen Waterstone, Matthias told himself for what was no doubt the thousandth time since he had arrived in London. She was already having a damaging effect on his powers of concentration.
He set down his quill and gazed unseeingly at the notes he was making for his next article in the
Review
. Thus far he had covered less than half of a sheet of foolscap with his speculations on Zamarian rituals. Thoughts of Imogen’s imminent arrival in Town kept intruding.
She and Horatia were due to arrive that day. Her wild, reckless plan would no doubt be set in motion shortly thereafter. All she required were a few invitations to the right levees and balls. Horatia seemed convinced they could be obtained.
Matthias rose from his chair and walked around the corner of his vast ebony desk. He went to stand in front of the fire, aware of a deep, gnawing restlessness. It had been troubling him since he had returned to London.
He was a fool to become embroiled in Imogen’s mad scheme. The only positive note that he could see in the murky picture was that the damnable plot was highly unlikely to work. Unfortunately, there would doubtless besome extremely trying moments ahead before Imogen would be convinced to give up her grand plan of vengeance. Matthias glumly contemplated the fact that it would be up to him to keep her out of trouble until she accepted defeat.
She was determined to set forth on a path fraught with the threat of scandal and danger. Matthias considered her scheme once more, attempting to be objective. He did not believe that Vanneck had actually murdered his wife.
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