Page 21 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Eleven

For Annelise, the day did not start in an auspicious manner.

She hadn’t slept well—tossing and turning with nightmares so vivid they should have woken her up.

It would have been a blessing if they had-—she simply would have lit the candles by her bed and read something improving until her mind settled.

Well, perhaps not really. She would have read something thrilling and romantic (she was halfway through The Dungeon’s Bride) with the assurance that it would distract her thoroughly.

Unfortunately she drifted just below the surface of sleep, prey to the most disturbing imaginings.

It was very early when she awoke, barely light, and she expected the other members of the household would rise even later than usual, given that the party had gone on till the early-morning hours.

She would have time to enjoy a solitary, peaceful breakfast and perhaps even a walk in the park before the Chippies straggled out of bed.

She dressed quickly, pushed open her shutters and dismissed the idea of a walk in the park.

It was pouring rain—if she’d been halfway observant she would have heard it lashing against the windows.

The streets below were awash, refuse floating by in the deep running puddles, and people picked their way carefully through the mess.

At least there’d be no Chippies. She could still have her peaceful meal, then find a nice quiet room to read and restore her disordered senses. The last few days had upset her equilibrium—she would simply insist on some time to herself.

Breakfast was laid out in the smaller dining room that had been painted an alarming shade of yellow. She ate quickly, then took her cup of hot chocolate with her as she went in search of more salubrious surroundings.

There were no servants around—clearly they were taking advantage of their master’s laxness to enjoy a little peace themselves.

Annelise wandered through the ground floor of the mansion, keeping as far away from the front hall as she could.

Part of her dream the night before had been that the statues had moved, coming toward her with ominous intent.

Even more disturbing, it had been the rakehell who had rescued her, when any sane woman would prefer possessed statues over the inherent danger of a man like Christian Montcalm.

She opened an unfamiliar door, and for a moment thought she had discovered the perfect retreat. It could only be Mr. Chippie’s library, and the rows and rows of unread books drew her irresistibly forward, when she should have just closed the door and retreated.

She let out a little squeak as she saw the statue.

This one was male, and completely unclothed, and after the first few moments of fascinated regard she turned her gaze away, determined to vacate the room immediately, when she saw the unexpected hole in the wall.

She turned her back on the offensive statue and approached the mysterious crevice.

Part of the bookshelf had been cunningly designed to disguise it, but a hidden compartment lay in the midst of the books.

She did have a problem with curiosity as well as imagination, and while she knew she should just turn around and leave, she couldn’t resist drawing closer to inspect the hole.

There were no lights in the room and the gloom outside didn’t do much to penetrate the shadows.

She couldn’t actually see inside the compartment, so she put a tentative hand in, wondering whether she’d touch something nasty.

She did. It was hard and cold and even before she drew it out she knew it was a pistol—but unlike any one she’d ever seen.

Not a gentleman’s pistol for the unspeakable practice of dueling.

This one had no ornamentation, no delicacy.

It was large, and heavy, and it looked as if it had no use in this world but to kill.

She shoved it back into the hole, terrified that it might go off, and slammed the door shut. A moment later she realized her mistake—she should have left things as she found them. She tried to reopen the hidden door, but it remained closed, and all the tricks she attempted did no good.

She was making a fuss for nothing, she told herself, stepping away from the desk. There was still a glass with a splash of cognac in it—clearly the servants hadn’t been in yet. They could have closed the door—no one would even suspect the Honorable Miss Kempton had been snooping.

She stepped out into the empty hallway, then turned and closed the door silently behind her.

“May I help you, miss?”

The butler’s voice made her jump, and she spun around, her hand pressed against her racing heart. “I was looking for a quiet place to read, Jameson.”

“You don’t want to go in there, Miss Kempton. That’s the master’s study, and we’re none of us allowed inside except when he tells us. When the maids clean he stands right there watching. He wouldn’t like it if he thought you were snooping around.”

