The Devil's Waltz (15 page)

“He's kidnapped her?” William said, turning pale.

Annelise needed quick action, but she didn't want to lie. “At the very least he beguiled and misled her. And she was heartbroken when I gave her your letter—I'm certain she wasn't thinking clearly.”

She should have known William would be a reasonable man. “If she went with him it was only because he took unfair advantage of her. And I don't care how many nights she's been with him—when we find them I'll kill him and take Hetty with me. We can get married and no one will have to know the truth—I can no longer worry about Chipple's villainy when Hetty's honor is at stake.”

“If you kill Christian Montcalm it might look a bit suspicious,” Annelise pointed out, ever practical. She was wise enough not to add that the likelihood of a young boy like William being able to defeat a practiced duelist was not good. “Our wisest course is to rescue her, convince Montcalm to keep silent, either by threat or bribe, and you two can elope to Scotland. Preferably before Mr. Chipple returns from wherever he's disappeared to and can put a stop to it.”

“You're certain she didn't accompany her father?”

“Quite certain,” Annelise said, the mocking note crumpled in her pocket. “Our only problem is discovering where he's taken her.”

“I doubt they're still in London—the farther away he gets her the more difficult it would be to mount a rescue. But I have no idea where he might go. I don't believe he has a country house—”

Annelise let out a cry of relief. “Yes, he does! In Devon. I'm not certain I remember the name of the town, but his house is called Wynche End.”

“Devon's a big county, Miss Kempton,” William said doubtfully.

Annelise bounced off the bed. “I know that, William. My elder sister lives there. If you're so ready to admit defeat then I'll go after her myself…” she began, but William put firm hands on her arms and settled her back on the bed.

“I'm not going to admit defeat. I was unwise even to consider it. I just think we should find out what part of Devon…”

“It's on the coast. If I weren't so upset I'd be able to think more clearly, but once we're on our way it should come back to me.” After all, she remembered just about everything he had ever said to her, done to her, every expression and touch. The rat bastard.

“All right,” William said. “I'll arrange for horses—”

“No!” Annelise said, unable to hide her panic. “I can't ride. Besides, when we find her we'd either need to find another horse or some form of conveyance. You need to hire a carriage. A fast one.”

“Perhaps I should go on my own. I can ride faster than any carriage, and go places that you couldn't…”

“She'll need the presence of a respectable woman if we're to rescue her from this folly,” Annelise said.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

She suddenly realized that she'd left her valise in the hired cab, with only her embroidered bag of pearls still tucked in her pocket. It was too late to find the driver, too late to do anything. She would manage. She always did.

She rose from the bed. “I'm ready,” she said as calmly as she could manage. And she held out her hand for his arm.

C
hristian Richard Benedict de Crecy Montcalm had never hurt a woman in his life, unless she'd specifically agreed to it, but right now he was on the verge of murdering one. He could throttle Miss Hetty, he thought absently, and it would silence her whines and sobs and constant prattle. He could simply gag her, but she'd already managed to connect one of her surprisingly hard fists with his cheekbone and he wasn't in the mood for a wrestling match. Particularly since he had no sexual interest in the outcome. Some things came with too high a price, and Miss Hetty Chipple was most definitely one of those things.

The journey hadn't started out well. In an elopement, speed was of the essence, and it necessitated hiring a small carriage, devoid of some of the comforts the spoiled Miss Chipple was so accustomed to. Her initial excitement had disappeared, and she'd complained about each bump in the road, and there were many: the quality of the leather squabs, the meager light, her rushed departure, and worst of all, to his surprise she
complained that she hadn't been able to say goodbye to the dragon.

“Don't you think she would have tried to stop you?” he'd drawled, thinking of the note he'd sent her. A bit too provocative, but he never could resist his wicked inner promptings, particularly where the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was concerned.

“Oh, I wouldn't have told her the truth. I would have said I was running off with Will.” The mention of his name suddenly seemed to suck the life out of her, and her eyes filled with tears. Thank God, Christian thought wearily. Anything to shut her up.

Then he was fool enough to respond. “I gather Miss Kempton approved of your childhood sweetheart.”

“She said anybody was better than you,” she replied with perfect frankness.

“Probably true,” he said.

The little idiot had lapsed into a blessed silence, most likely mourning her lost love rather than reconsidering her reckless choice. The silence eventually settled into sleep, and they drove through the night-shrouded roads at dangerous speeds.

