by Anne Stuart
And she was still hoping for something, anything, to save Hetty from the dire mistake of a man like Christian Montcalm.
It was probably no more than half an hour later when Annelise presented herself at Mr. Chipple’s study. If he was unhappy with her delay he failed to show it, or even to acknowledge her presence just inside the doorway as he pored over his books, leaving her to wait awkwardly.
But Annelise was not the sort to wait. She walked into the room and seated herself in one of the chairs opposite the desk and said, “You wished to see me, Mr. Chipple?”
There was no missing the astonishment in his small, dark eyes. He’d probably never had a woman fail to be cowed by him. Annelise had never been fond of bullies—when confronted they were usually full of harmless bluster, and she expected Josiah Chipple to be the same.
He slammed his book shut, leaning back in his chair. He hadn’t risen since she’d appeared—a notable insult that was doubtless designed to express his unhappiness with her. She would have to find a tactful way to explain to the man that manners and displeasure could coexist, but at the moment she was beginning to understand some of Hetty’s caution as far as her father was concerned. So she sat still and held her tongue, her hands folded in her lap, waiting.
“Will Dickinson is not welcome in this house,” he said flatly.
“Indeed? I gather he’s a childhood friend of Hetty’s, and he certainly seemed quite unexceptional. I thought it might relieve some of her homesickness to spend time with an old friend.”
“She’s not homesick! This is her home now, and she loves being the center of attention.” Annelise could scarcely dispute the latter, so she stayed silent. “Her affection for William was simply that of a child. She knows her duty and she’s more than happy to fulfill it, as it benefits her as well as me.”
“And what is her duty, Mr. Chipple?”
“I thought you were already clear on this, Miss Kempton. She is to marry well. A titled gentleman. His fortune is not important, but his standing will ensure that she and my descendants will be unquestioned members of society despite her working-class father. She has the face and the fortune for it, and I’m not about to be contravened at this point. There are any number of possibilities available, and I don’t want Dickinson confusing her about who she should marry. Women are easily distracted, and she’s not that bright to begin with. She has the sense to do as I tell her, but I need to make certain that there’s no unfortunate temptation from her former life.”
For a moment Annelise said nothing. Hetty was a great deal smarter than her father gave her credit for, but that was probably a lost argument. “Did Mr. Dickinson propose marriage?”
“He did indeed, the impudent boy! As if I’d let any treasure of mine go so easily. She’ll have a title or my name isn’t Josiah Chipple.”
Unfortunately, she suspected it was, indeed—no man would choose such an undignified name. And there was no argument she could come up with at this point, except…perhaps one.
“He’s at least a more respectable choice than Christian Montcalm,” Annelise offered.
Mr. Chipple scowled. “Has that fellow been sniffing around her skirts?” he demanded crudely. “She can do better than him. I’m not saying he wouldn’t do in a pinch—man’s going to be a viscount, after all. That’s nothing to sneeze at. He’s a bit of a scoundrel, I gather, but a wife can change all that.”
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand the severity of the situation. Christian Montcalm is more than a scoundrel—he’s considered persona non grata at the best houses. His reputation is such that he is cut by some of the most influential high sticklers in society. His behavior in the past has been so questionable that it’s unlikely to be salvaged, and marriage to your daughter wouldn’t help her any. She’d be as ostracized as he is, perhaps more. People are more tolerant of men’s bad behavior, but they’ll have no reason to welcome your daughter into their houses.”
Mr. Chipple stopped to consider this. “How very enlightening, Miss Kempton. I’m glad to see I didn’t make a mistake in having you come join us for the season. You understand things that are quite beyond my experience. But if Montcalm is not accepted at the best houses then why do we keep running into him?”
She could hardly tell him that the nouveau riche Chipples were also unwelcome in the best houses. After all, there was only so much their sponsor, Lady Prentice, could do, and even Annelise’s unexceptional presence in their household could only elevate their social standing one small notch. “He makes it his business to seek your daughter out. Mr. Montcalm’s quite determined to marry her, and your daughter finds him very attractive. I’ve tried to warn him off but he pays no mind.”
“Of course he doesn’t—why would he listen to a woman?” Chipple replied. “So clearly I’ll have to step in to make certain he receives the message that his attentions are unwelcome. Do you expect there will be a problem?”
Annelise remembered the cool mockery in Montcalm’s laughing eyes. “I don’t think he’ll give up without a fight. As you’ve said, your daughter is both beautiful and possessed of a remarkable fortune. Most men wouldn’t admit defeat lightly.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure Montcalm understands,” Chipple said. “It’s a shame, though. She did seem to fancy him, and it got her mind off young Will until the little bas—er…until he showed up again. And a viscountcy was the most promising so far—I’d hate to settle for anything less.”
Again, Annelise thought, there was the problem of not being invited to the more exclusive gatherings. But with determination, that could change—despite Josiah’s working-class drawbacks Hetty was really quite charming, and many society matrons would overlook the smell of the shop for such a well-endowed wife for one of their sons. “I think we need to be patient, sir,” she said carefully. “As long as Christian Montcalm knows that he’s wasting his efforts, and if it turns out that Mr. Dickinson is truly unacceptable, then we can move forward.”
