The Devil's Waltz (16 page)

For a moment she was afraid the pistol had disappeared. But then she saw the dull metal gleaming in the darkness, and she grabbed it, along with the accoutrements needed to reload if one bullet didn't kill the bastard. And then she ran, leaving the door open, and several books littering the floor. Maybe someone would come and clean up the mess she'd made, maybe they wouldn't. It was the least of her worries.

She set the gun down carefully on the seat beside her. William was looking at it as if it were a poisonous snake about to bite, but he said nothing, his jaw set in grim determination as they made their way through the crowded London streets with maddening slowness.

The rain had started by nightfall, first a light drizzle, then a downpour. Hetty had already been in the blasted satyr's company for one full night, and it appeared as if it was going to be another, as well. Difficult to redeem, but if anyone could do it, Annelise could. The best course would probably be to send Hetty off with Wil
liam to Gretna Green directly. With Annelise as chaperon no one could do more than disapprove, but at least the child wouldn't be cut dead. And then the two of them could have their honeymoon, preferably as far away from England as possible, while Annelise dealt with the presumably volatile Mr. Chipple.

She dozed off and on, but the carriage was cheaply made and small, and every bump and jolt knocked her awake. The devoted swain seemed to have no trouble sleeping through the wretched drive, and she sat there in misery and cursed all men, particularly young, lovelorn ones who still managed to snore quite loudly when the object of their adoration was in danger.

She was uncertain when dawn arrived—the rain and gloom was so intense that there was barely any perceptible change in the light coming through the cheap windows. She checked and rechecked the pistol, making sure it was clean and loaded. It would have helped if she'd had a chance to fire it—most firearms were unreliable and were likely to pull to the right or to the left. If she wanted to blow a hole in Montcalm, she wanted to make sure it was where she'd placed it. She might feel like killing him, but in her heart she only wanted him to feel a very great deal of pain. Any stray romantic longing for him had vanished in a righteous rage.

Shooting him in the foot would probably be the best choice. It would hobble him, but there was no way it could kill him, and it would hurt like the fires of hell, something that would give her great satisfaction as she sailed out of his mansion with the two lovebirds at her
side, leaving him to gnash his teeth and ponder the folly of his evil ways.

And she was getting too tired to think clearly. He wasn't a villain in one of the novels she adored…No, he was far worse. No one would push him over a cliff, much as he deserved it. No one would set his secret dungeon lair on fire to have him burn up inside it.

Which in reality was a sobering thought. She didn't want him dead, God help her. She just wanted him gone, forgotten, out of their lives.

But he had been out of her life. He'd said goodbye, and she'd been foolishly devastated. She was an idiot—it was doubtless some ailment spinsters were prone to. A solitary life and an unhealthy taste in literature were bound to produce fantasies that were quite improper.

 

The town of Hydesfield was dark and dreary, but she expected no less on such a miserable day, and it had been a simple enough matter to acquire directions to Wynche End. Getting through the increasingly rutted roads that led to Montcalm's estate was a different matter—it was as good as any gothic novel she'd ever read—and she held on for dear life as the coach lurched its way through the mud.

She heard the ominous crack first, and she was able to grip the side of the door and her precious pistol as the carriage collapsed on one side, tossing them heavily against the door. “Wheel's broken!” the benighted driver shouted through the rain. “I think I see a house up ahead. I can—”

Annelise was already gone, picking up her skirts and sliding through the dangerously slanted door. She landed in the mud, and it was only sheer providence that she didn't end up accidentally shooting herself. She was a wet, cold, muddy mess, and she didn't care. She could see the outlines of a huge, dark house up ahead, and she didn't hesitate, making her way through the mire at lightning speed.

She lost a shoe somewhere along the way. Her hood provided little protection from the pelting rain and her drenched hair had fallen down her shoulders, and she imagined she looked like the wrath of God. She certainly hoped so.