She'd curled up on the seat, somehow managed to adjust to the jolts of the carriage, and he could see the streaks of tears on her pretty cheeks. She was annoying and pathetic, but she was very, very pretty. And he suddenly had the most horrifying realization: She brought out his paternal side. She made him feel old, and wise, and even slightly protective. And not the slightest bit desirous.

She was fifteen years younger than he was—hardly
young enough to be his daughter. She was of marriageable age—most young ladies became attached during their first season, at seventeen, and most men waited until later, to his age, thirty-two, to marry. They would suit very well.

And yet he still wanted to spank her, not kiss her.

Of course, he wanted to spank the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, but that was a far different matter and she would likely be shocked at his randy thoughts.

Except that she hadn't seemed easily shocked. Embarrassed, perhaps, as he'd forced her to examine good old Priapus, one of his favorite Greek gods, but not shocked. Not when he'd kissed her, either, though she'd been startled. He really would have liked the chance to have shocked her.

Hetty slept on, thank God—the sleep of the innocent, he supposed.

And he closed his eyes and slept, as well, the divinely untroubled sleep of the wicked.

He awoke to complaints. By morning light she had begun to rethink her rash decision, and she looked at him accusingly, demanding they stop for a rest.

“We changed horses while you were asleep, darling,” he said. “I didn't want to wake you.”

“We need to stop now.”

“The horses are fresh, and we need to make as fast a time as we can. You certainly don't want your father to catch up with us, do you?”

She turned pale, something Christian noted with surprise. She was frightened of the man, which shouldn't
have been that unusual. Most children were afraid of their parents. But Hetty was a doted-upon only child, and the fear in her lovely blue eyes wasn't that of a naughty child caught doing mischief. It was a deep, mindless terror.

Perhaps he wasn't doing her such a disservice after all, running off with her. If her father caused such a reaction then even a rogue like him was preferable.

Annelise would be left to face that wrath. Not a happy thought, and not one he'd considered before. It wouldn't have changed his mind, of course. A man in his circumstances couldn't afford to be sentimental. And Chipple would never dare touch the Honorable Miss Kempton—he had enough sense for that. Any verbal abuse she could easily match, as he knew only too well.

“What are you smiling about?” Hetty said in a cranky voice.
Oh, God, was he going to hear that whiny little voice every morning for the rest of his life?

“The thought of our happy life together,” he said.

“We won't have a happy life together if you don't find me a necessary,” she snapped. “I'm going to explode.”

“I doubt it,” he said. But he turned around and tapped twice on the glass. He'd relieved himself at the first stop, but right now what he needed most was a respite from her annoying voice.

After they had stopped he was afraid he was going to have to lift her up bodily and throw her back into the carriage, but at the last moment she climbed back in, glaring at him as they started forward again. “You need to be shaved,” she said.

“Are you saying I'm not as pretty as you'd like?” he murmured with mock offense.

“No. You're always pretty, even when you look disreputable. That's why I picked you.”

He didn't bother to dispute it. If she thought she'd had any choice in the matter once he knew the size of her fortune, then she was mistaken.

The only blessing to the wretched journey was that they made excellent time. It was near dusk when they reached the tiny town of Hydesfield, and mercifully dark once they arrived at Wynche End. She wasn't going to like the condition of her future home, and until she was thoroughly bedded she could still balk.

The servants were waiting, and he could see that Mrs. Browne did an excellent job at trying to clean up the place. There was no broken furniture in sight, fires were blazing—no doubt fed by the missing furniture—and the place smelled pleasantly of lemon polish and dried roses. He stood in the front hallway and felt an uncommon peace slip around him. He hadn't realized he'd missed it so.

“You didn't carry me across the threshold,” the tiny harpy said.

His smile was effortless—he'd spent many years charming people he despised. “We aren't married yet.”

She was so transparent. She was regretting her hasty exit more and more, and the large front hall of Wynche End had done little to reassure her. She probably had the foolish notion that until they were married she could always change her mind, return to her comfortable home in London.

But she'd been gone with him for one night, soon to be two, and it didn't matter whether he'd bedded her or not. She was effectively ruined, and marriage was the only option.

“I'm certain you must be tired, my darling,” he said smoothly. “Let Mrs. Browne take you upstairs to our rooms. She's an excellent cook and I imagine you must be famished.”

“Our rooms?” Hetty echoed suspiciously.

“Aren't you planning on sharing rooms with your husband? Perhaps even a bed?” He was mocking her, but she was oblivious, and inwardly he sighed. Her dragon would have fought back, deliciously.

“We're not married yet.” She turned his own words on him. She gave Mrs. Browne her most regal look, quite ridiculous coming from such a dab of a thing. “You may show me to my room.”

