The Devil's Waltz

by Anne Stuart

  “And that gives him an excuse to lie? To use other people as he sees fit?”

  “No,” Bessie said. “But there’s still a decent man inside worth saving. Harry and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t believe it.”

  “Well, I’m not saving him,” she said crossly. “And he wouldn’t want me to.”

  “Of course not, miss,” Bessie said, a little too quickly. “I wasn’t even thinking such a thing. I just didn’t want you to judge him too harshly for his selfish ways.”

  “All I want is to escape from his selfish ways,” Annelise said flatly. “And I’ll need my clothes and a pair of shoes to do so.”

  “I can see to it. Promise me one thing, miss. I’ll find you a decent pair of shoes, I’ll finish fixing your dress and I’ll make sure Harry has transportation for you tomorrow morning. It might only be a farm cart, but he’ll have that much or he’ll hear from me.”

  “All right,” she said, waiting to hear the rest.

  “In the meantime there’s a pair of riding boots in the scullery that might fit. Nothing fancy, of course, but at least they’d be something.”

  Annelise plastered her best smile on her face. “That would be lovely,” she said in a dulcet tone.

  Then came the Annelise’s part of the bargain.

  “And you’ll wait until tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” she said without blinking. “I’ll just go for a little walk. I need some fresh air.”

  Mrs. Browne looked at her doubtfully, but in truth there was nothing she could say. She could only watch as Annelise found the oversized boots, slipped her feet inside, and stepped out into the damp spring air.

  It was time to face the harsh facts of life, Annelise thought. If she didn’t want to stay here, at the mercy of Christian Montcalm and her own foolish fancies, then the alternative was to leave. Just because she hadn’t ridden in five years didn’t mean she didn’t know how—she’d always been a natural horsewoman, and that innate talent didn’t vanish from lack of use. She was wearing a riding habit, and apparently the Montcalm stables had another suitable horse. All she had to do was saddle and bridle it, no difficult task for her, and then ride away. So simple, and yet so complicated.

  But hiding in her room didn’t fix anything. As far as she knew Christian was still out for the afternoon, and while she was running the risk of meeting him in the stables when he returned, at least there’d be other people there. The stable lad, and maybe Harry Browne. He wouldn’t dare do anything with an audience.

  But there was no sign of anyone as she made her way through the old house. The afternoon sun slanted in the western windows, penetrating the gloom just a bit. If this were her house she’d rip away the tattered curtains, pull up the shredded rugs, wash the windows and toss all the broken furniture. The place could be made habitable, with a small army of servants to clean it and a thoughtful touch. Flowers from the overrun gardens would be a start.

  But not for her. She skirted the flower beds with their riotous growth, resisting their beckoning colors as she made her way to the stables. She saw with approval that at least this outbuilding was in reasonable shape—no leaking roof, no broken windows to let in the damp spring weather. Her father had been the same—neglectful of his own dwelling while making sure that his horses were well tended to—but in this case Annelise couldn’t object. People could fend for themselves. Horses needed proper care. She could overlook carelessness toward humans more easily than she could toward animals, which was a strangely irrational attitude. But one that held firm. The state of Christian Montcalm’s stable was the first genuinely good thing she could say about him.

  She walked into the outer building, but all the stalls were empty. It smelled of fresh hay and manure and all the lovely horse smells that she’d missed so much. It smelled like her childhood, when she had been happy, and she almost turned around and ran back into the house rather than face all the painful memories that had come flooding back. There wasn’t a day when she didn’t miss her father, his feckless charm, his casual affection, his boundless optimism in the face of total disaster. She never knew for certain whether the fall had been an accident or not. Her father was too good a horseman, even in his cups, to make the kind of mistake that sent him sailing over the hurdle ahead of his horse, to a broken neck that killed him instantly. But then, he wouldn’t endanger a horse if he were bent on killing himself. He’d have taken one of the dueling pistols and put a gentlemanly end to himself.