She pushed the huge front door open into the dark, cold hallway, but from a distance she could see candlelight and feel just the faintest trace of warmth penetrating her bones. She shoved her hood back, cocked the pistol and slowly limped toward the light.

He was sound asleep, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the blessed fire blazing, an empty bottle of wine by his side. He hadn't been shaved recently, and he looked rumpled, dissolute and beautiful. Like a fallen angel. She moved to stand in front of him and pointed the pistol directly at his heart.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he murmured, and then he opened his extraordinary eyes. “It's always unwise to shoot the man you're in love with.”

H
e wondered whether she was going to pull the trigger in reaction to his taunt. Sooner or later he was going to provoke someone enough that they'd actually kill him, and it was no more than he deserved. But he didn't want it to be his dragon.

“Put the pistol on the table and sit down, my pet,” he said, not moving. “You're shaking so hard it might go off by accident, and you wouldn't want that. If you truly want to shoot me then have at it, but if you're undecided I wouldn't want you to do it by mistake. Think of the guilt!”

“I'd get over it,” she said through chattering teeth. But she set the pistol down on a table, out of his reach but well within hers, and glared at him.

She looked enchanting, like a drowned rabbit. Her wet hair was hanging down her shoulders, her spectacles were steaming up. She was muddy, shivering with cold or perhaps fury, and he wondered what she'd do if he tried to kiss her. Probably shoot him.

“Sit down, Annelise,” he said gently. “I'd ring for a
servant to bring you a blanket but I'm afraid this house is very poorly staffed, and the Brownes are probably in bed. What time is it, anyway?”

“Past dawn.” There was a chair just behind her, a little closer to the fire, but she wasn't moving.

“I must have drifted off.”

“Where's Hetty?”

“Upstairs, presumably asleep. Or did you think I'd strangled her and tossed her in the Thames? Come to think of it, that might have been a good idea.” He heard the slam of the door and the clumping of boots with resignation. Of course she hadn't come alone.

The young man stormed into the room, spied Christian sitting in his chair and started toward him with a murderous expression on his face.

Fortunately Annelise stood in the way. “Wait, William,” she said, putting a hand on the boy's arm to stop him. It was a firm hand and she used a lot of force, or Christian expected the young man might have attempted to pound him mercilessly. Not that he'd be able to do it—not only had Christian whiled away a number of leisure hours studying the noble science of boxing, but he fought dirty when the occasion called for it.

“I'm going to kill him!” William said fiercely, pulling his arm from her grip but too much a gentleman to yank himself entirely free. Silly child. Then again, the Honorable Miss Kempton was surprisingly persuasive. “What have you done with Hetty?” he demanded.

“Listened to her incessant prattle, complaints, tears, demands, artless conversation and recriminations for
more than twenty-four hours. You will be pleased to know I didn't touch her—if I had I would have throttled her. Take her away, if you please. I'd rather spend the rest of my life a pauper than have to spend even another day with the divine Miss Chipple.”

William glared at him in clear disbelief. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs in bed, sound asleep, if I'm not mistaken. Go and find her—I expect she'll welcome you with open arms. Up the stairs, turn left, four doors down at the end of the first section of hallway. Go along, there's a good lad. Miss Kempton is safe with me.”

That managed to startle an unladylike snort from Annelise, but after a moment's hesitation William fled, leaving the dragon to his wicked lures.

“Sit down, Annelise,” he said again in a bored voice. “If you don't then manners decree I should probably rise, and I don't feel like doing so.”

“I've been sitting for hours,” she snapped.

“And is your backside in a delicate state? Trust me, my chairs are a great deal more comfortable than the jouncing seats of a hired carriage, even a good one.”

Her eyes opened wide in outrage that he would mention such an indiscreet part of her anatomy. He tilted his head to get a look at that particular area, and she sat quickly, denying him his curious gaze.

“You've ruined Hetty,” she said. “And now you no longer want her? Do you realize how truly despicable that is?”

