Page 15 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Eight

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 Chippie, 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 Chippie 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 Chippie 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. Margate, 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 Chippie.”

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 any way. 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.

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. Chippie 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 Chippie 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 alley way.

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 Chippie 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 Chippie 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.

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 Chippie, 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.