Bessie Browne gave him a questioning look, but Christian simply nodded. Anything to get rid of her. He didn't even wait to watch her shapely ascent up the ancient oak stairs. He went straight to the library.

As he'd expected, the Brownes had done their best in there, as well. A fire was blazing, a bottle of port was set out, and he sank into the old leather chair with a sigh of relief. A few moments of peace and quiet while he talked himself into going to his virgin bride.

He had no intention of raping her. Rape was distasteful to him, though that was not the case among some of his friends. He preferred his women willing, and he had yet to find a woman he couldn't eventually convince.

Hetty would eventually be convinced, too, but he'd have to put up with her pouts, her complaints, her incessant whining—and he doubted the sex would be worth it. If he shocked her she might balk at a wedding anyway, and while he wouldn't force sex, he'd definitely force marriage.

No, he needed to deflower her with utmost care and politeness, plant his seed if possible, which would be a novel experience. He always made certain to withdraw—he wanted no unknown bastards of his wandering around the countryside. There was no need for such a protective act with his fertile young wife, whether she was yet a wife or not.

He still wasn't interested in going to her, though. He'd barely slept during their breakneck pace, he'd barely eaten, and he was in a strange, melancholy mood that he refused to examine too closely. And Miss Hetty could wait.

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, kicking off his boots. Most of his friends wore boots that required help in removing, but since he preferred to be self-reliant he wore his looser.

He took a sip of the port. Mrs. Browne had informed him that she'd put Hetty into the only inhabitable bedroom among the seventeen in the rambling old house, and he'd be hard put to find an alternative bed. It didn't matter. The fire was warm, the chair was cozy, and the port didn't come from the benighted country of his birth but from Portugal. For the time being he was well content.

 

It was pouring rain. The horses were having a hard time in the mud, their pace was better suited to a snail, and Annelise was cold and wet and miserable. When they'd stopped to change horses and ask for directions she'd gotten her cloak soaked, and the cheap conveyance William had been able to hire didn't come equipped with anything to provide warmth or light. They'd gotten off to a late start—Christian would have abducted Hetty almost a day earlier, and they didn't dare hesitate. The sooner they found them the better chance they had of salvaging the matter.

At least luck had been on their side when they'd reached Montcalm's apartments. He was long gone, but the servant cleaning the stoop outside was quite talkative, and it was easily ascertained that the formerly impoverished Mr. Montcalm had hired a carriage and taken off for his home in the tiny town of Hydesfield, Devon. And, the young man added, had been most generous with his tips when he left.

It was a bloody long way, Annelise thought, but there was no way out of it. At least she was old enough that her own reputation wouldn't be in any danger. She was already going to be under a cloud when it got out that Hetty had eloped while Annelise had been visiting. At least she would make certain that Hetty married the right man, not the degenerate scoundrel who'd kidnapped her.

William had only balked at one moment, and that was when she asked him if he had a pistol.

“Of course not!” he'd replied huffily. “What do you take me for, a highwayman?”

“Then we're going to need to obtain one,” she said. “Someone like Christian Montcalm is not going to give up such a juicy plum without a fight.”

“Perhaps she wants to be with him.” William's face was a mask of gloom.

“She wants to be with you, William. The only reason he was able to persuade her to go with him, if it wasn't outright kidnapping, was that she was heartbroken at your desertion.”

“I had no choice!” Will cried. “Chipple threatened my family! He threatened Hetty herself!”

Annelise wasn't going to argue with such a preposterous notion. “Whether you simply misunderstood him or not, it no longer matters. We need a pistol, and we need to rescue her, and then you can leave me to deal with the odious Mr. Chipple.”

William looked at her as if she'd lost her mind, but it was not an unfamiliar reaction. “I don't know how to shoot a pistol,” he said finally.

“I do.”

Getting one had proved more difficult, particularly since she didn't want to waste any time. In the end she had no choice—they had stopped at Chipple House on their way out of town and she headed straight for Josiah Chipple's library.

The under-footman who was taking the missing Jameson's place seemed uninterested in her doings, simply letting her in the front door and then disappear
ing, and Annelise breathed a sigh of relief until she saw that the hidden shelf was once again hidden.

The naked male statue smirked at her, and she averted her eyes hastily as she went to the wall, pushing and yanking at everything she could think of in hopes of discovering the hiding place. She was ready to start tearing the wall with her nails when instinct caught her—there was a large book on Greek mythology prominently placed a couple of shelves above where she remembered the opening. She reached for it, and the door swung open, revealing the cubbyhole.