  Although he wouldn’t have wanted his daughter to find him. He’d always been absurdly fond of Annelise, a fact that her sisters found annoying. She understood him, weaknesses and all, and loved him anyway. To her sisters he was simply a disappointment and an embarrassment.

  There were times she was even glad he’d died the way he did. The last thing he would have remembered would be riding hell bent for that jump, his favorite gelding, Bartleby, beneath him, the wind rushing through his overlong, grizzled hair, the light of joy in his bloodshot eyes. When they’d found him he was smiling, his lifeless eyes staring upward into the sky.

  She hadn’t let them shoot Bartleby—it hadn’t been his fault that his master had been thrown. There were times when she thought the horse grieved as much as she did. But there was no money left, the estate was entailed to a second cousin from America, and the horses had to be sold to pay off her father’s massive debts. Even her own beloved mare, Gertie, had gone, the most wrenching blow of all. At least she could content herself with the fact that wherever Gertie ended up, she’d be loved and ridden, and if there’d been any way for Annelise to keep her she still wouldn’t have ridden her.

  All these memories were far too painful, but Annelise stiffened her shoulders, dismissing them from her mind, and walked forward. She couldn’t afford to shirk from anything, no matter how difficult. The least she could do was face Christian’s horses, see if she could even contemplate riding one.

  Annelise instantly regretted her resolve, as Christian came through the door from the adjoining stable area, still dressed for riding. Bad timing all around, Annelise thought, but she wasn’t going to run.

  He didn’t look particularly pleased to see her, which was a relief. Wasn’t it? “What in the world are you doing here? And what’s that you’re wearing?”

  “Good afternoon to you, too,” she responded tartly. “It’s a riding habit, a bit out of date but still perfectly serviceable. I believe it belonged to your great aunt. And what else would I be looking for in the stables but the horses?”

  “You’re afraid of horses.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You simply don’t like them?”

  “I love horses.” She wasn’t going to give him any more information than she could, a tiny bit of revenge that didn’t go very far in assuaging her own sense of emptiness.

  “You love horses, you’re not afraid of them, but you don’t know how to ride?”

  “I never said that. I know how to ride. I choose not to.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. His hair was loose and wild from his ride, his high cheekbones flushed from the wind. He’d make some unsuspecting heiress a most attractive husband, she thought grimly. But he was not for her, and he seemed to have suddenly remembered that.

  “And are you changing your mind?” he asked.

  She might have asked the same of him, but she didn’t. “I thought I would merely check out your stable and see whether there might be a suitable mount. The sooner I leave Wynche End the better for both of us.”

  “Agreed,” he said coolly, and she didn’t flinch. Her father would have been proud of her. “I intend to do some entertaining and your presence would be a bit difficult to explain.”

  “Indeed.” Entertaining? He’d already found a new heiress, she surmised. She should have known—when there was no other female around he whiled away his time flirting with her, kissing her, teasing her. Give him an alternative and she was quickly forgotten. She’d always despised self-pity and here she was, f
alling prey to that very same emotion.

  He was watching her closely, but she knew that her calm expression gave nothing away. “My neighbors have a couple of marriageable daughters,” he continued in an affable tone. “Very pretty, the both of them, and the parents seem inclined to overlook my less than stellar reputation in return for the joining of our two estates. They wouldn’t be too pleased to think I had a mistress in keeping.”

  “Mistress? Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped. “All they would have to do is see me to know how ridiculous that is.”

  “I think you underestimate the world’s capacity for gossip and salacious thoughts,” he murmured. “And I think you underestimate your…” A sudden noise from the far room stopped him, before he could finish his sentence.

  It was a horse, making a huge racket, whinnying with great urgency and kicking at the sides of the stall. “What the hell?” Christian said, turning.

  The young stable boy, Jeremy, rushed through the door. “Something’s wrong with the chestnut mare, sir. She’s having some kind of fit.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—she’s the sweetest tempered horse we have. Did she get into something? Eat something that’s upset her stomach?”

