The Devil's Waltz

  In the hours she’d already been at Wynche End she had yet to see a servant, but a plump, motherly woman was waiting for her in the hallway, a concerned expression on her face. “I’m Mrs. Browne, the housekeeper, Miss Kempton,” she said, curtsying deeply. An absurd act, given Annelise’s mud-worn appearance, but nice nonetheless. “I’ll show you to your room if you’d like.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “Master Christian has gone out, and I’m not certain when he’s expected home, but he said you shouldn’t expect to see much of him during your stay.” Mrs. Browne sounded a bit doubtful.

  “Yes,” Annelise said, telling herself that the sinking feeling in her stomach was a flood of relief sweeping over her, and not disappointment. It was, it truly was.

  “I’ll be happy to bring a tray to your room if you’d like. The dining room is a bit…well, Master Christian usually eats in the library, but I could have my husband see if he could do something about the ceiling…”

  “A tray in my room would be lovely,” she said. Right now, she added mentally. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate.

  But blessed Mrs. Browne was ahead of her. “I’ve already brought up a tray of cold chicken, cheese and apples just to tide you over until dinner. If there’s anything else you want you have only to ask. Except I’m sorry to say none of the bellpulls are working. You’ll need to come find me, but I’ll do my best to check at regular intervals in case you need something. It’s just Browne and me and young Jeremy, the stable lad, so I’m afraid you won’t be as comfortable as I might have liked.”

  “I’m certain I’ll be fine.” Food was coming, but there went her hope of at least a partial bath if they were that short-staffed. It had started to rain again—maybe she’d just strip off her clothes and go outside. Then again, maybe not.

  But she’d underestimated the divine Mrs. Browne. Not only was a tray of food waiting for her in the huge, shabby bedroom, but a full tub of steaming water. Annelise almost hugged her.

  “I gather you didn’t bring much in the way of clothing, so I was bold enough to see what was on hand and came up with a few serviceable pieces belonging to Master Christian’s great-aunt. She was a tall woman, and though the clothes are out of date I think they should fit. At least you’ll be dry and comfortable.”

  “You are a saint, Mrs. Browne.”

  Mrs. Browne’s plump face beamed. “We’re glad to have you here, miss. We don’t often get company. And rest assured you’ll be treated with nothing but respect from everyone in this house,” she added darkly.

  If anyone could make Christian behave it would be the sturdy Mrs. Browne. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Annelise said, pleased at how calm she sounded.

  But Mrs. Browne looked doubtful. “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Dinner’s usually at eight. I’ll check on you in a few hours and see if you want something sooner, but in the meantime I thought you’d probably like a rest. Just leave your clothes and I’ll see what I can do to salvage them.”

  “I’d be most grateful.” That was almost a lie. If she never had to wear the shapeless brown wool dress again it would be too soon, but then she couldn’t very well leave this place in someone else’s clothing. She could only hope that Christian’s aunt shared her sober tastes.

  Once Mrs. Browne closed the door Annelise kicked off her only shoe and attacked the meal left for her. She hadn’t realized quite how hungry she was, and she finished everything, including the pleasant glass of canary wine. It surprised her that it wasn’t a French wine—she had some vague knowledge that part of Christian’s ancestry was French, and she would have thought he preferred that country’s vintage. Like all good Englishwomen she considered the French essentially despicable, particularly when it came to the recent revolution, but they did manage to produce some very fine wines.

  But the canary was good enough.

  She began stripping off her clothes, wincing as the caked mud fell on the worn carpet beneath her feet. She didn’t want to make more work for the beleaguered Mrs. Browne, but she could hardly sweep it up herself. In the end she stripped off everything, down to her chemise, and approached the still-steaming tub.

  It smelled of roses, a faint, soothing scent, and there were towels nearby that carried the same pleasing odor. What Mrs. Browne was capable of doing in such a wreckage she did very well indeed.

  At the last minute she stripped off the chemise, as well, stepping into the tub stark naked, not wanting anything to get in the way of that warm, wonderful water. It wasn’t as if anyone was around, and she’d always preferred bathing in the nude. In the more crowded households, with maids likely to walk in and out with little warning, she always bathed in her chemise, but right now it was a small, wicked indulgence she had every intention of taking.

  She set her glasses down on the floor beside the tub, then ducked her head under the water. It felt so blissful she almost didn’t want to come up for air. The soap carried the same rose scent, and she scrubbed every part of her body, from her scalp to her toes, then stood up and rinsed with the jug of fresh warm water on the table beside the tub. She stepped out of the tub, directly onto her spectacles, feeling them crush beneath her foot.

  She let out a yelp of pain, barely managing to keep her balance as she hopped over to the table and wrapped one of the towels around her. Her wet hair was streaming down her back, her foot was bleeding from the broken glass, and her temporary sense of well-being evaporated. She collapsed in a chair, grabbing another towel to wrap around her foot to soak up the blood, using her most colorful curses under her breath.

  “Bloody damn rutting pig cock,” she muttered. The last one she seldom used, but in these circumstances it was called for. What was she going to do without her spectacles? What was she going to do with a lacerated foot?

