The Devil's Waltz

by Anne Stuart

  She’d had no choice but to put on the riding habit once more, along with some of the plainest of undergarments from the lavender-scented chest. Mrs. Browne had seen to a warm, calming bath and fresh clothes, though she had no choice but to keep the riding boots. There was no other option—they would serve her well enough while she traveled. All she had to do was wait for Mr. Browne to return with some kind of conveyance, and she would be gone from this place and the man who didn’t want her.

  She refused to feel sorry for herself. She’d known what she was getting into, she’d fallen in love like a mooncalf when she was old enough and wise enough to know better. She ought to regret the night, and sooner or later she would, but right now she was defiantly glad she had done it. She had tasted a joy she hadn’t even dreamed existed, and for a few brief hours she had been beautiful and loved. It would have to last her a lifetime.

  There would be no child from her precious night of debauchery. She knew enough about animal husbandry and human bodies to realize the chance of conceiving so soon after her menses was highly unlikely. He’d made no effort to protect her, something that surprised her in the calmer light of day. He’d claimed that he had no illegitimate offspring. If he’d spent many nights like the last one he was certain to have half a dozen littering the countryside.

  The thought of him spending similar nights with other women was ridiculously painful, so she dismissed it firmly. It was time to look forward, not into the past, and Christian Montcalm had made it very clear that her future had nothing to do with him.

  She ought to be ashamed of herself. In the end she had begged him and he’d walked away. She could save her pride by knowing that at least her pitiful words hadn’t been in English, but he’d known exactly what she was saying, what she was asking. And for that she’d always feel a stab of shame. She shouldn’t have begged. And she wouldn’t again—she’d drive away from this place without giving him another thought.

  Annelise had been dozing fitfully when Mrs. Browne came into the room, a troubled expression on her face. “My husband’s back from town and he’s had some luck, though not as much as I could have wished,” she said. “The Royal Oak has a carriage to let, but it needs mending, and it won’t be ready to go until tomorrow. It’s nothing elegant, but it should get you where you need to go, and my Harry’s an excellent driver. You’ll have me for company, just to keep your reputation in good shape, and we’ll take you to London or wherever you want to go.”

  “I think it’s a little late for my reputation,” Annelise said softly. “And I shouldn’t take you away from your duties…”

  “Cleaning up after Master Christian’s selfish messes is my duty,” Mrs. Browne said firmly. “And I don’t care how much he’s inconvenienced. Serves him right.”

  Annelise didn’t bother to argue. “But I really can’t stay beneath the same roof…”

  “Oh, you won’t be,” the housekeeper said airily. “He’s gone.”

  It shouldn’t have felt like a stab to the heart—he’d already walked out of her life, and she’d accepted that fact. That he’d left the house should have been a relief.

  “Gone?” she echoed. “Where? Back to London?” Not that she had any intention of returning to the city—her sister Eugenia was relatively close, and she would provide her shelter as long as she needed it. Accompanied by improving lectures, of course, but in this case Annelise deserved them.

  “Master Christian’s friend Mr. Pennington showed up and dragged him off without barely a moment’s notice. He didn’t say where he was going and I didn’t ask.”

  Did he say anything about me? She wouldn’t ask the question out loud—she already knew the answer. He hadn’t even thought of her as he went on his way to new and sordid pleasures.

  But Bessie seemed to read her mind. “He said one thing when he left,” she started. “He told me to make certain you were taken care of, no matter what happened.”

  Annelise sat bolt upright. “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea. But I’ve never seen the lad look so grim. And I don’t trust that Mr. Pennington—I’ve heard bad things about him. But that isn’t your worry, Miss Annelise, nor mine at the moment. He’s a grown man—he can take care of himself. I just wish he hadn’t taken the pistols. In the meantime you’re safe enough here. I promise you he won’t touch you again.”

  She managed to hide her total lack of gratification at such a notion. “You’ve been so kind, Mrs. Browne,” she said.

  “Nonsense. I told you, he’s a good lad at heart, just a little wild. I’d say he was spoiled but no one’s spoiled him since he came to England. He learned to make his own way and care for no one, and it’s little wonder that beneath it all he tries to be very hard. He’s not, really, but you deserve far better than the likes of him.”

  “I don’t believe he was ever a possibility.”

  Mrs. Browne sighed. “No, probably not. But you would have been the making of the lad. I’ll bring some nice hot tea, how would that be?”

  “That would be lovely,” she replied, her voice only slightly hoarse. She leaned her head against the chair and stared out into the bright afternoon and closed her eyes, drifting off.

  The strange noises woke her up. The slamming of a door, the sound of heavy footsteps, a scuffle and a few muffled oaths. She jumped up in sudden hope—Christian must have returned—and as she started for the door it slammed open, nearly hitting her.

  Someone filled the entry, someone large and bulky, and in the afternoon shadows she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. “The Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton,” Josiah Chipple’s big voice boomed forth, sounding sinister. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  24

  “Mr. Chipple,” she said, suddenly nervous. “I had no idea you were expected.”

