by Anne Stuart
Christian had often considered selling it—the house was in shambles but the land was extensive and some of the finest farming plot in all of Devon. Fifty years of lying fallow had only improved the soil. He could have sold it to someone like Chipple, to whom money was no object, and whoever bought it would have torn down the rambling old house and put up something shiny and new. But he had a great affection for the house, even in its current state of disrepair, and Hetty’s money would provide the perfect infusion the poor old place needed. And out in Devon it wouldn’t matter where the money had come from—merely that the bills would be paid.
A shame for poor Hetty if the truth came out about her father. If she behaved herself he would have no problem allowing her to go off to London to visit her father and enjoy herself discreetly. As for him, once he left London he had no particular wish to return. He’d tasted all of its pleasures and vices, and while they’d been intoxicating, he’d had enough.
His rooms were cold. He could only afford a day servant, and Henry wouldn’t be arriving for hours. The logical step was to go to bed and seek the respite of a good morning’s sleep.
But he could build a fire as well as the next man, and he was in no particular mood to put off his duty. His hands were bloody from the knife, and it put him in a particularly foul mood. He would like to be more sanguine when he was forced to kill, to simply shrug it off as an unpleasant necessity.
But he hadn’t been able to inure himself to it, not quite. And perhaps he was just as glad he hadn’t.
He washed his hands and the knife in a basin of cool water, carefully drying the weapon and laying it back down on the counter. It had been a gift from his mother on his twelfth birthday. She would have had no idea when she gave it to him just how frequently he would use it over the years.
But then again, maybe she did. She was, after all, French.
He found himself smiling faintly—an unusual occurrence. Thinking of the French tended to put him in a foul mood, but thinking of his beautiful mother warmed him, and there was no denying that his mother was, indeed, a Frenchwoman. Born, raised and died at the hands of her murderous people.
It was interesting to see just how terrified Smitty had been at the thought of facing Josiah Chipple. Of course, it might have been simply the shock of seeing his partner in crime die so suddenly, but he doubted it. Slavers were an unsentimental lot, and death was an integral part of their trade, both for their cargo and for those who tried to interfere.
Unfortunately for the not very clever Smitty, if Josiah Chipple was as formidable as he thought he was, then he was already doomed. A man like Chipple wouldn’t let even a small detail escape his attention, and Montcalm’s botched murder was no small detail.
He was going to have to decide just the most effective and remunerative way to deal with Josiah Chipple. Something with finesse, something insulting, and definitely costly. No man set hired thugs on him without paying a very steep price indeed.
He would take Chipple’s money, he would take his pride, and he would take his daughter. And enjoy every moment of it.
Annelise should have been in a much better mood. There had been no sign of Christian Montcalm at Lady Helton’s party, no sign of him the following night, as well. Josiah Chipple’s subtle warning must have been surprisingly efficient, and Annelise could rejoice that she would probably never come closer than the other side of a crowded ballroom again.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t in the mood for rejoicing. It was probably the rain. It had been pouring steadily the last twenty-four hours, and even when she tried to open the window to let some air into her stuffy bedroom the rain lashed inside, and she had no choice but to shut it again. She felt smothered and stifled in the Chipples’ opulent house, and even the monstrous Greek statues in the hallway seemed particularly glum.
Hetty was equally miserable, rising late with swollen eyes, moping around the house, alternately sighing noisily or snapping at anyone who crossed her path. Annelise was not about to put up with her charge’s rudeness, but she couldn’t help but wonder whether it was the absence of Mr. Montcalm or Mr. Dickinson that was breaking Hetty’s heart.
It probably didn’t help matters that the house was rife with tension. Mr. Chipple was holding a party that evening—dinner, cards and dancing for forty, and even the experienced London servants were in a tizzy trying to prepare for the event. Hetty had changed her mind about her gown at least seven times, several of them with Annelise’s helpful prodding, since some of Hetty’s gowns rivaled her father’s taste in decor. Even Annelise was on edge—while most of the guests were from the lower echelons of high society, a few were coming simply out of respect to Lady Prentice and her goddaughter, and she cringed at the thought of Josiah Chipple meeting some of the starchiest of women with his faltering manners. The disapproving, formidable women who were above reproach, invulnerable, and never, ever wrong.
At one point Annelise had even thought to model her life on those women who always knew how to do the right thing, say the proper thing.
But the sad fact was that Annelise had been unfortunately lax in the last few days. The note lay hidden among her underthings, having yet to make it into the cleansing flames of her evening fire, and the handkerchief somehow found its way beneath her pillow, night after night. Every time she reached for the two items she promised that the next morning she would dispose of them. But for some reason she never did.
Not that she should castigate herself—they had only been in her possession three days. She was being absurd—she had just been too busy to deal with their disposal. Which only proved how little they mattered to her, she told herself, that she could forget so easily.
She glanced at her meager supply of evening dresses. She’d worn the muddy brown silk one twice already, which left the dull gray, which was a mixed blessing. The cut was a bit tighter—it delineated her narrow waist and, when she took off her spectacles, made her eyes appear even more gray. On the other hand, the cut was just a bit too low for Annelise’s piece of mind, forcing her to wrap a fichu around her shoulders, which made her look as if she belonged to another generation. There was no help for it—she wasn’t about to go around displaying her bosom for all to see. Not that Christian Montcalm would be there to see it, of course. The Chipples would be the very last place he was invited.