  “No, sir, I’ve been very careful. Once the two of you started talking she began kicking up a storm.”

  The horse let out a distant bugle of sound, and Annelise felt prickles rush over her body. It couldn’t be. It was too unlikely, too wrong, too incomprehensible. One horse sounded much like another from that distance, through thick walls, and how could something like that happen, in all of England, that Gertie could…

  “Excuse me,” Christian said with ill grace, turning toward the door.

  But Annelise was already ahead of him, practically pushing him out of the way, picking up her skirts and racing into the inner stable.

  Jeremy tried to bar her way. “Miss, she might be dangerous,” he said nervously, but she ignored him, staring straight at the horse making such a racket.

  She was a rich chestnut color, with a blaze on her forehead that reached one eye, and two front stockings that were in evidence as she kicked at the door of the stall, trying to free herself.

  “I don’t believe it,” Annelise breathed in a hushed tone. “My sweet girl.”

  Christian had come up behind her, and he laid a restraining hand on her shoulder, but for once his touch was barely noticeable. She shook it off and ran for the stall, opening the gate, ignoring the horrified protests of Jeremy and his master.

  And then all was silent as Gertie lowered her head to rest against Annelise, at peace. She was crying, and she didn’t care who saw her, as she stroked her mare’s long neck, whispering love and reassurances that no one else could hear. Gertie pushed her nose against Annelise’s shoulder, seeking comfort and memory and probably long-remembered treats.

  She didn’t know how long they stayed like that, in the stall, with Christian and Jeremy a safe distance away. Nothing mattered but that the one creature left on this earth who loved her unconditionally was suddenly there once more.

  Gertie lifted her head, looking over at the two men. “Now that’s more like Gertrude,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know what got into the creature. You shouldn’t have ought to run in there, miss. Horses can be dangerous creatures when they’re upset, and something must have upset her real bad…”

  “Miss Kempton is just fine,” Christian said. “It’s her horse. Isn’t it?”

  Annelise stepped back, wiping the tears from her face surreptitiously. Where were her spectacles when she most needed them? “Long ago. When my father died they were all sold.”

  “Your father…he must have been Lord McArthur,” Christian said.

  “Yes.”

  “Wild man McArthur. You’re a far cry from him.”

  She turned on Christian, suddenly furious, and left the stall, leaving Jeremy to finish calming the horse. “I am not,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “I don’t care what nasty gossip you heard, but my father was a good man, a decent man.”

  “Who had a bit of trouble with gambling and drink. Who died and left his daughter homeless and penniless.”

  “Damn you,” she said, forgetting where she was, forgetting everything but the pain his words brought back. She went for him, wanting to hit him, but he was prepared, and he caught her wrists before she could connect, and pulled her against his warm wool jacket so that she could cry while he held her. She didn’t want to, she didn’t want his comfort, but there didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter. And as unlikely as it was, he did provide solace. The strength and warmth of his body reaching into hers, the arms that held her, the hands that stroked her hair and her back, the voice that murmured soft, comforting things. She stopped fighting it, at least for the moment, and simply cried.

  And then Mrs. Browne was there, taking her from Christian into her warm, motherly embrace. It seemed for a moment as if Christian didn’t want to let her go, but a moment later he released her, and Mrs. Browne guided her back into the main house, soft and comforting, smelling like cookies and lemon oil and all the safe things in life.

  She took her to the kitchen, sat her down and gave her a cup of hot tea with honey and a plateful of ginger biscuits, and she clucked over her like a mother hen and patted her every now and then in a reassuring manner. Finally Annelise’s tears stopped and she drank her tea, managing a watery smile.

  “Are you feeling better now, dearie?”

  “I’ve made a fool of myself,” she said dismally.