  Fortunately the cut wasn’t as bad or as deep as she feared. Her discarded chemise was free from mud, and the cotton was old and worn, quite easy to tear a strip off the bottom without destroying it completely. She wrapped her foot up, quite handily, and then breathed a sigh of relief. One crisis averted. She’d worry about being able to see later.

  She hobbled over to the bed and the clothes laid out for her inspection. The undergarments were wonderful—the softest silk, the finest lace, beautiful bits of needlework such as she had never worn. The dressing gown was of white lawn, of the sort that used to be known as a powdering gown, Annelise thought. Back when the older generation would powder their hair, they would wear these to protect their clothing.

  She dressed quickly, wrapping the lacy gown around her, and climbed up onto the bed. It was freshly made up, the velvet coverlet worn in some places, and she knew if she lay down with her hair still wet it would dry in ridiculous curls. If she got up to search, she could probably find a comb or brush of some sort, and she could braid her hair into a tight knot of submission, but her foot was throbbing, her energy had fled, and in the end it didn’t matter. No one would see her but Mrs. Browne, and she could always wet her hair again and set it to rights.

  She leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling above her. And let out a gasp.

  Josiah Chipple wasn’t the only person who enjoyed mythology. The ceiling above the bed was painted with a charming fresco in the Italianate style, and the painting itself was particularly unfortunate.

  At first she thought it might portray the rape of the Sabine women, but as she focused on the details the reality was even worse. It depicted Persephone, drawn down to the dark and dangerous depths of hell, lured by Pluto, the god of Hell, who was both terrifying and beautiful. And looked far too much like Christian Montcalm.

  Persephone herself bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Annelise herself. Her long, milky limbs were well exposed by the filmy piece of cloth she was wearing, and she was much more slender than the style of painting usually called for. It took Annelise only a moment to realize that the two main characters of the ceiling fresco must have been patterned
after the previous occupants of the room. The Persephone could only be Christian’s overtall aunt, and the demonic Pluto could only be his ancestor, as well.

  She rolled over on her stomach and moaned. If only her long-distance vision had suffered—the ceiling would then be merely a blur. But in truth she only needed her spectacles for minute details—she simply wore them because they suited her.

  She could ask for another room, but wouldn’t put that much work on the good Mrs. Browne. Perhaps later she could express her discomfort. While the god of hell was more decently covered, she had a very strong suspicion that he was in the same state of Priapus, and having such a creature leering down at her while she tried to sleep was unbearable.

  Except that she would bear it. And he wasn’t exactly leering. And not at her. He was staring at the woman in his arms with a look of inexplicable longing, despite the fact that he clearly had her captive. She’d never stopped to think about the Greek god’s thoughts in the matter, sympathizing more with Persephone’s plight and her mother’s loss than the villain’s desires. But it was more than clear, in this painting at least, that Persephone’s surrender was of all-consuming importance to the dark god.

  If worst came to worst she could have someone help her drag the bed from under the indecent ceiling fresco. If she could stand up to Christian Montcalm in the flesh, she was hardly going to let a hundred-year-old painting disturb her.

  At least, not while she was awake.

  19

  The problem with falling asleep at odd hours, Annelise thought, was that you woke at odd hours. Ever since she’d set off on this ridiculous rescue mission her sleep had been fitful and uncomfortable, and it was no wonder she managed to drift off in the strangest of circumstances, including sitting right in front of her direst enemy.

  She woke briefly when Mrs. Browne came to check on her and bring her a tray of food. She clucked over the cut foot and rebandaged it for her, had the men remove the tub and generally fussed around her in the most delightfully maternal way. Annelise had never known a mother, and her older sister, Eugenia, was somewhat lacking a nurturing streak, at least where her siblings were concerned. Wrapped in comfort and a full stomach, she fell back into a deep sleep only to wake up at some godless hour, and lie staring at the dying embers of the fire.

  She lay there wondering what time it was, when, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a clock chimed somewhere in the bowels of the house. Three times. At least something in this place was still in decent order.

  The main disadvantage to lying in bed, sleepless, is that all one’s worries came flooding back to haunt one, and were magnified a thousand times. At three o’clock in the morning Josiah Chipple was a deranged murderer, Hetty and William certain to die in a carriage crash, and Christian Montcalm was the devil incarnate.

  It was the damned ceiling fresco, she thought, rolling over and punching the pillow. Even in the darkness she knew it—she didn’t have to see it to remember each lascivious detail. As long as Christian’s ancestor looked down at her in the darkness it was no wonder she couldn’t sleep.

  When the clock struck four she gave up, lighting the candle beside her bed, and started looking for something, anything to read.

  Mrs. Browne had cleaned and dusted the room well, but its state of disrepair was impossible to disguise. If she had needle and thread she could mend some of the tears in the cushions, but there was nothing, and if she didn’t find something to occupy her mind she’d go mad with worry.

  The house was silent, and she knew where there were books, hundreds of them. She could find her way there quite easily, snatch one or two, and be safely back in her bed before anyone in this sleeping house realized it. She had no idea where Christian’s bedroom lay, and she didn’t wish to. Besides which, he’d probably drunk himself to sleep, the profligate wretch. Just a short little foray through the silent house and she’d be set.

