by Anne Stuart
Annelise was not happy at being dragged out that night, but Josiah Chipple had insisted on her company. Hetty was home, refusing to leave her room and Chipple was not about to miss an evening at Lady Prentice’s, even for a suspiciously ailing daughter who seemed more afflicted with tears than anything else.
It had been quite the scene, Annelise thought with a tiny shudder, sitting in the back of Lady Prentice’s salon and sipping on a weak punch. At least she made certain Chipple was nowhere around when she gave Hetty the note from her first love, but indeed, though the affection between the two was clear, she had no idea that Hetty was capable of such extreme feelings. And it wasn’t histrionics on her part. When she read the note she turned very pale and did her best to hold back the tears that sprung to her eyes.
“Where is he?” she’d demanded. “Is he downstairs?”
Annelise shook her head. “I met him in the park this morning, and he begged me to bring this to you. He’s quite determined in his resolve, Hetty.”
Hetty stood motionless, a tiny doll of a figure in her overstuffed pink bower. And then she burst into tears, and there was nothing Annelise could do but put her arms around her and try to soothe her.
The tale came out in disjointed gulps, and it was nothing more than Annelise had suspected, though perhaps a little further along. “He said he loved me,” Hetty sobbed. “We were going to face my father together, and if he said no then we were simply going to run away…He wouldn’t be able to stop us if we spent the night away from the house. He’d have to accept William. I don’t understand how he could change his mind.”
Annelise had little trouble following Hetty’s pronouns. There was nothing she could do—she didn’t want to believe that there was any real danger to anyone, but the sight of Will’s bruised and swollen face told its own tale. If he’d truly threatened his own daughter it was simply to scare the unwanted suitor away, but Annelise was appalled that Josiah Chipple could even think of such a thing. She’d landed in a very bad place this time, despite Lady Prentice’s care, but until Hetty was safely married she couldn’t very well leave. She’d made a promise to Will, and even if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t abandon such a clearly unhappy girl. She was made of sterner stuff than that—she’d never run from a challenge.
She’d stroked Hetty’s hair and soothed her tears and tucked her into bed with a tisane to help her sleep, and then she had no choice but to go out to her godmother’s with her seemingly benevolent host, while his daughter wept her heart out.
But while she sat in the corner, listening to a truly dreadful soprano, she cast a mental eye over all the marriageable prospects. Few of them were in the room—most young men did their best to avoid an evening of culture, and if the woman singing Handel was any example she couldn’t blame them.
But Annelise needed to get Hetty engaged quickly, so she could escape. There was Sir Julian Hargreaves, handsome enough, though perhaps not overburdened with wit. The earl of Clonminster, though he was a widower and not known for his good temper, was still reasonably attractive for a man of his age. Lord Baldrick Abbott dabbled in science, something Hetty would find dreadfully boring, and he tended to look down his overlarge nose at women. Jasper Fenton, while lacking a title, might be the best prospect—he was a younger son from an excellent old family, and if Hetty was accepted by Lady Fenton she’d be accepted everywhere.
Indeed, London was lamentably short of qualified suitors this season, a dire shame, but there may have been someone she’d overlooked. With the glittering Christian Montcalm out of the picture, and childhood sweethearts abandoned, it shouldn’t take long to find a suitable candidate. She was a trifle concerned that Hetty wouldn’t bounce back from her latest heartbreak as quickly as she could wish, but then, she’d been ready to marry Christian Montcalm until William had shown up. She could be distracted again.
Except, in truth, Christian Montcalm could tempt a saint with his wicked charm, and a young girl would have little defense against it. Unlike a wiser, older woman like herself, Annelise mocked herself. At least he was no longer going to be a problem, and she could breathe a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to encounter him again. Her heart should be bursting with joy, though she felt strangely heavy.
Time. In a day or two Annelise would be back to her old self. In a day or two Hetty would be flirting and dancing, her first love forgotten.