  “Now, now, sometimes we just have to cry. It’s all very good to be strong all the time, but every now and then things just get to the point where there’s nothing to do but weep. And then you dry your eyes, straighten your shoulders and get on with life. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Annelise said wryly. Her shoulders were already straight, no longer slumped in defeat, and she wanted more ginger biscuits.

  “I’m going to have a talk with Master Christian. His little games are all well and good, but he needs to have a care for other people. I don’t know what he did to upset you, but I’m going to give him a piece of my mind….”

  “It wasn’t him. It was Gertie. My horse.”

  “I thought you didn’t ride?” Mrs. Browne said blankly.

  Annelise was so tired of explaining. She should have kept her mouth shut in the first place. “I used to ride,” she said. “Before my father died.”

  “Ah, I see,” the housekeeper said. “I think you need to go home.”

  “I do.” Annelise wasn’t going to cry again—there weren’t any tears left. “But I don’t have a home any more.” She swallowed a hiccup. “Do you have any more biscuits?”

  “All the ginger biscuits in the world for you, sweeting,” Mrs. Browne said. “It will all work out in the end. It always does.”

  Annelise managed a smile. “If you say so,” she said. Not believing it for a moment.

  Annelise stared out at the rain as it lashed against the leaded glass windows. They needed fixing, like everything else in this old, decaying house, and the wind rattled against the casement like a hungry ghost. But there were no ghosts in Annelise’s life—those whom she loved stayed dead once they died. She would have liked the chance to see her father again. Liked the chance to tell him she loved him. To tell him…

  She was back in her serviceable brown dress and her plain cotton underthings. She still had only one of her shoes, though Mrs. Browne had cleaned it as best she could. Still Cinderella, except that she was already on her way back into the shadows.

  A good thing too, she told herself with a sniff that was nowhere near the tears that had overwhelmed her earlier. She was a level-headed woman, and she knew better than to have airs above her station.

  In fact, her station in life was far too tenuous. Her name, her pedigree, the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton, guaranteed her a certain standing and privilege. Her impoverished state tore most of that away, leaving only her impeccable reputation to sustain
her. And by now it was sorely tarnished.

  She should have known the moment she set eyes on the beautiful Christian Montcalm that he would be her undoing. And the wretched, damnable part of it was that he hadn’t undone anything about her. Except, perhaps, her resolve. And that wasn’t enough to make it worthwhile.

  Her elder sister Eugenia would lecture her, telling her she’d always thought too highly of herself. It wasn’t true, though. She just thought she’d known who and what she was, who and what she wanted after almost thirty years of living in this body. All it had taken was the touch of Christian Montcalm’s mouth to realize she knew nothing at all about herself.

  She rose from the window seat to fetch the velvet bag carrying the false pearls, as false as her belief in her own power. In defiance she put them on, letting them rest against her chastely covered bosom. She moved back to the window seat to stare into the darkness. She had to leave, had to make some kind of plan, but her mind was blank. The thought of abandoning Gertie once more was unbearably painful. The thought of never seeing Christian Montcalm again was far, far worse. And the only thing she could sanely hope for.

  She didn’t hear him coming—his step was stealthy, like a cat or a sneak thief. And he didn’t bother to knock on her door—he simply opened it and walked into her room as if he owned it. As he did, she supposed. But he didn’t own her.

  “Mrs. Browne said you didn’t touch your dinner,” he said abruptly. There were only a few candles lit in the room, and she couldn’t see his face clearly. A small blessing, she reminded herself.

  “I wasn’t hungry,” she said in a tight voice.

  “And you’re back to wearing your nun’s robes. I must say I like you better in my great aunt’s dishabille. Though the riding habit wasn’t bad.”

  She ignored his jibe. “I need to leave here.”

  He hadn’t closed the door behind him, a small reassurance, and the hall was better lit than her bedroom, silhouetting him. He seemed restless, uneasy, as he prowled around her room. “They haven’t sent a carriage back for you yet,” he said, pausing by the rumpled bed. Staring down at it.