The Devil's Waltz (11 page)

“It's quite a bit to carry around—are you certain you're safe on the streets with it? I could send a link boy with you…”

“I'll be fine.” It was a hefty sum of money, one that he couldn't very well tuck into his fashionable pockets, but he certainly wasn't about to have Chipple send someone with him, someone who'd doubtless try to relieve him of his bounty. “I'm afraid I'll have to beg the favor of a bag to carry it in, though. I'll be sure to have it returned.”

Chipple made a low, growling noise, rather like that of a hungry polar bear, but he simply nodded, tossing a small embroidered sack across the desk. “Consider it my parting gift,” he said. And there was no mistaking the murderous look in his small, dark eyes.

Christian rose, stretching lazily, and gave his future father-in-law his most fetching smile. “I'm pleased we've come to an understanding,” he said. “I knew we would deal well together, as one businessman to another.”

“Get out of here,” Chipple snapped.

Christian Montcalm scooped up the money, placed it in the soft velvet bag and gave Chipple a mocking bow.

He could see Chipple's eyes dart back to the open panel, doubtless considering whether to risk using the gun, but he clearly thought better of it. He'd try some
thing soon, though, and the quicker Christian put his plan into motion the better.

“Good evening, sir,” he murmured.

“Goodbye,” Chipple snarled. He stood there, motionless, as Christian Montcalm sauntered gracefully out of the room.

 

William Dickinson knew when a cause was lost. He'd known even before he'd traveled to London, but he'd risked everything for one last glimpse of her. He was from yeoman stock, an old family of impeccable lineage with no aspirations beyond the careful managing of his estate and the surrounding villages. His father was the local squire, a good man and one William hoped to emulate. And in truth, Hetty was too far above him to spend her life as the wife of a country gentleman—too beautiful and too wealthy for such a simple man. He knew it, accepted it. But he couldn't help dreaming.

If she really did come to meet him, as Miss Kempton said she would, then he could tell her goodbye. Give her up to a grander future than he could ever provide.

But not with someone like Christian Montcalm. He'd heard the rumors, and a man like that wasn't worthy of a treasure like Hetty. She'd be better off in the country than tied to a scoundrel like him.

Josiah Chipple wasn't going to let that happen, though. If he wouldn't let his only child throw herself away on a wealthy country family, he'd hardly let her go to an impoverished rakehell with a title that wasn't even his yet.

Will sat down on the marble bench, then turned to keep his eyesight away from the offending statue. For some reason Chipple thought these obscene Greek marbles made him refined. With Chipple it was a lost cause.

It was a wonder that Hetty was as sweet and delicate as she was, but she could thank her mother for that. The poor woman had always looked a little afraid of her mostly absent husband, but she had raised her daughter well until her sudden, unexpected death. Hetty could look almost as high as she wanted for a good marriage, and Will had long ago accepted that fact.

He just wanted to say goodbye. To wish her Godspeed. To tell her he'd accepted her decision gracefully, knew she didn't love him, and in fact, that he had moved on himself and would be marrying Miss Augusta Davies (or at least, as soon as he asked her, since she'd been chasing him for years now).

When he saw Hetty coming toward him his heart leaped in his throat. He rose, turning his back on the statue, straightening his already neat clothing, his graceful departing speech all prepared.

She slipped into the garden, closing the door behind her. She was a vision of pink and lace and glittering gems, her artful tangle of blond curls like a halo, her perfect rosebud lips pouting, and angelic blue eyes wide with love, and he melted.

“Oh, bloody Christ, Hetty!” he exploded. “I can't live without you!” And ignoring his promise to Miss Kempton, his vows to himself, his duty to his parents, and his sense of honor and decorum, he swept Hetty into his
arms and planted his mouth on hers in one long, bracing kiss.

Her response was not what he would have expected. She tore herself out of his arms and burst into noisy tears.

Guilt swamped him. “Oh, Hetty, darling, I beg your pardon. I should have never…please forgive me. I thought I could control myself…I ought to be horsewhipped…I'm a wretched—”

She looked up, and her tear-filled eyes were smiling, and she put her hand against his lips, silencing his babbling apologies. “You do still love me, Will!” she breathed happily. And she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him back.

F
or Annelise, the day did not start in an auspicious manner. She hadn't slept well—tossing and turning with nightmares so vivid they should have woken her up. It would have been a blessing if they had—she simply would have lit the candles by her bed and read something improving until her mind settled. Well, perhaps not really. She would have read something thrilling and romantic (she was halfway through
The Dungeon's Bride
) with the assurance that it would distract her thoroughly. Unfortunately she drifted just below the surface of sleep, prey to the most disturbing imaginings.

It was very early when she awoke, barely light, and she expected the other members of the household would rise even later than usual, given that the party had gone on till the early-morning hours. She would have time to enjoy a solitary, peaceful breakfast and perhaps even a walk in the park before the Chipples straggled out of bed.

She dressed quickly, pushed open her shutters and dismissed the idea of a walk in the park. It was pouring rain—if she'd been halfway observant she would have heard it
lashing against the windows. The streets below were awash, refuse floating by in the deep running puddles, and people picked their way carefully through the mess.