In the meantime, the two of them were just going to have to suffer.
Chipple House was dark and silent, but Christian knew exactly where he was going. His well-paid confederate, an under-footman named Davey, took his coins and tucked them in his pocket.
“They’re all in the servants’ hall,” he said. “Even Jameson. He’s the one you’d have to watch out for, but he and the cook are otherwise occupied, and will be for at least another hour. Miss Hetty’s room is the third door on the left, and it’s far enough away that no one will hear her scream.”
“She’s not going to scream,” Christian said coolly. “And what about you?”
“I’m getting out of here. Josiah Chipple ain’t the kind of man to cross, and he’d find out it was me sooner or later. I don’t fancy ending up in an alley with my throat cut.”
Christian didn’t bother to reason with him. In fact, he suspected Davey was quite right. An alley, or the Thames. Chipple was a dangerous enemy.
There was no sound coming from behind Hetty’s closed door, but light seeped beneath it, and he didn’t bother to knock. She’d have to get used to her husband walking in on her.
He pushed open the door. She was sitting in front of a mirror, a vision in pink, and while she’d clearly been crying she was a girl whose tears were simply an added embellishment, making her beautiful blue eyes glisten, and her rosebud lips tremble slightly. Ah, she was a rare treat, and he was going to enjoy teaching her about life and pleasure. Damn it.
Her tear-filled eyes opened wide with wonder. “What are you doing here?” she breathed.
He gave his most practiced, seductive smile, and she responded as she ought, melting a bit. Really, she was too easy. He did prefer a bit of a challenge, like…
He held out his hand. “Your father has rejected my honorable offer of marriage,” he said. “So I thought we should reject his rejection and take care of it ourselves.”
He’d managed to startle her. She glanced down at a piece of paper in her hand for a long moment, and then crumpled it angrily. She looked up at Christian with a brilliant smile. “I’m ready,” she said.
And they were off.
14
It was later than Annelise would have wished when they arrived back at Chipple House. Mr. Chipple bade her a courteous good-night before heading in the direction of his library, and she did her best to shake off the feelings of mistrust. He’d been his usual, affable self all evening—slightly boisterous but not unacceptable, and William’s wild tales seemed more and more unlikely. Except that she’d seen the pistol. And Jameson was not the sort of butler to put heart into one.
She was unaccountably tired, and she moved up the sweeping staircase slowly. She ought to go in and check on Hetty, but there was neither light nor sound coming from behind her closed door. The tisane must have worked particularly well—the poor child would have been exhausted from her tears. There’d be time enough in the morning to sort things out.
It was a fairly cool night, and a fire was burning in her hearth. She closed the door behind her, went straight for the dresser and took out the crumpled note. There would be no lesson three, and the sooner she got rid of any and all reminders of Christian Montcalm the better she’d be. She took the paper and crossed the room, resolutely throwing it on the fire.
And as soon as she saw the edge catch and flame orange, she instinctively snatched it out again, burning her hand, stomping the flames as they curled around the vellum.
It was only singed around the edges. Her hand was in slightly worse shape, but it would heal. She was an idiot, a fool, a cotton-brained romantic, but s
he wasn’t going to destroy the token of the closest thing to a love affair that she’d ever had, whether he’d simply been toying with her or not. When she was seventy, living alone in her cottage in the country with her cats all around her, she could sit in her chair and reread the note and think fondly of her foolish youth.
Even though she wasn’t accustomed to thinking of herself as foolish, in the case of Christian Montcalm she was a total blithering idiot. The one blessing was that no one would ever know she had a temporary weakness of resolve. Christian Montcalm was the only one even half-aware of her susceptibility, and she doubted he knew just how stupid she was capable of being. And given his profligate way of life, he’d probably be dead in ten years or so.
For some reason the notion failed to comfort her.