  He pushed his way into the room, closing the door behind him. He was a very large man—not as tall as Christian but far bulkier, and his air of bonhomie had vanished. “I don’t believe I was,” he said. “But when a bleedin’ bastard the likes of Christian Montcalm blackmails me and then goes back on his word then there’s no doubt what Josiah Chipple will do about it. To him and to those who helped him.” He glanced around the shabby little room and sneered before turning his attention back to Annelise. “Sit down, Miss Kempton.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Sit down before I make you.” He didn’t wait. He pushed her so hard she fell back into the chair, and it almost toppled over beneath her. Shock spurred her reaction and she bounced right back out of it again, slapping him across the face.

  A mistake, she realized in retrospect. Josiah Chipple was not the demi-gentleman she’d thought him to be, and as her father had warned her, one should never hit someone who’s likely to hit you back. His fist slammed against her cheekbone and she fell back against the oak casement, tumbling to the floor as she held her face in shock.

  “And there’s more where that came from, missy,” he sneered. “You should never underestimate Josiah Chipple—I figured such a starched-up spinster would have the sense to know that. But you have no sense, have you? You let that bastard Montcalm carry off my daughter, and then you stayed to spread your legs for him, as well. You’re as great a whore as m’daughter, Miss Kempton, for all your fine ways. And I’ll be teaching you a lesson.”

  Annelise didn’t move. Her face throbbed, and she’d caught her hip on the hard wood, but she knew if she rose he’d either hit her again, or she’d try to kill him. Since the only weapon in sight was a silver knife and fork from the abandoned tea tray, and he was wearing a heavy leather coat across his impressive paunch, she decided her chances were not good. She stayed where she was.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Chipple,” she said in a frosty voice, trying to ignore the fact that her mouth hurt from where he’d hit her. She had come up with so many varied stories to explain her sudden departure from London that she couldn’t remember which one they’d settled on as the least destructive. “Your da
ughter isn’t here.”

  “Of course she’s not. She’s off with that Dickinson boy, and it’s your family who’s hiding them. It took me long enough to track them down but I know they’re somewhere north of here. My men are searching for them, and they’ll be bringing them here before much more time passes. I’m not sure what will happen to your family—my men aren’t noted for their gentlemanly restraint, but you can tell yourself it was all your fault in the first place for interfering in my plans.”

  “I didn’t interfere,” she said, close enough to the truth. “Hetty was miserably unhappy and she gave in to Mr. Montcalm’s blandishments and went off with him. Knowing that you’d never approve of such a match, I enlisted Mr. Dickinson’s aid and went after them and we were able to arrive before Montcalm had even attempted to molest her.” Of course, then Will and Hetty had gone at it, but she certainly didn’t need to apprise this dangerous bully of that fact.

  “My daughter’s happiness is of no concern to me. She had a duty to perform, to marry well, and she’s both failed me and shamed me in the face of society. She’ll learn her lesson since clearly I haven’t taught her well enough in the past.”

  The man sounded positively evil. “You wouldn’t hurt her!” she protested inanely, given that he’d already slammed his fist against her face. If he’d hit a stranger, a well-bred member of society, then he’d have no qualms about beating his own.

  His laugh was mirthless. “If I were you I’d be more concerned about your family and your own safety. You have a pretty young niece of no more than fifteen, do you not? There’s a lot of damage a rough man can do to an untried girl.”

  Annelise stared at him in disbelief. She wanted to throw up. He couldn’t mean the horrible things he was saying—he was just trying to scare her.

  “How did you know I have a niece?”

  “Oh, I know all about you, Miss Kempton. I had you thoroughly vetted, even before I brought you into my house. I have ways of finding out everything, including that your drunken father deliberately killed himself and made it look like a riding accident, leaving you penniless and at the mercy of strangers. I’m sure he had no idea you were going to end up being at the mercy of me.”

  She slowly rose to her feet, watching those hamlike fists warily. Her head was still spinning and her entire body hurt, but she wasn’t going to cower in a corner. “Where are the Brownes?” she demanded.

  “They’ve been taken care of. Tied up and locked away. Put up quite a fight, they did.”

  “But Christian isn’t even here!”

  “Of course he’s not. He’s exactly where I want him to be. About to meet a knife across the throat and a watery grave.”

  Annelise sank down on the window seat, trying to catch her breath. “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s off on a wild-goose chase, thinking he’s going to find a long-lost brother. He’s fool enough to grasp at straws, and his friend was easy enough to bribe. By now he’ll be at the coast, meeting up with what he assumes to be friendly smugglers. I expect they’ll wait until they’re out to sea before they kill him, but the deed may already be done.”

  “But why?” she demanded. “He didn’t hurt your daughter!”

  “I’m past worrying about my daughter’s feckless choices. The man knows far too much about me to return to society and start wagging his tongue. Any man who crosses Josiah Chipple and then threatens to expose him has signed his own death warrant.”

  “You think I’m not going to tell people what you’ve done?” she demanded. “That you struck me?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized how unwise they were. Particularly with Chipple’s unpleasant smile.

  “You’re not going to be telling anyone anything,” he said. He cocked his head to look at her with a judgmental eye. “You won’t fetch much, but if I cut out your tongue it should improve your price.”