Not that he’d bother to look, either. But the question was irrelevant, since he wouldn’t be there. She pinned the lace scarf around her shoulders, arranging it to cover the expanse of skin exposed by the dress, and reached for her beloved pearls.
They were the only thing of value she had left. Her mother had given them to her when Annelise was thirteen, just before she died and Annelise’s father had stopped making any effort at sobriety, and she treasured them. They were sumptuous pearls, large and perfectly matched, belonging to Annelise’s great-grandmother, a notable beauty in the court of King James. Word had it that the pearls had come from the king himself, as a gift to an accommodating aristocrat, but Annelise didn’t bother to think about that part. Even though she was no beauty herself the pearls made her feel that way, an odd connection with her ancestor. When she wore the priceless, dazzling pearls then she, too, could become a little bit dazzling to those who were discerning enough to see.
Not that anyone tonight would be looking at her, but the pearls, as always, gave her a warm feeling of being cherished. And even though the sale of them could have bought her the cottage and even the living she longed for, she wouldn’t part with them.
As Mr. Chipple’s titular hostess she had to be down early in time to greet their guests, with Hetty firmly by her side. She wasn’t certain she could soften Mr. Chipple’s noisy goodwill, but she would try. As more and more people arrived, crowding in among the marble statues, the warmer the room felt, and the hotter the fichu became. She tugged at it, then noticed the sudden tension in the air. There’d been no dip in conversation, no flurry of whispers, but she’d sensed immediately that something was wrong, and she loo
ked up…up, into the mocking eyes of Christian Montcalm.
9
For a moment Annelise stood frozen in time, the noise of the guests muffled around her. She saw Mr. Chipple, veins bulging at his forehead, about to explode into a scene that would forever destroy any hopes he had of an eventual knighthood or his daughter marrying well, and there was nothing else she could do but step in.
“Christian!” she cried, putting a dazzling smile on her face. “You were able to come after all!” And she caught both his hands, leaning forward to kiss him on each cheek.
She should have known he’d take advantage of it. He should have barely brushed her skin, but the kiss he landed just below her spectacles was firm and warm, not the kiss of a casual acquaintance. And Annelise’s mind was still racing, trying to avert disaster.
She pulled back, her smile still firmly planted on her face, hoping she wasn’t blushing. She didn’t blush easily, but the damned man hadn’t let go of her hands, and between the two erratic men she had no idea how she was going to salvage the situation with half of society and Mr. Chipple’s faux-Greek statues watching.
But she could try. She turned to the fuming Mr. Chipple. “This is my dear, dear friend Christian Montcalm,” she said blithely. “It’s been so long since we’ve had any time together that I knew you wouldn’t mind if I invited him.” Indeed, half the guest list was there at her invitation, but they were all people Chipple was determined to impress.
She’d given him enough time to calm down. He barely bowed in Christian’s direction. “Montcalm,” he said stiffly.
Hetty looked up, her blue eyes mystified but her good sense keeping her silent. “Good evening, sir,” she said sweetly.
He still hadn’t released Annelise’s hands, and the last thing she wanted was to let him go cause mischief in the Chipples’ ostentatious mansion. Fortunately fate, which had been wickedly capricious of late, decided to deliver her a boon in the form of her godmother, Lady Prentice.
Amelia Prentice summed up the situation in an instant and took charge. “Good evening, Josiah, Hetty,” she said. “And my dear Annelise. Why don’t you go renew your acquaintance with your old friend and I’ll stand hostess in your place? After all, I am sponsoring Miss Hetty in her debut.”
Annelise could have kissed her godmother, but first things first. “Bless you,” she said, and deftly turning her hand in Christian’s, she pulled him away from the crowded foyer.
He followed her, silently, willingly, as she led him through the already crowded rooms. She had no idea where she was going to take him—outside was a terrible idea, given what had happened on the terrace—but she needed to make certain no one could hear them. In the end she dragged him out to the little side garden with its iron gate leading out onto the back alleyway. She could simply push him out and lock the gate behind him, but that wouldn’t preclude his coming back in the front door.
In the center of the garden stood another one of Chipple’s beloved Greek statues, this time a half-clothed woman, and Annelise immediately promised herself she would do a thorough tour of the house to find less embarrassing places to have a tête à tête.
Though Christian didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the perfect marble breast that was almost at eye level. He’d probably seen far too many of the real thing, she thought uncharitably.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she demanded, finally succeeding in yanking her hand free.
“Such language, my pet!” Christian murmured. “But then we’re such old, close friends that you should feel comfortable expressing yourself so forcefully.”
“You need to leave. Immediately. I barely averted a scene of horrifying proportions, and I can’t count on Mr. Chipple being ruled by his good sense.”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure I should thank you for that, dragon,” he said. “If he’d made a scene he would have created a situation where Miss Hetty, despite her wealth and her beauty, was far less desirable, thereby making my own suit more favorable. On the other hand, since he had no choice but to welcome me into his house in front of half of society—though not the top half, I noticed—then from now on he’ll be forced to tolerate me, giving me a chance to win him over.”
