Page 16 of The Devil’s Waltz

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 Chippie.

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 Chippie was as formidable as he thought he was, then he was already doomed. A man like Chippie 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 Chippie. 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 Chippie’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 Chippie’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 Chippies’ 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. Chippie 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 Chippie 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 Chippies 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. Chippie’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. Chippie’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 looked up.

..up, into the mocking eyes of Christian Montcalm.