  “My price?”

  “I traffic in human goods, Miss Kempton. Something that wouldn’t go over too well in the society that still accepts the money that comes from it. Not just Africans, but young women from the poorer ports of Europe and North Africa. There’s a large market for women with pale skin in the brothels of Arabia, and even with your drawbacks you should still bring in a pretty penny.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Not at all, Miss Kempton. I’m a businessman. I haven’t made up my mind whether you’ll have my daughter for company in the hold of the ship. Now that I’ve decided to cut my losses there are still a great many ways to make up her value to me.”

  She hid the shiver that swept over her at his cold words. “No man would pay money for me, Mr. Chipple,” she said. “And I would ensure my behavior would make me even less appealing than my physical defects.”

  “Oh, you’re not half-bad when it comes down to it. A little old, and much too tall, but you could still fetch a decent price. And we make certain the women are well broken in before they land on the auction block. It’s surprisingly easy to break a woman’s spirit if you know how to do it. I might just take over that little task myself.”

  She believed him. She would rather be hit again with those brutal hands than have them on her for any other reason, and she’d kill him before she’d let him. If she had anything to kill him with.

  She rose, slowly, so as not to alarm him into another cruel action. “What if I tell you I won’t fight?”

  He nodded. “It would be the smart thing to do. If I know my men there’s not much left of your family, and Montcalm will be dead before dawn. Putting up a fight will just make things more unpleasant for you. Someone will still be cutting out that infernal, nagging tongue of yours, however. Probably me.”

  She tried for a seductive smile. It felt stiff and wooden on her face, and she expected the side of her mouth was swelling, but she was a desperate woman. Who had just spent a very instructive night. “If I’m to be a slave I would think there’d be reasons a man might want my tongue intact,” she said in a silken voice, moving toward him. “Particularly if I’m well trained in certain arts.”

  She’d managed to surprise him. His laugh was unpleasant. “You’ve been having a good time with Montcalm, haven’t you? Filthy lecher. But your point is well taken. We’ll just make certain you’re sold into a place where no one speaks English, and it’ll be up to them whether they want to limit your value as a whore. I expect someone will kill you before the year is out, but that’s of no consequence to me. Well-bred women seldom survive long.”

  She hid her horrified reaction. “You’ve done this before?”

  “A number of times. M’poor wife didn’t even make it off the ship.”

  “I don’t understand why you hate me so much, Mr. Chipple. I’ve never done you any harm.”

  His laugh was humorless. “You’re just like all of them. Thinking you’re better than me, just because you were born to a drunken lord who killed himself and left you without a farthing.”

  She took a deep breath, thinking of the marble bust that was just out of reach. “I am better than you, Mr. Chipple. Not because of my birth, but because you’re a loathsome, evil man who traffics in human misery. You’re a revolting little toad whose ill breeding would have shown itself even more flagrantly than it already has with your ostentatious, tasteless house and your appalling manners. Sooner or later you’ll be caught, and you’ll be hanged like the baseborn monster that you are.”

  He leaped for her, as she expected, but she was fully prepared and whirled to one side as he crashed down against the chair. By the time he caught his footing and started to turn on her she’d picked up the marble bust of Diana, and brought it down squarely on his head.

  He dropped like a stone. Her hands were shaking, and she looked down at the marble, now marred with blood and hair. There was no mistaking the horrifying crunch of bone when she’d hit him, and he lay perfectly still, blood seeping from beneath his head.

  She’d killed him, and she was glad. She was half tempted to lean over and bash him one
more time, just to make certain, but she resisted the impulse, setting the statue down on the table once more. She skirted his body and crept to the door, putting her ear against it. There were men in the hallway, not that far away, and from the tone of their conversation their morals and intentions were not an improvement on the late Mr. Chipple. She couldn’t escape that way.

  Annelise moved back, stepping over the body and lifting her skirts so they wouldn’t drag in the blood, and went to the window. It opened easily enough, letting in the cool fresh air of late afternoon. It wasn’t a particularly large window, and it was a good eight feet off the ground, but she had little choice. She climbed through, banging her head against the window frame, and jumped.

  She landed on her backside in mud, of course. Even though the rain had finally stopped, the mud was everywhere, and she dragged herself to her feet, ignoring the pain that coursed through her body. At least she still had the boots on.

  She had no idea how many of Chipple’s henchmen were there, how long it would take them to decide to check on their nefarious employer. She could only assume that her time was limited, and meeting up with one of the men who were waiting outside the door seemed even less desirable than being trapped with Chipple himself.

  Annelise had no idea where to start looking for the Brownes, and she didn’t dare take the time. She had to warn her sister, if it wasn’t already too late.

  She had to warn Christian.

  To her relief the stables were empty of Chipple’s cohorts, but in the front corral were at least half a dozen new horses patiently waiting. They hadn’t been unsaddled or properly cared for, and it took all Annelise’s resolution not to stop and tend to the poor creatures. They were ill treated and ill nourished, but she didn’t dare waste any time. She could only hope that at least one of Chipple’s men had some sense of responsibility for the animals, or at the very least a practical consideration that their mode of transportation needed to be protected.