“Did you want me to marry her? If you say so I ex
pect I will—I do have an interest in pleasing you, but I really don't think the marriage would last terribly long. If I didn't strangle her I'd bludgeon her with a candlestick. And if you wanted me to marry her, that was my original plan. Why did you bring Saint George with you on your noble quest?”

“Stop trying to confuse me. Saint George and the dragon were dire enemies. If anyone is Saint George—” She halted.

His smile widened. “Were you about to suggest I might fit the role? I know this comes as a shock to you, but I am far from saintly.”

Perhaps her fury would warm her, he thought absently as he watched her grit her teeth. She was no longer trembling, but she really did need to get out of those wet clothes and preferably into a warm bed. He doubted he was going to manage that much, but he was ever hopeful. He might as well salvage something from this debacle, and a romp with the Honorable Miss Kempton was well worth it. If he were frugal he could live quite comfortably on the money Chipple used to bribe him. Of course, he had never been particularly frugal.

And Chipple would probably keep trying to kill him until he succeeded. He would have shrugged, but it was too damned French. He smiled at the mortal enemy still glaring at him. She was exhausted, poor thing. And yet she wasn't complaining or whining or demanding. Well, she was demanding Hetty, and perhaps Christian's head on a platter, but apart from that, her own personal discomfort seemed the least of her worries.

“William will marry her. And if there is any premature issue you will simply have to keep your mouth shut and—”

“Didn't you listen to me, wench? I said I didn't touch her. Miss Chipple is still as pure and virginal as the day she was born. Unless someone else got to her first. I have been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”

“A gentleman who abducts young ladies—”

“In truth she's the only young lady I've ever abducted, and she came with me quite willingly. I was surprised I didn't have to persuade her, but she simply got up from her dressing table and said yes.”

“You were in her bedroom?” Annelise was scandalized.

“My sweet, I have been in a great many bedrooms. And I was merely standing in the doorway like the gentleman you doubt that I am, asking if she wanted to run away with me. She said yes and that was that.”

Annelise was tired. He could see the shadows under her eyes, despite the spectacles, and she was paler than usual. She wanted to keep arguing, berating him, but she was running out of energy.

“How did you get here, the two of you? On horseback, I presume? In this downpour?”

“No,” she said, and this time her shudder was from something entirely new. “I don't ride.”

“So you came by carriage? Where is your driver?”

“The wheel broke. Or perhaps the axle. I don't know. I didn't pay attention—I just came ahead.”

He rose languidly, towering over her. She stifled a yawn, and she didn't bother to move—she just looked
up at him with a delightfully disgruntled expression. Interesting—he found her distemper enchanting. Hetty's was merely tiresome.

“Then I'd best see what I can do to help. Harry Browne and a lad from the village take care of the stables when I'm here, and I imagine they can help your poor driver. I expect you'll be wanting to take your little princess and escape from the ogre as soon as possible.”

She was falling asleep, a fact that astonished him. Women didn't fall asleep on him, particularly when he was baiting them. At least, not at this stage in the proceedings. “Stop living in a fairy tale,” she murmured, leaning back against the chair. “I'm not a dragon, Hetty's not a princess, and you're closer to a troll than an ogre.”

Christian laughed. “Trolls are very ugly, dear heart. I may be conscienceless, degenerate, selfish and shallow, but I'm actually quite pretty by all accounts.”

“Go find our driver,” she muttered. “The sooner we get out of here the less likely it is that I'll kill you. I can still reach the gun.”

“And you can actually use it?”

“My father taught me.”

“Ah, yes, your father,” he murmured, about to provoke her further. But she'd closed her eyes for a moment, just a moment, and he realized she was sound asleep.

He stared at her thoughtfully. And then he stripped off his rumpled coat and placed it carefully over her. It still retained some of his body heat, and he found he liked the idea of warming her, even vicariously. But that would have to wait for another time, another day.

