Читать книгу The Devil's Waltz - Anne Stuart - Страница 11

Despite the folded note that seemed determined to burn its imprint onto her breasts, Annelise faced the day with equanimity. It was a lovely day, and she had no intention of spending it indoors, any more than she was going to allow Hetty out on her own. A refreshing walk in the park along public paths would be just the thing to put roses back in the cheeks of her young charge…er…friend…

Annelise scowled. She had always been most unfortunately outspoken—her elder sister had chided her for it, her father had laughed at it. She believed in facing things head-on, in calling things what they were and not prettying things up. Which, unfortunately, was not the way things were done in society. At the advanced age of twenty-nine she’d reluctantly learned to hold her tongue, but it still chafed.

She was Hetty’s unpaid chaperon but Annelise had a job to do nevertheless, even though the details were unspoken. In return for a roof over her head, decent meals and the vague possibility of some help toward her future, she was little more than a governess shepherding her charge through the rough seas of society.

Except one didn’t shepherd anything through seas, did they? The poor sheep would drown. She laughed at the notion. There was her imagination and her tendency to dramatize going awry again, tossing her into mixed metaphors that would have done her silly younger sister proud. She was spending far too much time thinking, and not enough time acting. Fresh air would clear her addled brain and sweep away any lingering thoughts about last night.

She found Hetty in her overripe bower, reading something. She quickly shoved it out of sight, but not before Annelise could recognize the look of it. It was a French novel, of the type Annelise favored. She hid them, too, knowing the kind of contempt they garnered from the rest of the world. She wondered if Hetty’s was one she hadn’t yet read.

She wasn’t about to ask and lose her dignity completely. “I thought a walk in the park would do us both good,” she said abruptly. “We both could benefit from the exercise.”

Hetty glared at her. “I had plenty of exercise last night—I danced every dance while you sat in the corner. Take a walk by yourself.”

Annelise was torn between relief that Hetty apparently didn’t know she’d danced with Christian Montcalm and annoyance with her rudeness. Her temper won out.

“I had a very pleasant dance with a very handsome man,” she said. At least half of that wasn’t a lie. “And you need fresh air as much as I do.”

“I’ll open a window.”

“You’ll put your shoes, your hat and your cloak on and come with me, young lady,” Annelise said sternly. “Or I’ll inform your father who sent these gaudy flowers.” Blackmail had always been an effective tool.

“He probably knows,” Hetty said in a sour voice, but she moved off the chaise and reached for her discarded shoes. “And I told you, I can talk him into anything.”

“Including marrying a murderer?”

She’d said it for shock value, but to her dismay Hetty simply shrugged. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t believe he killed anyone.”

“He’s killed at least three people in a duel.”

“That’s different. Though I’m going to have to change his ways…the crown frowns on dueling and I don’t fancy having to go abroad until some scandal dies down.”

“You’re going to change him?” Annelise repeated, skeptical.

“Of course. Once he settles down I suspect he’ll be just as tame and boring as all the husbands I’ve met. Domestic life tends to have that effect.”

“So once he weds you he’ll have no more interest in gaming, dueling and mistresses?”

“Why should he?” Hetty’s blue eyes were guileless. “He’d have me.”

Annelise couldn’t argue with such dedicated self-approval, so she didn’t bother. “How pleasant,” she murmured, feeling the piece of paper burn against her skin. “But I have less faith in the redemptive powers of love.”

“That’s because you’re a spinster,” Hetty said with no real malice. “No one wanted you, so you think that true love doesn’t exist.”

“And you think Christian Montcalm loves you?”

“Of course. How could he not? I’m beautiful, lively, graceful and very rich. I’m irresistible.”

There was the trace of something in Hetty’s voice that made Annelise listen a little closer. She kept underestimating the girl’s intelligence—there was a note of cynicism in her voice that she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to recognize. For some reason Annelise wanted to reassure her, but she resisted the impulse. Hetty might know her main allure was her dowry, but she had little doubt as to her own beauty, and that kept her very happy indeed.

