Amanda Quick - Mischief

Witty, charming, sharply written, downright funny The 19th century has rarely been so much fun.

People

Recommended.

Cosmopolitan

Amanda Quick seems to be writing better and better.

Chicago Tribune

Wit is Quicks middle name.

Atlanta Journal-Constitution

I was carried away by this excellent story.

Philadelphia Inquirer

[Amanda Quick] has created another golden link here in her long chain of bestsellers.

Publishers Weekly

[Amanda Quicks] Regency-period romances continue to wear exceedingly well.

Kirkus Reviews

A fast-paced fun read.

Oakland Press

Bantam Books by Amanda Quick
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

A FFAIR

D ANGEROUS

D ECEPTION

D ESIRE

I T HEE W ED

M ISCHIEF

M ISTRESS

M YSTIQUE

R AVISHED

R ECKLESS

R ENDEZVOUS

S CANDAL

S EDUCTION

S LIGHTLY S HADY

S URRENDER

W ICKED W IDOW

W ITH T HIS R ING

D ON T L OOK B ACK

L ATE FOR THE W EDDING

This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED .

M ISCHIEF

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published July 1996
Bantam paperback edition / May 1997

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1996 by Jayne A. Krentz.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-46804
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-57555-5

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words Bantam Books and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

v3.1_r1

For my editor,
Beth de Guzman,
with thanks and appreciation.

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 Matthiass 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 railing 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 sarcophagus.

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.

Matthias was rudely awakened by a womans bloodcurdling scream.

A second female voice, this one as crisp as the green apples of ancient Zamar, interrupted the horrified cry.

For heavens 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 hed 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 Matthiass 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.