He strolled into the hallway, following the trail of wet, muddy footprints, and opened the front door. It was very old and quite heavy, but Annelise had clearly managed it without difficulty. He liked that.

He could barely make out the shape of the overturned carriage through the murk of early dawn and the heavy rain. The last thing he was about to do was wander out into the downpour and offer help, no matter how much he wanted to get rid of Hetty, but he could go find Browne and his wife, since none of the bellpulls were working. Besides, he found he was starving—kidnapping heiresses and battling dragons worked up an appetite.

Browne was sitting in his wife's kitchen, drinking his morning ale, but he was ready in less than a minute, while Mrs. Browne looked at him with her usual motherly expression. He'd bribed them away from his grandfather—when he was growing up, Browne had been a stable lad and one of the few servants willing to ignore orders and be kind to a lonely boy. And Mrs. Brown had been a scullery maid, always willing to sneak extra food to him. The moment he became of age and inherited his mother's house he asked them to come with him, making the uncertainties of his fortune clear. And they'd come without question.

He'd always had enough to at least keep them going, but he'd been counting on the heiress to improve matters, hire some help for Bessie.

She looked at him worriedly. “None of these guests are staying, are they, Master Christian? I might be able
to fix up one more bedroom, but beyond that it's hopeless. Though I suppose we could move our mattress…”

“Don't be ridiculous, Bessie,” he chided her, reaching for a piece of the gammon she was frying. She slapped his hand as usual. “Your comfort comes before a pair of interlopers. In fact, once they leave we'll have fewer people in the house, because they'll take Miss Chipple with them.”

Mrs. Browne nodded. “That's a good thing, then, sir,” she said. Bessie had no qualms about giving him advice, calling him on his failings. “The girl wasn't right for you. She would have driven you mad in less than a year.”

“She almost drove me mad in a couple of days,” he said. “But her fortune was really quite well suited.”

Bessie shrugged her plump shoulders. “You can't have everything, sir. I'll pray for you.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” he said, uncomfortable with the notion. “I'm not worth it.”

Bessie gave him her maternal smile, something that should have amused him since she was only two years older than he was. But she was probably his favorite person in the universe for just that motherly air. “You're worth it, Master Christian. You just haven't figured it out yourself yet.” She turned back to her cooking. “So how many for breakfast then?”

“I doubt they'll stay to eat, but there are two new visitors, plus their coachman.”

“At least there's plenty of food,” Bessie said, her main worry comforted. She hadn't wasted any time in
spending some of the large amount of money he'd deposited in their hands.

“And as soon as they can manage it they'll all be gone, and I expect I'll be returning to the city.” He could feel Bessie's silent disapproval, but she said nothing, merely nodded.

“I'm going to change. Don't wake the lady in the library—she needs a little rest before she has to climb back into a carriage.” He allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Annelise's rump. Too bad she wore such awful clothes—he would have been interested in trying to discern just how she was shaped. Flat and boylike or plump and rounded? He was never to find out. But he could always ask.

“A lady, sir?” Bessie knew him far too well.

“No one of any importance,” he said airily.

He made only the lightest of noise as he climbed the ancient oak staircase in his stocking feet. He'd had Harry Browne put his clothes in the Monk's Cell, or so he thought of it. It was decorated in dark, gothic splendor, and the narrow bed was better suited to a penitent than a rogue like him. It was in the opposite wing from the rooms where Hetty was ensconced, and he was suddenly curious, wondering whether she was that querulous with everyone or if young William was immune. He walked silently down the hallway, pausing outside the door, and then a slow smile crept across his face when he heard the sounds…

Miss Hetty might have arrived at Wynche End a virgin, but she wasn't leaving as one, through no fault of his.

He wondered how she'd managed it. He had no doubt at all that this noisy consummation had been initiated by his bratty abductee—young William looked far too stalwart to take advantage of a young girl, particularly one he was so clearly, desperately in love with. He was probably much more likely to lay down his life for her than deflower the little baggage.