She slept poorly. There was no sound from Hetty’s room to disturb her, but downstairs Mr. Chipple’s voice bellowed upward once or twice, and there was a great commotion with servants running to and fro. She ought to get up and check, see if she was needed, but since the noise was coming from the area where Mr. Chipple’s private rooms were located she consoled herself in thinking it was none of her business and simply put the pillow over her head to shut out the noise.
She heard the maid tapping at her door, and she opened one eye. It was bright daylight outside, peeping in between the shutters, and she groaned. Her head hurt; she hadn’t slept well in days, and if Hetty could plead a fake illness then so could she. “I’m not feeling well, Jane. I’m going to rest for another hour.” Or five, she thought to herself, closing her eyes again.
The knocking continued, a little louder, and Jane’s plaintive voice came from behind the thick panel. “Please, miss,” she said, and even muffled, her voice was clearly tearful. “There’s been a bit of trouble.”
Bloody hell, Annelise thought, enjoying the mental curse. She threw back her covers and climbed out of bed, just as Jane pushed open the door.
“What is it?” she asked, reaching for her plain woolen robe.
“It’s Miss Hetty. She’s gone.”
Annelise froze. “Gone where?”
“No one knows, miss. I just went to bring her morning chocolate and there was no sign of her. Her bed’s not been slept in, and some of her clothes are missing.”
“Where is Mr. Chipple? Does he know?”
“That’s the problem, miss. Mr. Chipple was called away last night due to a business problem. He said he wouldn’t be back for a week or so, but that you were to keep a close watch on Miss Hetty.”
“Oh, God,” Annelise said weakly, sinking down on her bed. “Was anything else missing from Hetty’s room?”
“Her jewelry, miss.”
That answered her unspoken question. If she’d run off with William she’d have no use for her jewelry, though she was such a little magpie that she might very well have taken it anyway. But it was far more likely that a suitor of a more avaricious nature had run off with her, one who would make certain her very valuable jewels came along.
The question was, had she gone willingly? And where?
“Was there any sign of a struggle?” she forced herself to ask.
Jane looked even more shocked. “Certainly not, miss. Were you thinking she was abducted? We would have heard something in the servants’ hall.”
“And what has been done about this so far?”
“Nothing. Mr. Jameson accompanied Mr. Chipple, and the next in command is Mrs. Buxton, and she told me to ask you. Should we call in the Bow Street Runners? Try to find out where Mr. Chipple is? He’d want to know that his daughter has gone missing.”
“I think it would be much better if he knew after the fact, once she was safely returned home,” Annelise said firmly. “And there’s no need for the runners. I expect she simply went to visit one of her female friends. Probably someone became ill and she felt she had to rush to her side. She was foolish to go out without an escort, but she was upset last evening, and wasn’t thinking clearly. I expect she’ll return, or we’ll get a note explaining what has happened.”
Jane didn’t look as if she was going to believe this far-fetched explanation for one minute, but she was well trained enough not to voice her skepticism. “Yes, miss. In the meantime, what should we do?”
In the meantime, Annelise was half tempted to go down to Mr. Chipple’s abandoned library and see if the pistol was still there, so she could fire a ball into Montcalm’s black heart for running off with an innocent. She took a deep breath.
“There’s nothing we can do at the moment, Jane. She’ll return momentarily with a perfectly reasonable explanation, I’m certain of it. That, or she’ll send a note.”
“There’ve been no messengers this morning,” Jane said darkly. “Oh, that is, except for the flowers.”
“Someone sent Hetty flowers?”
“No, miss. You.”
Damn and blast, she thought. “And where are these flowers?” she asked in a dangerous voice.
Jane looked even more nervous. “In all the excitement we forgot about them. I’ll bring them right up.”
“Never mind. It will only take me a moment to get dressed and I’ll get them myself. What kind are they?”
“Pretty, yellow roses and blue irises, miss. And snapdragons.”
She was still shoving her hair back into its usual bun as she raced down the stairs. The flowers sat at the bottom, a sweet profusion of color, and the note was prominently attached. She could have burned the other one, she thought, since she was about to receive a second.