It was a lovely day, just a bit cool, but the sky was bright blue and the park was crowded with strollers and riders. Annelise kept a wary eye out for a certain exceedingly tall gentleman, but he was mercifully absent. Besides, what was the likelihood of him appearing in the park at just the moment she brought her reluctant charge outside? He was hardly the type to lie in wait without a good idea that his efforts would be rewarded, and Hetty had had no interest in walking in the park.

They walked along the path in a surprisingly companionable silence. She should have spent the time with an improving lesson on sedate behavior when dancing, but then, given her own behavior last night, she was hardly the one to talk. Except that the trouble had begun when they’d stopped dancing.

Thank God Hetty hadn’t seen her, she thought once more.

Annelise was so lost in her disturbing thoughts that she wasn’t even aware of the voice. Only that Hetty had frozen in place with an unreadable reaction on her usually expressive face.

“Hetty! Miss Chipple!” A young man was calling her name, ignoring the neat pathways and moving toward them across the carefully manicured lawns. Annelise couldn’t remember that voice from the night before, nor could she see him clearly. She pushed her spectacles up to her forehead and was able to focus on him as he hurried toward them. A perfect stranger wearing country clothes, his hair too long, his face too unguarded for anyone who’d spent time in town.

“Miss Chipple!” he called again, but the two of them had stopped, waiting for his approach, and he sped up, until he reached them, breathless.

To Annelise’s astonishment the boy had manners. “I beg pardon, miss,” he addressed her first. “I’m an old friend of Miss Chipple’s, and my enthusiasm got the better of me. If you’d allow me to introduce myself I’d be most grateful.”

Hetty was standing painfully still, her expression still unreadable, and Annelise nodded her permission, more curious than anything else. Who or what would turn Hetty into a white-faced, stone statue?

“I’m William Dickinson,” the young man said. “An old friend of the Chipples. We grew up together, Hetty and I.”

It was more than that, as any fool could see. Hetty finally broke her frozen pose. “What are you doing here, Will?” she asked unhappily. “You know we weren’t supposed to see each other.”

Hetty wasn’t supposed to see Christian Montcalm, as Annelise was tempted to point out, but she was much too fascinated with the drama going on in front of her.

“Can’t an old friend check to see how another old friend is doing? I just happened to come up to London…”

“Just happened? You hate London. You hate cities, you told me. You want nothing more than to spend your entire life in Kent as the perfect country squire.”

“I thought I could change,” Will said in a quiet voice.

More and more interesting, Annelise thought. She should put a stop to this, invite the young man back to the house. If he were really persona non grata he’d come up with an excuse. But right now this was far too fascinating to interfere.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Hetty said. “You can’t change your family, and their estate is not nearly old or illustrious enough to suit my father. And you can’t suddenly come up with a title when your future clearly lies in being Squire Dickinson of Applewood. I’m destined for better things in this life than living a dreary existence in the country with nothing to do but have babies and grow fat. I’m very happy here. I have more than a dozen suitors, I go out every night and dance until I’m exhausted, I hear music and go to the theater and have stimulating discussions about books and such…”

William Dickinson snatched his hat off his head in frustration, crushing it between his big hands. “You haven’t changed that much, Hetty,” he said. “You never cared much for music, you don’t like plays unless there’s a murder in them, and your taste in literature isn’t the sort of thing people sit around and discuss. Most people despise novels. Your father has put too many grand ideas in your head, when you know you’d be happiest back home with a man who loves you.”

“A man?” Hetty’s laugh was derisive—she must have been practicing, Annelise thought cynically. “A boy, I think. A childhood playmate, and perhaps my first sweetheart, but I can look much higher when it comes to marriage. I’ll be a viscountess at least.”

“And who’s this viscount? Does he love you?”

