Page 25 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Thirteen

Christian Montcalm was not in the very finest of moods that evening, and the fact that he wasn’t only added to his irritation.

All his plans were moving along swimmingly, he had more money than he’d ever had in his recent memory, and things were set in motion.

He would have to relinquish his irrational attraction to Hetty’s dragon, but there’d be other, prettier dragons to seduce.

The problem was, the Honorable Miss Kempton’s allure was nothing so simple as prettiness.

She had character, something he’d been told he was sadly lacking, she had morals, she had a steely determination and an unexpected wit.

She also had the most delectable mouth he’d ever tasted, and he would have given ten years off his life to strip her of her eyeglasses, her lace caps, her shapeless gowns and everything underneath them.

She could wear her false pearls—they were actually rather good copies, and they looked quite nice on her.

Though he’d much prefer to see her in real ones, glowing against her creamy skin.

He shook his head, to drive away the betraying thoughts.

Annelise Kempton was behind him. A splendidly remunerative future beckoned, and Hetty Chippie was gorgeous, energetic, and enjoyed kissing enough to assure him that she would enjoy the other, more intimate pleasures he intended to show her.

Very soon. He was foolish to think of anything else.

Chippie’s servants were not of the best character, and while they were uncharacteristically terrified of their middle-class master, they were still open to bribes.

He didn’t need much warning—just that Hetty was alone at the house, with her father and the dragon occupied elsewhere, and he could set to work.

It was too much to hope it would happen tonight, but he was getting impatient.

The longer he waited, the more he thought of things that shouldn’t be tempting him, and the sooner he got Hetty off to the wilds of Devon the better.

Not that the land around Wynche End was particularly wild.

Untended, unmowed, unploughed and unfarmed, but nothing that a good influx of money couldn’t set to rights.

It was the one thing his son-of-a-bitch grandfather couldn’t keep from him, though he could withhold any of the funds necessary to maintain its upkeep.

The roof leaked and there was dry rot in the library.

Generations of mice had eaten through almost every mattress in the house, the few carpets that were left were ripped and faded, and the curtains had been shredded by the bright sunlight.

It was a disaster, all right. Fortunately he could count on the Brownes to keep an eye on it, and he’d already sent word.

Bessie Browne would see that at least one bedroom was swept free of mouse dung and shavings, at least one large bed would be found in one piece, aired, and dressed in the least mended sheets. All in waiting for his virgin bride.

At least he assumed Hetty was a virgin, though he didn’t particularly care one way or another.

And she wasn’t necessarily going to be his bride the first time he bedded her.

He had the feeling she might balk at the last minute, and the only way around it was to effectively ruin her.

Having her overnight would be enough to destroy her already fragile reputation, but actually claiming her energetic young body would make her unlikely to challenge her fate.

At least he could promise her pleasure. He was very good at pleasing women—he had devoted a great deal of time and energy into learning exactly what women liked.

He knew how to charm the shy ones, amuse the proud ones, battle the feisty ones and overwhelm the jaded.

He could be tender when needed, and he could be rough.

He could discover exactly what each woman needed and provide it, and in doing so magnify his own intense pleasure.

Not that Hetty was going to be difficult. She was a healthy young thing, unashamed of her body and physical affections. She liked to kiss, she purred when he stroked her, and even if she thought she was in love with some country yokel from her childhood he could soon make her forget all about him.

Just as her lithe little body would wipe the thought of anyone else out of his mind quite effectively. It was always wise to concentrate on one woman at a time, and it was about to be Hetty Chippie’s lucky day.

He had three different invitations for the evening—one for a gentlemen’s evening of mystical mumbo jumbo known as the Heavenly Host that was growing frankly tiresome, no matter how nubile the young ladies provided happened to be.

Another for a musical soiree at Lady Prentice’s, and he’d rather be flayed than subject himself to such a thing.

He’d told Annelise that he hadn’t a musical bone in his body.

It had been a lie. He had such a strong affection for music, for the pianoforte in particular, that he couldn’t bear the kind of indifferent performances he was usually subjected to.