Annelise straightened her back and gave the impudent Jameson a haughty stare. “I don’t snoop,” she said. A complete lie, but it wasn’t his place to point it out to her. “Find me a quiet room with decent light where I can read and I’ll trouble you no more.”

Jameson stared at her for a long moment.

He was an odd sort of butler, and Annelise assumed he was merely typical of Chippie’s mistaken notions of society.

Most butlers managed a veneer of gentility so as not to offend their sensitive masters, but Jameson looked more like a pugilist than a valet.

His uniform fit his bulky body perfectly, but he made Annelise think of an unpleasant wild animal, like a bear, just waiting to attack.

Imagination again, she chided herself. And she wasn’t going to offer any more babbling excuses. Not that Jameson would tell on her, but it was demeaning to feel as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. As, in fact, she had.

“I’ll escort you to the pink salon,” Jameson said. “Miss Hetty never uses it, but it was designed for ladies to retire to. I’m certain you’ll be quite comfortable.”

“Thank you, Jameson.” She was certain of no such thing.

If the shade of pink was bilious enough she’d have no choice but to return to her room, or face the downpour herself.

But the pink room was less ghastly than it could have been, the chaise was surprisingly comfortable, and within moments a servant had arrived to start a cozy fire.

She curled up in the lounge and opened her book, ready to disappear into the fanciful dungeons herself.

The only problem with books, she thought dreamily, is that for some reason the heroes were always just a bit too perfect, almost to the point of tediousness.

Their noble behavior would just as likely endanger the hapless heroine.

And the heroines themselves showed little ingenuity or resilience.

She would hope that if she were kidnapped by a scheming villain she’d be able to do more than weep and faint.

And as for the villains, it was easy enough to see that those disreputable characters were by far the most interesting aspect of the books.

They were Machiavellian, monstrous, charming and evil, and it was with great satisfaction that Annelise read of their bloody demise.

If only the same thing could happen to the real villain in her life.

The moment the thought popped into her head she sat up, horrified at herself.

She didn’t wish ill on anyone, even Christian Montcalm.

She didn’t want him to die, she just wanted him to go away and set his sights on some other young heiress with a protector who was far less vulnerable than Annelise was.

Not that she ever would have thought herself vulnerable.

She had always been excellent at setting things to right, curbing young men’s mischievous behavior and keeping her father in one piece until his last, fateful ride.

It was absurd that one overly handsome man would be able to disturb her so effectively.

In truth her state of unrest probably had absolutely nothing to do with Christian Montcalm and more to do with Annelise herself.

She was facing the advanced age of thirty, the point of no return, and while part of her viewed her advancing spinsterhood with equanimity, a small, vain part of her cried out, “Why not me?” Silly, of course.

Childbirth was painful and dangerous, men were ill behaved and annoying, and she very well liked not having to answer to anyone.

Except she did—to Mr. Chippie, Lady Prentice, her interfering sisters and all of society.

Perhaps she should make the first steps to sell the pearls, she thought.

Even if she succeeded and Hetty Chippie managed to marry wisely, it wasn’t enough to give her a sense of accomplishment.

She was tired of all this, and she wanted nothing more than to run away.

She couldn’t run, of course. But she could walk, sedately, with enough money to set herself up. And as soon as Hetty was settled, that was exactly what she would do.

The rain had stopped and the sun had come out, sending sparkling diamond motes through the air.

She put her book down and rose from the chaise.

With the advent of the sun the room had grown stiflingly hot, and the latticed door leading to one of the gardens would let in a breath of fresh spring air. ..

She put her hand on the doorknob and then froze, staring through the glass.

This side garden was a mirror image of the one where she’d met with Montcalm the night before—it lay on the other side of the main gardens and was presumably for the use of the ladies of the household.

Early roses were blooming, their soft petals wet with rain, and standing in the middle of the garden, looking up at the house with a speculative expression on his face, was Christian Montcalm.