“Of course. And he’s handsome, not too old, and very witty. I’ve moved on, Will. It’s time you did too. Go back to Kent. You don’t belong here.”

Annelise would have given the fortune she didn’t have to see what Montcalm’s reaction would be to being called “not too old,” but then, life was never fair.

William Dickinson was a very handsome young man, in an honest, rawboned fashion—a far cry from Montcalm’s faintly decadent elegance. His face was tanned by the sun, his strong jaw set with frustration, but the love in his blue eyes didn’t waver. Their children would have the prettiest blue eyes, Annelise mused, before remembering her chaperon’s duties.

“Mr. Dickinson,” Annelise said. “Perhaps it would be best if you come back to the house for tea, so you can continue this discussion.”

“I’m not welcome under Mr. Chipple’s roof,” he said in a stark, dramatic tone that was perfectly suited to Hetty’s dramatic streak. “And I don’t have much else to say. Except that you don’t belong here either, Hetty. Come home with me. We don’t need your father’s money—we don’t need the fancy city people and all this foolishness. Come back home and marry me.”

“I already told you that was out of the question. As did my father, much more forcefully. I assure you, I’m where I belong and very happy about it. Go back home and forget about me, Will.” She didn’t sound nearly as certain about it as her words suggested. Her lovely blue eyes were looking suspiciously moist, her plump lower lip seemed close to trembling. Annelise retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and presented it to her.

“I don’t need it,” she said, grabbing it and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m just so angry. Why can’t I make you understand, Will? It was one thing when we were young and foolish, but I’m grown up now, and I understand the way the world works. It wasn’t to be.”

Annelise wished she had a second handkerchief with her because Will Dickinson looked as if he was about to burst into tears himself.

Montcalm or Dickinson? No matter what Mr. Chipple’s grand ambitions were, it was more than clear that happiness lay with this raw young man from the country, at least in Hetty’s martyred eyes. And what was Annelise’s role in all this? To further her host’s ambitions—to ensure that Hetty married neither a scoundrel nor a nobody from the countryside.

And Annelise was a woman who knew her duty. And blithely chose to ignore it. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said in her calm voice. “Why don’t the two of you walk down by the duck pond and sit. The benches there are empty—if I sit here I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and you’ll both be very well chaperoned but yet able to converse without restraint.”

“Could we, miss?” Will said, some of the despair lifting from his eyes for a moment.

“Miss Kempton,” Hetty muttered, finally remembering her manners. But she wasn’t objecting to the notion. She glanced in the direction of the duck pond longingly.

“Of course,” Annelise said, moving to the bench, wishing she still had her handkerchief to brush it off, but sitting anyway, giving them a serene, approving smile. “You need time to talk things out. I’ll be right here.”

Mr. Dickinson held out his arm with all the stateliness of a royal duke, and after a moment Hetty put her tiny gloved hand on his sleeve, looking up at him. And in a brief instance all was clear. Hetty was just as much in love with Will Dickinson as he was with her, and the bucolic life could make her blissfully happy. She was young enough to enjoy the admiration of all those around her, but smart enough to eventually need more in her life. Will Dickinson would be steadfast, loyal, protective and devoted. What more could a woman ask for?

She watched them as they made their way down to the pond, and felt a sentimental dampness in her eyes. She fumbled in her pockets, but the handkerchief was already with Hetty, so she sniffled bravely, only to find a snowy white handkerchief proffered from behind her, the hand holding it strong and gloved and dripping with lace.

Annelise had learned some excellent curses from the grooms in her father’s stable, as well as a few from her father when he was in his cups and indiscreet, and “hells bells” just slipped out before she could silence herself.

Christian Montcalm took the seat beside her, laughing. “Now, that’s hardly the language for a dragon,” he said. “Does Mr. Chipple know that the Honorable Miss Kempton swears like a fishwife?”