The third option was a ball at Sir George and Lady Lockwood’s town house.

They were new money, as well, though more respectable than Chippie’s dark source.

Lockwood had made his fortune in banking, and he was accepted almost everywhere.

And there was an excellent chance that the Chippies would be there.

He was tempted to stay away—make Hetty wonder where he was, make the dragon think he really meant it when he said he was done, make Josiah Chippie believe he’d really managed to buy him off.

It would be the safe thing to do, but Christian had never been particularly interested in being safe.

He was just about to leave for the ball when he heard someone pounding at the door.

His manservant, Henry, would get rid of them, but it was always possible it was his source from Chippie House. To his annoyance Crosby Pennington sauntered into the room.

“Have I interrupted something, old man?” Crosby inquired lazily. “It’s rather late to be going out for the evening. Why don’t you and I share a bottle and a few hands of cards?”

“I have other plans, Crosby,” he said. “And I think you’ve already had a few too many bottles. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you at the gaming table.”

“Nonsense,” Crosby said. “Even when I’m on the floor I can still play better than most, though I will admit you’re a bit of a challenge.

However, word has it around town that you’ve come into a very tidy sum of money.

You’ve even paid off your tailor, for God’s sake!

Next thing I’ll be hearing is that you’ve paid the greengrocer!

” The very notion seemed to affront him.

“I have. I’m about to go out of town, Crosby. A bit of rustication will do wonders—society tends to sap one’s strength after a while, and I long for a bit of fresh air, the songs of birds, the smell of growing things.”

“How much have you been drinking?” Crosby said suspiciously. “The very thought of the countryside revolts one’s tender sensibilities.”

“I wasn’t asking you to join me,” Christian pointed out.

“And wild horses wouldn’t drag me there. I still can’t understand why you’d be going. You haven’t killed anyone new, have you?”

“If I’d been dueling you would have heard.”

“True. Still, dueling isn’t the only way to kill a person,” he said with great delicacy. “But I know you well enough to know that you’ve either done something that requires you to leave town immediately, or you’ve got some grand scheme in the works.”

“A bit of both, as a matter of fact.”

Crosby beamed at him. “Then I insist we share a bottle and a few hands of cards. If you’re so flush you can afford to lose some to me, and my pockets, as always, are to let. I don’t suppose you need any assistance in your little endeavor?”

He considered it. Crosby was bottle-brained and capable of great viciousness, but he was also oddly reliable.

The smart thing would be to have him distract Annelise Kempton.

He wouldn’t get very far, but she might be so busy fighting him off that she wouldn’t notice her charge was disappearing under, her steely gaze.

“Not a thing you can do to help, but I thank you for offering,” Christian said smoothly. “But a hand or two of cards would be a grand idea. Who knows when I’ll be in town again?”

“Done,” Crosby said, seating himself at the table. “And am I to wish you happy? A marriage in the offing?”

Christian smiled, saying nothing. He trusted Crosby as much as he trusted anyone, which was to say, not at all.

The cards weren’t going Crosby’s way, and Christian was feeling generous, so he played badly, enough so that Crosby was feeling quite smug in his earnings, when his manservant entered the room and whispered in his ear.

Christian set the cards down, pushed the tidy stack of coins in Crosby’s direction and rose. “I’m afraid I have to call it a night, my friend,” he said. “Apparently things are moving a bit faster than I expected.”

Crosby didn’t hesitate in scooping up the money—he must have had another abysmal hand. “You’re certain there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“Not a thing. Except use your usual discretion.”

“Then I wish you happy, old man,” Crosby said, rising and throwing his cards on the table, as well, face up. As wretched as Christian had expected. “And I appreciate your skill tonight. You’ve always been a good friend.”

He should have known Crosby would see through his deliberately sloppy playing. “A little country air would do you some good, as well,” Christian suggested lightly.

Crosby shuddered. “The countryside? I think not. I’m quite content with my cosmopolitan pleasures.” He held out his hand. “Good luck,” he said.

“And you, as well, Crosby.”