Annelise looked at him, scandalized. “Was that your plan?”
He laughed. “No, my sweet. I doubt I could do anything at all to win Mr. Chipple over once you informed him just how ineligible I was. I do have you to thank for that, do I not?”
She wouldn’t feel guilty. “Of course. I told you I would. I intend to make certain Hetty marries someone who will love and cherish her—”
“And who says I won’t love and cherish the little baggage? Money makes me very affectionate.”
“You’re disgusting. I want you to leave!”
“But I’m not going to. I need to have a conversation with Mr. Chipple and I don’t intend to depart until I’ve had it.”
“If you think asking for Hetty’s hand in marriage will get you anywhere then you must be mad.”
“And we both know that I am not. I need to have a word with Mr. Chipple about his methods of discouraging suitors. He lacks finesse.”
Annelise had been doing her best not to look at him, for the simple reason that looking at him caused a treacherous reaction in her body. But at that she did, into his undeniably beautiful face, and she saw the slow burn of a deep anger that had nothing to do with her.
Without thinking she reached up to touch his face, but he flinched, thank God, before her fingertips could graze his skin. She immediately crossed her arms, to make her hands behave. “Mr. Chipple is not used to the mores of polite society. If he sent someone to rough you up a little—”
“You might say that,” Christian murmured.
“Then he was very wrong,” Annelise continued, ignoring the interruption. “But then, you don’t seem to take no for an answer.”
“Only when I want to,” he replied. “Do you know where your host’s massive fortune comes from?”
“From shipping. Why should you ask?”
“Shipping what?”
“I have no idea, nor do I care. Spices, lumber, exotic animals. The further Mr. Chipple removes himself from the unfortunate associations of trade the better.”
“I rather think you might care, dragon,” he said, “but I’m not about to enlighten you. I’ll have a brief word with Mr. Chipple and then I’ll leave. Will that make you happy?”
“My own happiness is not your concern,” she said in a stiff voice. “You cause trouble and distress wherever you go, and I intend to protect Hetty—”
“So you’ve said,” he broke in. “But in truth I’m capable of causing great pleasure to those willing to sample it. But we’re not here to discuss that, are we? I have no intention of ruffling your feathers again. Though I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a feathered dragon before. Tell me, do you have feathers instead of scales? I know you breathe fire, but you’re actually quite soft in the right places.”
She raised her hand to slap him but he caught her wrist before her hand could connect with his shadowed face. “You wouldn’t want to do that, my pet,” he murmured. “I’ve already been assaulted once today, and I’m not in the mood to let it happen again.”
“And what would you do about it?” she shot back, furious.
“What I always do when you annoy me,” he said, and kissed her.
It wasn’t much more than a brief touch of his mouth on hers, but it made the blood sizzle in her veins, and she jumped back as if he’d bit her, wiping her mouth.
He shook his head, laughing, the darkness in his eyes vanishing. “My dear Miss Kempton, you are far too easy to play.”
“Then find someone who’s a better adversary! Go away and leave us alone!”
“I’m not about to leave any of you alone. Mr. Chipple and I need to come to a…an understanding, if you like. Miss Hetty is far too desirable a prize to ignore, and as for you, dragon…well, I find I have a certain irresistible fondness for you
. I enjoy these little battles.”
“Go away,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Eventually,” he said, his eyes running down her dress. “You really do have the most abominable clothing. And why you’re covering up your breast with that fichu is beyond my comprehension. And the pearls, while quite lovely, are false, and you deserve better. If you would only wear better clothes, arrange your hair differently and lose the damned spectacles, you could be quite pretty.”
This time she didn’t try to slap him, though she desperately wanted to. “I’m not interested in being pretty,” she said, “and the pearls are real.”
“You’re wrong on both counts, dragon. But we’ll work on you later. As delightful as this little flirtation is, I need to find Mr. Chipple. We have some business to discuss, but I promise I’ll come in search of you when I’m done.”
“God give me strength,” Annelise cried in exasperation. “The kindest thing you could do is to leave me alone.”
“I know,” he said touching her face gently, lifting the strand of pearls away from her neck and then letting them drop. “But I’m never kind.”
Annelise made it a point of honor that she never shirked her duty, never ran from trouble, never failed to face the unfaceable. But some things were more than even a Kempton could bear. She was going to plead a miserable illness, and if anyone pushed her she would give them far too many details, and then she was going to lock herself in her bedroom, burn the damned note and tear the handkerchief into tiny pieces.
She was using stable language, at least in her own mind, and she ought to be ashamed. But she was trembling with so many emotions she couldn’t begin to single them out, and didn’t particularly want to. She just wanted to escape.
There were three directions she could go—back into the house with all those curious eyes, out into the main gardens where guests would doubtless be conducting their own little flirtations, or into the very alleyway itself. She had little choice—she could easily circle around the servants’ entrance and escape up the back stairs to her room without having to run into anyone likely to question her. The servants would gossip, but that was their right, and it was certainly the least of her worries.