At least there'd be no Chipples. She could still have her peaceful meal, then find a nice quiet room to read and restore her disordered senses. The last few days had upset her equilibrium—she would simply insist on some time to herself.

Breakfast was laid out in the smaller dining room that had been painted an alarming shade of yellow. She ate quickly, then took her cup of hot chocolate with her as she went in search of more salubrious surroundings.

There were no servants around—clearly they were taking advantage of their master's laxness to enjoy a little peace themselves. Annelise wandered through the ground floor of the mansion, keeping as far away from the front hall as she could. Part of her dream the night before had been that the statues had moved, coming toward her with ominous intent. Even more disturbing, it had been the rakehell who had rescued her, when any sane woman would prefer possessed statues over the inherent danger of a man like Christian Montcalm.

She opened an unfamiliar door, and for a moment thought she had discovered the perfect retreat. It could only be Mr. Chipple's library, and the rows and rows of unread books drew her irresistibly forward, when she should have just closed the door and retreated.

She let out a little squeak as she saw the statue. This one was male, and completely unclothed, and after the first few moments of fascinated regard she turned her
gaze away, determined to vacate the room immediately, when she saw the unexpected hole in the wall. She turned her back on the offensive statue and approached the mysterious crevice. Part of the book shelf had been cunningly designed to disguise it, but a hidden compartment lay in the midst of the books.

She did have a problem with curiosity as well as imagination, and while she knew she should just turn around and leave, she couldn't resist drawing closer to inspect the hole. There were no lights in the room and the gloom outside didn't do much to penetrate the shadows. She couldn't actually see inside the compartment, so she put a tentative hand in, wondering whether she'd touch something nasty.

She did. It was hard and cold and even before she drew it out she knew it was a pistol—but unlike any one she'd ever seen. Not a gentleman's pistol for the unspeakable practice of dueling. This one had no ornamentation, no delicacy. It was large, and heavy, and it looked as if it had no use in this world but to kill.

She shoved it back into the hole, terrified that it might go off, and slammed the door shut. A moment later she realized her mistake—she should have left things as she found them. She tried to reopen the hidden door, but it remained closed, and all the tricks she attempted did no good.

She was making a fuss for nothing, she told herself, stepping away from the desk. There was still a glass with a splash of cognac in it—clearly the servants hadn't been in yet. They could have closed the door—no one
would even suspect the Honorable Miss Kempton had been snooping.

She stepped out into the empty hallway, then turned and closed the door silently behind her.

“May I help you, miss?”

The butler's voice made her jump, and she spun around, her hand pressed against her racing heart. “I was looking for a quiet place to read, Jameson.”

“You don't want to go in there, Miss Kempton. That's the master's study, and we're none of us allowed inside except when he tells us. When the maids clean he stands right there watching. He wouldn't like it if he thought you were snooping around.”

Annelise straightened her back and gave the impudent Jameson a haughty stare. “I don't snoop,” she said. A complete lie, but it wasn't his place to point it out to her. “Find me a quiet room with decent light where I can read and I'll trouble you no more.”

Jameson stared at her for a long moment. He was an odd sort of butler, and Annelise assumed he was merely typical of Chipple's mistaken notions of society. Most butlers managed a veneer of gentility so as not to offend their sensitive masters, but Jameson looked more like a pugilist than a valet. His uniform fit his bulky body perfectly, but he made Annelise think of an unpleasant wild animal, like a bear, just waiting to attack.

Imagination again, she chided herself. And she wasn't going to offer any more babbling excuses. Not that Jameson would tell on her, but it was demeaning to
feel as if she'd been caught doing something naughty. As, in fact, she had.

“I'll escort you to the pink salon,” Jameson said. “Miss Hetty never uses it, but it was designed for ladies to retire to. I'm certain you'll be quite comfortable.”

“Thank you, Jameson.” She was certain of no such thing. If the shade of pink was bilious enough she'd have no choice but to return to her room, or face the downpour herself. But the pink room was less ghastly than it could have been, the chaise was surprisingly comfortable, and within moments a servant had arrived to start a cozy fire. She curled up in the lounge and opened her book, ready to disappear into the fanciful dungeons herself.

The only problem with books, she thought dreamily, is that for some reason the heroes were always just a bit too perfect, almost to the point of tediousness. Their noble behavior would just as likely endanger the hapless heroine. And the heroines themselves showed little ingenuity or resilience. She would hope that if she were kidnapped by a scheming villain she'd be able to do more than weep and faint.

And as for the villains, it was easy enough to see that those disreputable characters were by far the most interesting aspect of the books. They were Machiavellian, monstrous, charming and evil, and it was with great satisfaction that Annelise read of their bloody demise. If only the same thing could happen to the real villain in her life.

The moment the thought popped into her head she
sat up, horrified at herself. She didn't wish ill on anyone, even Christian Montcalm. She didn't want him to die, she just wanted him to go away and set his sights on some other young heiress with a protector who was far less vulnerable than Annelise was.