Sorry to run off with the golden goose, dragon, but a man must be practical. I regret we’ll never get to lesson three, but I’ll dream of it at night. Christian.
“Bastard,” she said out loud, between her teeth. “Son of a bitch, rutting bastard.”
“Miss?” Jane was looking as horrified as if one of the ugly marble statues had spoken.
In a crisis the worst thing one could do was lose one’s head, Annelise reminded herself as she crushed the letter in a fist. She needed help, and she needed it fast.
“Did Mr. Chipple take his carriage, or did he go on horseback? And is there another conveyance in his stables?”
“Sorry, miss. He only keeps the one carriage and he took it. There are a number of nice horses you could ride—”
“No!” Annelise said with a shudder. “I don’t ride. Get me a hack. Who knows that Miss Chipple is missing?”
“You were the first person I’ve told.”
“I’m the only person you’ll tell,” she said firmly. “You’re to explain to everyone that Hetty and I have gone for a visit to my sister in the country. A little fresh air away from London seemed just the thing. I know where she is, and I’ll simply go fetch her and take her away for a few days, so it won’t be a lie. You can do that much, can’t you? Even with Mr. Chipple?”
“Mr. Chipple frightens me,” Jane admitted, her voice nervous.
“All the more reason to ensure that he doesn’t worry. I’m responsible for Hetty, and I’ll make certain she’s safe. In the meantime, I need you to call me a hack while I throw a few clothes together. I don’t expect to be back for a few days.”
“Miss, are you sure…?”
“Quite sure,” Annelise said firmly. “Now run along and do as I say, my girl. I promise you, all will be well.”
Annelise only wished she felt so certain inside. She tossed a change of clothes in her valise, and at the last minute took her pearls. By the time she’d raced downstairs the carriage was waiting.
She drew her drab gray cape around her, putting the hood over her head. “Remember what I said, Jane,” she called as the carriage drew away, leaving Jane alone on the front doorstep with a troubled expression on her face.
Annelise had never been alone in a hired carriage before, but she knew from her years of riding that showing nervousness was a major mistake. It really would have helped if she knew where she was going.
“I need to find a friend at a hotel, and I don’t remember th
e name of the place.”
“Can’t help you there, miss,” the driver replied.
“It’s either the Albion or the Albemarle. Do you know either of them?”
“Yes, miss. Which one do you want to try first?”
“The nearest.” If only she could remember where William Dickinson said he was staying. If only he was still there. When she’d met him in the park he said he was leaving today, and he might have gotten an early start. In which case she wasn’t sure what she would do.
She drummed her fingers on the leather seat beside her. She’d forgotten gloves and a hat, but at least the hood of the cape would provide both coverage and disguise. It seemed forever until the driver pulled to a stop, and he wasn’t about to get down and open the door for her, a novel experience.
“You’ll wait for me,” Annelise said, a statement, not a request, as she wrestled with the door and the fold-down steps on her own.
“Who’s to say you’re going to return? How about some money up front?”
Oh, God, money! She’d been so shatter-brained she’d forgotten all about that little necessity of life. For all that she considered herself a self-reliant woman, in the end she was just as helpless as all the pretty young things on the marriage mart.
Don’t show fear, she reminded herself. “You’ll be paid when I find my friend,” she said in a voice that no one would dare argue with. And she marched into the Albion Inn with her back ramrod straight.
It only took her a moment to find the owner. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m looking for a gentleman. My cousin, William Dickinson.” She’d come up with the slightly believable story on the ride in the uncomfortable hackney. “I believe he’s staying here.”
The man hesitated, unsure how to treat her. She clearly wasn’t a whore, but no lady would arrive at an inn by herself in search of a gentleman.
In the end he decided to err on the side of a slightly sullen courtesy. “Right behind you, miss.”
It was all she could do not to burst into noisy tears of relief. “Miss Kempton? What are you doing here? Has something happened to Hetty?”