Page 27 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Fourteen

It was later than Annelise would have wished when they arrived back at Chippie House.

Mr. Chippie 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 she 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. Chippie’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. Chippie’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. Chippie? Does he know?”

“That’s the problem, miss. Mr. Chippie 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. Chippie, 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. Chippie 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. Chippie’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. Chippie 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 Chippie 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. Chippie? ”

“Mr. Chippie 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 get 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 the 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?”