  She stepped into the hallway, the candle flame doing precious little to pierce the inky darkness. Her foot caused her little trouble—just a slight tenderness protected by Mrs. Browne’s more efficient bandage, and she only limped slightly as she made her way down the broad oak stairs.

  The library was to her left, easy enough to find, and though the floors were cold beneath her feet, she moved slowly, afraid she’d bump into something unexpected.

  There was still just the trace of a fire burning in the fireplace, adding a touch of light that was needed. She went first to the shelves on that side of the room, lifting her candle high, squinting in the darkness at the titles.

  “The novels are on the other side of the fireplace.” His voice came out of the darkness, and she let out a little shriek, dropping the candle, plunging the room into darkness. She froze, terrified that he was somewhere around her like a shapeless monster, about to pounce, her imagination going wild, when she saw his shadow move in front of her, and a moment later he’d lit a candle from the dying fire.

  He didn’t even glance at her—simply turned around and began to light the tapers in an elaborate candelabrum, bringing too much light into the room, illuminating him far too clearly. His hair was loose—much longer than she’d realized, and he wore nothing but breeches and a white shirt that was unfastened at lacy cuffs and collar. And halfway down his chest. He looked rumpled and faintly grumpy—as if he’d been roused from sleep.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this midnight visit, dragon?” he inquired mildly enough.

  “I would think it would be obvious enough,” she replied nervously. “I was looking for something to read.”

  “You came to the right place. You also woke me up and I always have trouble falling back asleep. You’ll have to entertain me.” He dropped into a chair with languid grace, looking up at her out of his extraordinary eyes. The eyes of a devil.

  Annelise jumped. “Certainly not!”

  “You have a very suspicious mind, Miss Kempton. I meant conversation, nothing more. Clearly you’re having trouble sleeping, as well. So sit down and tell me what you think of my decrepit gothic manse.”

  She was torn. On the one hand, she wanted to bolt for the stairs, secure in the belief that he’d make no effort to stop her. On the other hand, his very lack of interest ensured her safety. She hesitated.

  He sighed, as if he found the whole thing very tiresome. “Miss Kempton, I promised on my honor that I will manage to behave myself. I’d hardly take advantage of a defenseless young woman under my own roof.”

  “Of course you would,” she said, moving toward the chair. “But since I’m not a defenseless young woman I have little doubt that I’m safe.”

  He smiled. It was an unnerving smile, as if he found her amusing. He didn’t bother to contradict her, the swine. “Even so,” he said. “You’re still safe. Why are you limping?”

  “I cut my foot.”

  He frowned. “Was something left lying about? That’s unlike Mrs. Browne, but—”

  “It was my spectacles,” she said, sinking into the chair. The same one she’d fallen asleep in before, but this time sleep was far too elusive.

  “Ah, I wondered what had happened to them.” Apart from curiosity he seemed unmoved. She was marginally prettier without her spectacles—her gray eyes were her best feature. But he seemed uninclined to tell her so. “How do you manage to see?”

  She didn’t even consider not lying. He would know far too well what she was lying beneath in that grand bedroom, and she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Unless, of course, she was attaching far too much importance to herself, and he wasn’t even vaguely interested in where she slept. “I can manage a few feet in front of me,” she said. “After that everything is a blur.”

  Now, why did she think he didn’t believe her? “Pity,” he murmured. “Piquet?”

  “I’m not playing cards with you. And what are you doing down here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “Ah, but someone else is already sleeping in my bed,” he replied, shuffling the cards as he disregarded
her protest. “And for some reason I doubted you’d feel like sharing.”

  “I’m in your bed?” Annelise shrieked.

  “Exactly where you belong.” His smile was devilish. “When I sent Hetty and her champion off I told you I didn’t have the beds for you all. The rest are mouse-eaten and mildewed—Harry dragged them outside to burn them.”

  “I can’t sleep in your bed—it’s…it’s indecent!”

  “Not without me. Don’t worry—the sheets are clean.”

  “But what about the bed where Hetty and William…that is…”

  “Where they what? You never struck me as someone who’d shy away from plain speaking. What did they do in that bed?” His voice was lazy.

  “Stop goading me, or I won’t play cards with you,” she said.

  “Blackmail,” he said. “It always works. And their mattress went the way of the bonfire too. You’re sleeping on the second best—Bessie did some quick work to make it usable, but the rest were beyond her talents.”

  “That’s a relief at least.”

  “You mean you feel better lying in my bed than Hetty’s? I’m charmed!”

  “Be quiet and deal.”

  “I should warn you,” Christian murmured. “I’m very lucky at cards, and I intend to win.”

  “Why would you care? It’s not as if we’re wagering any money on the outcome. I have none.”

  “True enough. But playing cards without wagering is a waste of time and no fun at all. There are things to wager besides money—you suggest the stakes.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “If I win you send your man as far as he needs to go to hire a carriage for me. I don’t care if it’s all the way to Bath.”

  “Agreed, though I rather hate to put a lame horse on the road. As for what I want…” He let his voice trail off as his eyes swept over her.