Not that she ever would have thought herself vulnerable. She had always been excellent at setting things to right, curbing young men's mischievous behavior and keeping her father in one piece until his last, fateful ride. It was absurd that one overly handsome man would be able to disturb her so effectively.

In truth her state of unrest probably had absolutely nothing to do with Christian Montcalm and more to do with Annelise herself. She was facing the advanced age of thirty, the point of no return, and while part of her viewed her advancing spinsterhood with equanimity, a small, vain part of her cried out, “Why not me?” Silly, of course. Childbirth was painful and dangerous, men were ill behaved and annoying, and she liked not having to answer to anyone very well.

Except she did—to Mr. Chipple, Lady Prentice, her interfering sisters and all of society. Perhaps she should make the first steps to sell the pearls, she thought. Even if she succeeded and Hetty Chipple managed to marry wisely, it wasn't enough to give her a sense of accomplishment. She was tired of all this, and she wanted nothing more than to run away.

She couldn't run, of course. But she could walk, sedately, with enough money to set herself up. And as soon as Hetty was settled, that was exactly what she would do.

The rain had stopped and the sun had come out, sending sparkling diamond motes through the air. She put her book down and rose from the chaise. With the advent of the sun the room had grown stiflingly hot, and the latticed door leading to one of the gardens would let in a breath of fresh spring air…

She put her hand on the doorknob and then froze, staring through the glass. This side garden was a mirror image of the one where she'd met with Montcalm the night before—it lay on the other side of the main gardens and was presumably for the use of the ladies of the household. Early roses were blooming, their soft petals wet with rain, and standing in the middle of the garden, looking up at the house with a speculative expression on his face, was Christian Montcalm.

It was just past eight o'clock in the morning—no time for visits. He was up to something nefarious, as always, and she could simply ignore his mysterious presence and go back to her room, or she could confront him.

Confronting him would lead to nothing but trouble, she knew. But she opened the door and stepped out into the tiny garden.

“I wondered if you were going to join me, dragon,” he murmured, still staring up at the house. “I saw you watching me for quite a while, and I couldn't believe you'd slink away without doing battle once more.”

“What are you doing here? It's barely eight o'clock in the morning—I'm surprised you're already up.”

He looked at her then, and smiled. “I didn't go to bed.”

“Now, why doesn't that surprise me?”

“Because you're becoming far too familiar with my little ways, my pet. Which room belongs to your charge?”

“As if I would tell you! What were you going to do, serenade her with a French love ballad?”

“No!” There was a surprising harshness to his voice, one he immediately banished. “I have lamentably little musical talent—if I were to sing to her she'd run screaming from the house.”

“Then feel perfectly free to do so. I can even have the servants drag a piano near the window so that I might accompany you.”

“So helpful,” he said. “But I will decline your kind offer. I merely came to bid a distant farewell to my lost love.”

“Your lost love?”

“Yes—Miss Hetty. I have relinquished any claim I might have on her hand.”

“You had no claim on her hand,” Annelise snapped. “And I had no idea you possessed such good sense. What made you decide to be reasonable?”

“Oh, a number of very persuasive reasons,” he said. “For one thing, I have an absolute terror that she might have inherited her father's decorating tastes, and I couldn't let her clutter up Wynche End with naked statues.”

Indeed, the statue in this garden was entirely nude, and though she could only see it from the back, presumably male, due to the musculature and the arrangement of the hair. If Annelise never saw a marble statue again it would make her a very happy woman.

She felt a faint splotch of color rise to her cheeks, both at the sight of the marble buttocks and the memory of her fascinated survey of the male statue in Chipple's study. Would this one be the same in front, or was there a variation in men's…

“Why are you blushing, dragon? Surely you've been subjected to all these second-rate sculptures already.”

“Most of them. I try not to look,” she said firmly. “What is Wynche End?”

“Alas, the place I call home when I'm not in London. Which, admittedly, is seldom. My esteemed grandfather managed to make certain I inherited nothing from his estate but the eventual title, but Wynche End belonged to my mother's family, and since they're all dead it now belongs to me. It's in a state of total ruination—the roof leaks, the wood is rotting, the surrounding village and farmland lying fallow, but it's mine, and Miss Hetty's money would have enabled me to put it in good heart once more. However, I can't trust her taste in decoration, and Greek statues were too high a price to pay.”

“Indeed. And where is this monumental ruin?”

“Were you thinking of taking her place, dragon? I'm certain your preferences would be an improvement, but I somehow doubt you'd be as enthusiastic about the other duties of connubial bliss. It's in Devon, near a tiny village called Hydesfield. The coast around there is none too welcoming—a stretch of land once peopled by wreckers, but in the last century they've resorted to simple smuggling. I could always join in if I have to resort to earning a living.”

“Surely things couldn't be that bad.” She let the irony hang heavy in her voice.

“I could always take you as a shining example. I could go on a series of well-disguised visits, teach young men the ways of society.”

“God help them and society in general. One of you is more than enough.”