Indeed, it grieved her that the young lovers were going to be parted. Her sentimental streak was coming forth again—Will and Hetty had looked so sweet together.
But the undoubted blessing of involving Mr. Chipple would be that Christian Montcalm would no longer trouble be Annelise’s responsibility. She had little doubt Chipple would make it very clear that any alliance was out of the question, and Montcalm would have no choice but to turn his attentions elsewhere, sparing Annelise from her very disordered feelings.
“Trust me, Miss Kempton. I’ll take care of Mr. Montcalm. In the meantime, you distract my daughter from any romantic memories she might harbor for Dickinson. She’s not marrying a farmer no matter how much she cries.”
Had Hetty cried for Will Dickinson? Interesting, since she’d said her father would give her anything she wanted. Unless it interfered with his own ambitions, apparently.
“Certainly, Mr. Chipple. In the meantime perhaps we might miss the ball tonight—Christian Montcalm is certain to be there, and you won’t have had time to discourage him effectively.”
“Oh, I will most definitely have enough time, Miss Kempton. I’m an efficient man, and once I decide on a course it’s as good as accomplished. I don’t expect you’ll be seeing Montcalm at Lady Helton’s, or anywhere else for that matter. I’ll make certain there’s no room for misunderstanding in my message.”
She thought she detected a faintly ominous edge to Chipple’s hearty voice. Must be her wild imagination again. “In that case perhaps I should go and have a rest before the evening’s festivities. Unless you had something else you wish to discuss?”
“Not at all, Miss Kempton,” he said, rising this time like a gentleman. “You’ve been very helpful to me. Go get your rest while I attend to business. I want you to be fresh enough to keep an eye on my daughter.”
No one was ever that fresh, Annelise thought with a trace of asperity, noting that Chipple hadn’t suggested she might benefit from a beauty sleep. Like most men he would consider it a lost cause.
Annelise’s room was still and quiet, and when she lay down on the bed, she felt the paper press against her breast. She reached inside her gown and pulled the note and handkerchief free. The small fire was burning in the grate to ward off the evening chill, but she was too tired to climb off the bed and toss the note in. She could accomplish that simple act eventually. There was no great rush.
She looked at the lacy handkerchief in her hand, then brought it to her face. It smelled of her scent, of course, the subtle rose that she favored. But it smelled of him as well—something spicier, foreign and mysterious.
She reached under the coverlet and shoved the offending handkerchief under her pillow, along with the note, then wrapped herself in the throw at the foot of the bed. Easy enough to dispose of later, she thought sleepily. There was no hurry to get rid of the things. Now that she’d managed to get rid of Montcalm himself.
8
Christian Montcalm knew quite a bit about women, and he knew when to advance and when to retreat. He’d been quite assiduous in his attentions to the silly Miss Chipple, and she’d jumped like a trout for a piece of bait. A night or two of absence would no doubt begin to eat away at her blithe certainty that he was hers for the taking—the chit was far too sure of herself.
He didn’t have the slightest concern that the appearance of Hetty’s childhood sweetheart would prove an obstacle in his plans. Miss Chipple was young and impressionable enough to be distracted quite easily, and she’d be married before she even realized she wanted someone else.
Tant pis, he thought. Too damned bad, he corrected himself. He hated it when he absently lapsed into the French that had been as familiar to him as English. He found himself doing it more so, in fact, since he’d lived in France with his family.
But that had been a lifetime ago, and there was nothing French about him. Not even his lovely mother would recognize him.
A night at the cards without the distraction of Miss Chipple and her dragon proved very pleasant. His luck held, and by the early hours of the morning he was pleasantly at peace with the world. Two bottles of wine had contributed to that mellowness and the plump size of his purse moved things along. Even though he’d turned down the generous offer of the beautiful Mrs. Hargate, he still strode home through the early-morning streets a comparatively well-pleased gentleman.
He managed to live in a decent part of town, but no area was safe at that early an hour. Not that Christian had any particular concern. He had a certain reputation, even on the streets, and most men of the criminal class gave him a wide berth. Perhaps it was respect for a fellow transgressor, he thought with some amusement.
So it was with some surprise that he turned the corner into the narrow street where he lived and realized he wasn’t alone.
They were hiding in the shadows—at least two of them. He wondered whether they were waiting especially for him, or if they were looking for any victim who happened to wander into their path. He was about to find out.
He whistled an old country song as he made his way down the alley, stumbling slightly as a drunken man should, muttering to himself and giving the perfect impersonation of easy prey. They let him make it as far as his door before they emerged out of the darkness. Two of them, sailors by the look of them—big men—neither as tall as he was but far bulkier. Which would give them more brute strength, but make them move slower, he thought as he deliberately fumbled with his key. They would be easy enough to take and a fight would be invigorating, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to be bothered.
They thought they were creeping up on an oblivious, drunken gentleman. He rattled the keys once more, put his hand on his sword and said in a clear, distinct voice, “Let’s not do this.”
