Page 30 of The Devil’s Waltz

He took a sip of the port. Mrs. Browne had informed him that she’d put Hetty into the only inhabitable bedroom among the seventeen in the rambling old house, and he’d be hard put to find an alternative bed.

It didn’t matter. The fire was warm, the chair was cozy, and the port didn’t come from the benighted country of his birth but from Portugal. For the time being he was well content.

It was pouring rain. The horses were having a hard time in the mud, their pace was better suited to a snail, and Annelise was cold and wet and miserable.

When they’d stopped to change horses and ask for directions she’d gotten her cloak soaked, and the cheap conveyance William had been able to hire didn’t come equipped with anything to provide warmth or light.

They’d gotten off to a late start—Christian would have abducted Hetty almost a day earlier, and they didn’t dare hesitate.

The sooner they found them the better chance they had of salvaging the matter.

At least luck had been on their side when they’d reached Montcalm’s apartments.

He was long gone, but the servant cleaning the stoop outside was quite talkative, and it was easily ascertained that the formerly impoverished Mr. Montcalm had hired a carriage and taken off for his home in the tiny town of Hydesfield, Devon.

And, the young man added, had been most generous with his tips when he left.

It was a bloody long way, Annelise thought, but there was no way out of it.

At least she was old enough that her own reputation wouldn’t be in any danger.

She was already going to be under a cloud when it got out that Hetty had eloped while Annelise had been visiting.

At least she would make certain that Hetty married the right man, not the degenerate scoundrel who’d kidnapped her.

William had only balked at one moment, and that was when she asked him if he had a pistol.

“Of course not!” he’d replied huffily. “What do you take me for, a highwayman?”

“Then we’re going to need to obtain one,” she said. “Someone like Christian Montcalm is not going to give up such a juicy plum without a fight.”

“Perhaps she wants to be with him.” William’s face was a mask of gloom.

“She wants to be with you, William. The only reason he was able to persuade her to go with him, if it wasn’t outright kidnapping, was that she was heartbroken at your desertion.”

“I had no choice!” Will cried. “Chippie threatened my family! He threatened Hetty herself!”

Annelise wasn’t going to argue with such a preposterous notion. “Whether you simply misunderstood him or not, it no longer matters. We need a pistol, and we need to rescue her, and then you can leave me to deal with the odious Mr. Chippie.”

William looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, but it was not an unfamiliar reaction. “I don’t know how to shoot a pistol,” he said finally.

“I do.”

Getting one had proved more difficult, particularly since she didn’t want to waste any time. In the end she had no choice—they had stopped at Chippie House on their way out of town and she headed straight for Josiah Chippie’s library.

The under-footman who was taking the missing Jameson’s place seemed uninterested in her doings, simply letting her in the front door and then disappearing, and Annelise breathed a sigh of relief until she saw that the hidden shelf was once again hidden.

The naked male statue smirked at her, and she averted her eyes hastily as she went to the wall, pushing and yanking at everything she could think of in hopes of discovering the hiding place.

She was ready to start tearing the wall with her nails when instinct caught her—there was a large book on Greek mythology prominently placed a couple of shelves above where she remembered the opening.

She reached for it, and the door swung open, revealing the cubbyhole.

For a moment she was afraid the pistol had disappeared.

But then she saw the dull metal gleaming in the darkness, and she grabbed it, along with the accoutrements needed to reload if one bullet didn’t kill the bastard.

And then she ran, leaving the door open, and several books littering the floor.

Maybe someone would come and clean up the mess she’d made, maybe they wouldn’t. It was the least of her worries.

She set the gun down carefully on the seat beside her. William was looking at it as if it were a poisonous snake about to bite, but he said nothing, his jaw set in grim determination as they made their way through the crowded London streets with maddening slowness.

The rain had started by nightfall, first a light drizzle, then a downpour.

Hetty had already been in the blasted satyr’s company for one full night, and it appeared as if it was going to be another, as well.

Difficult to redeem, but if anyone could do it, Annelise could.

The best course would probably be to send Hetty off with William to Gretna Green directly.

With Annelise as chaperon no one could do more than disapprove, but at least the child wouldn’t be cut dead.

And then the two of them could have their honeymoon, preferably as far away from England as possible, while Annelise dealt with the presumably volatile Mr. Chippie.

She dozed off and on, but the carriage was cheaply made and small, and every bump and jolt knocked her awake.

The devoted swain seemed to have no trouble sleeping through the wretched drive, and she sat there in misery and cursed all men, particularly young, lovelorn ones who still managed to snore quite loudly when the object of their adoration was in danger.

She was uncertain when dawn arrived—the rain and gloom was so intense that there was barely any perceptible change in the light coming through the cheap windows.

She checked and rechecked the pistol, making sure it was clean and loaded.

It would have helped if she’d had a chance to fire it—most firearms were unreliable and were likely to pull to the right or to the left.

If she wanted to blow a hole in Montcalm, she wanted to make sure it was where she’d placed it.

She might feel like killing him, but in her heart she only wanted him to feel a very great deal of pain.

Any stray romantic longing for him had vanished in a righteous rage.

Shooting him in the foot would probably be the best choice.

It would hobble him, but there was no way it could kill him, and it would hurt like the fires of hell, something that would give her great satisfaction as she sailed out of his mansion with the two lovebirds at her side, leaving him to gnash his teeth and ponder the folly of his evil ways.

And she was getting too tired to think clearly. He wasn’t a villain in one of the novels she adored... No, he was far worse. No one would push him over a cliff, much as he deserved it. No one would set his secret dungeon lair on fire to have him burn up inside it.

Which in reality was a sobering thought. She didn’t want him dead, God help her. She just wanted him gone, forgotten, out of their lives.

But he had been out of her life. He’d said goodbye, and she’d been foolishly devastated. She was an idiot—it was doubtless some ailment spinsters were prone to. A solitary life and an unhealthy taste in literature were bound to produce fantasies that were quite improper.

The town of Hydesfield was dark and dreary, but she expected no less on such a miserable day, and it had been a simple enough matter to acquire directions to Wynche End.

Getting through the increasingly rutted roads that led to Montcalm’s estate was a different matter—it was as good as any gothic novel she’d ever read—and she held on for dear life as the coach lurched its way through the mud.

She heard the ominous crack first, and she was able to grip the side of the door and her precious pistol as the carriage collapsed on one side, tossing them heavily against the door. “Wheel’s broken!” the benighted driver shouted through the rain. “I think I see a house up ahead. I can?—”

Annelise was already gone, picking up her skirts and sliding through the dangerously slanted door.

She landed in the mud, and it was only sheer providence that she didn’t end up accidentally shooting herself.

She was a wet, cold, muddy mess, and she didn’t care.

She could see the outlines of a huge, dark house up ahead, and she didn’t hesitate, making her way through the mire at lightning speed.

She lost a shoe somewhere along the way. Her hood provided little protection from the pelting rain and her drenched hair had fallen down her shoulders, and she imagined she looked like the wrath of God. She certainly hoped so.

She pushed the huge front door open into the dark, cold hallway, but from a distance she could see candlelight and feel just the faintest trace of warmth penetrating her bones. She shoved her hood back, cocked the pistol and slowly limped toward the light.

He was sound asleep, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the blessed fire blazing, an empty bottle of wine by his side.

He hadn’t been shaved recently, and he looked rumpled, dissolute and beautiful.

Like a fallen angel. She moved to stand in front of him and pointed the pistol directly at his heart.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he murmured, and then he opened his extraordinary eyes. “It’s always unwise to shoot the man you’re in love with.”