It stopped them cold. He turned to look at them. It was nearly dawn—he hadn’t realized he’d been out that late, and the night was brisk. The men were shivering—obviously not used to England’s climate.
He’d managed to totally confuse them. And then the larger one, whom he presumed was the brains of the operation, took a bullying step forward. “It ain’t up to you. We’ve got a job to do and we aims to see we do it.”
“But I’m afraid I don’t agree. I’m not about to hand over my money without a fight. A fight, I’m afraid, that you’d lose.”
The brains of the operation proved sadly lacking. “Two to one, and there’s not much brawn to you. And we’re not here for the money, though I imagine Smitty and I can help ourselves with no one the wiser.”
“Really?” His tone held nothing but polite inquiry. “Then I can only presume you’ve come to kill me. An even more difficult task than robbing me, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll manage,” growled Smitty.
“I doubt it. Is there any particular reason you chose me to murder? Do my clothes annoy you? Are you revolutionaries from France trying to spread democracy?”
“Frenchies?” The first man spat on the ground in disdain. “We’re being paid. Nothing personal, you understand—it’s just a job.”
“I shan’t take it personally,” Montcalm said gently. “And exactly who hired you? I can think of at least a dozen people who’d want me dead, and half of them would have the means to hire ruffians to come after me. But most of them would know I’m not easily taken down.”
“All men die sooner or later,” the first man said. “I’ve killed enough that I know how easy it really can be done.”
Christian’s faint smile would have chilled a smarter man, but his two assassins failed to notice the danger. He could dispatch the two of them at any time—he was graceful and unaccountably lethal with sword and knife—and equipped with both. But he was not about to use them before he found out who hired the two men.
“So who have I offended now, that he went to the docks to find thugs?” Then it dawned on him. “Oh, how naive of me. He already knew you, didn’t he? You must be employed by Josiah Chipple.”
Smitty looked disturbed. “Should he know that, Clemson?”
“It won’t matter, idiot!” Clemson snapped. “He’ll be dead.” He turned back to Montcalm and grinned, exposing his blackened teeth. “And if you think we’re simple sailors, then you don’t know much. You can run as fast as you like and I’ll catch you. I can take down a man in seconds.”
“And why should I run?”
“For your life, man,” Smitty broke in impatiently. “—like the blacks we chase in Africa…”
“Shut up, Smitty!”
“You said it doesn’t matter what he knows,” Smitty whined. “He’ll be dead. We can cut his throat to make sure he can’t talk.”
“If he’s dead he can’t talk anyway. And I have every intention of cutting his throat. Too bad there’s no market for someone like him—he’d fetch a pretty penny if we sold him to some stinking Arab. They like men, and this one’s got such a pretty face. A nice arse too, I’ll wager.”
“Maybe we should—”
“We’ll kill him, Smitty. Can’t you see he’s just trying to distract us? Prolong the inevitable?”
“That’s delay, not prolong,” Montcalm corrected in a polite voice. “Assuming you mean the inevitable is my gruesome death at your hands, then I’d want to delay it, not make sure the experience lasts.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Clemson exploded, starting toward him, his knife drawn.
Montcalm sighed wearily, pulling out his own small, jeweled dagger, better suited for a gentleman’s hand, half the size of Clemson’s weapon.
Clemson looked at it and laughed. “You think you can cause any damage with that tiny pig-sticker? You’re a bigger fool than you—”
He stopped speaking, because Montcalm had thrown the knife with deadly accuracy, and Clemson was down on the ground in a pool of blood.
&nb
sp; He was making choking noises from the knife lodged in his throat, but he would die quickly. Montcalm turned his gaze to Smitty, arched an eyebrow and said, “Next?”
Smitty was a smarter man than Clemson, after all. He was backing away, nervously, and Montcalm let him go. In the end he wasn’t in the mood for a chase.
Before Smitty could break into a run he called after him. “You might inform Mr. Chipple that I’m a harder man to kill than he thinks.”
“I’m not going anywhere near the man,” Smitty stammered. “You don’t fail Josiah Chipple and then live to talk about it.”
“But I need you to give him a message.”
“Take it yourself,” Smitty said in a panic, and he turned and ran down the alleyway.
Montcalm watched him go. Clemson was dead by now—no great loss to society, apparently. Christian walked over to the corpse and looked down, then pulled his dagger free. So Josiah Chipple was a slaver—what a fascinatingly useful piece of information. Most people preferred to ignore the fact that men made fortunes trafficking in human flesh, and so far Josiah had managed to keep the source of his success in shipping a secret.
Not anymore. It wouldn’t matter how pretty Hetty Chipple was, how rich, how virtuous—which he certainly doubted—or how bright. If she was the daughter of a middle-class slaver there would be no respectable offers, certainly no titled ones.
Except, of course, for someone like Christian Montcalm, whose reputation was already in shreds.
It wasn’t as if he intended to spend the rest of his life in London. He would inherit nothing from his elderly uncle but the title, but he already possessed Wynche End near the coast of Devon. It had belonged to Christian’s great-aunt, and it was almost uninhabitable, though if his grandfather had found any way of depriving Christian of it he would have.