“That wasn’t my fishwife language,” she said. “You haven’t annoyed me enough to deserve it. Yet.”

A man shouldn’t be that handsome. The faint lines around his eyes had to be from dissipation, not laughter, but knowing their cause didn’t lessen their appeal. It was no wonder an impressionable young thing like Hetty had succumbed to his charm. What woman wouldn’t?

She wouldn’t, Annelise reminded herself. She looked at him. “So I assume that Hetty’s reluctance to come for a walk was because she’d already planned to slip out and meet you?”

“Not at all. This was pure happenstance. If she was planning to meet me she wouldn’t be off with another young man, totally unchaperoned.”

“She’s not unchaperoned—I can see them very clearly from here, and besides, I’m the one who sent them down there so they could talk.” Unfortunately they were sitting a bit too close, and Will’s arm was around her. She should get up and intervene, but then Montcalm would follow her, and that was the last thing she wanted. It would make matters even more complicated than they already were.

“You sent her? Why am I not surprised? And what does this stalwart young swain have to offer that I do not?”

“He’s a decent, honorable man. You’re a wicked, wretched—”

“Hush now, Miss Kempton. You have better manners than that. I don’t understand why you’ve taken me in such dislike—I’m a perfectly charming gentleman.”

“A bit too charming,” she said tartly.

“Merci du compliment,” he murmured. “However, I must tell you that I don’t like it when people interfere with my plans, even pretty little dragons like you.”

Fury bubbled up inside her. “Let us be perfectly clear on this, Mr. Montcalm. I don’t like being mocked. We both know I’m neither little nor pretty, and I don’t need you reminding me.”

The laughter left his eyes abruptly. “How very interesting,” he said, half to himself. “I’ve found your weak spot. And such a misguided, silly one it is.”

Annelise opened her mouth to deliver an even more effective curse but he simply put his gloved hand against her lips, silencing her. It shouldn’t have been disturbing—the thin leather of his glove kept his skin from touching her mouth, but her stomach still knotted at the sudden memory from last night of another, much more intimate touch.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’ll work on that later. In the meantime, what am I to do about love’s young dream down there?”

William had put his arm around Hetty’s delicate shoulders, and their heads were resting together, and Annelise suspected they weren’t talking at all. “It’s no concern of yours.”

“Ah, but it is. My intentions are honorable matrimony—that’s my future bride down there, behaving in-discreetly. So the question is, should I do nothing and let her tarnish her reputation, thereby making my less-than-stellar self more acceptable to her father? Or do I interfere, saving Miss Chipple from making a cake of herself, and thereby earn her father’s undying gratitude?”

“You should go away and let me deal with it,” Annelise said crossly. “They’re young and in love but not totally lacking in morals. As some people are.”

“By some people you mean me. Ah, Miss Kempton, you are so harsh in your judgments. And the young lovers do touch me. It will sadden me to break them apart, but I need Miss Chipple’s fortune, and I fully intend to marry her, no matter what her young man or you or even her father say.”

“Her father could cut her off without a penny.”

“Unlikely. He seems very indulgent, and who else would he be spending his money on? Unless you’re thinking of marrying him yourself and supplanting his daughter in his affections.”

Annelise shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

“Very good. You’re not as practical as I thought you were, which gives me hope.”

“Hope for what?”

He smiled mysteriously but didn’t answer. “Besides, it would be a terrible waste to see you married to a man like Chipple.”

“All that money out of your reach?” Annelise suggested.

“It isn’t the money that I’d mind.”

“Stop it!” Annelise said, reaching her limit. “You may flirt with everything on two legs, male or female, but I’m not susceptible to your meaningless, flattering lies. You can’t charm me into supporting your pursuit of Miss Chipple. She deserves better.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but she’ll have me, whether she likes it or not. I will marry her—she’s too choice a prize to let escape. You, however, are another matter entirely.”

“Well, I know it,” Annelise said unflinchingly. If he was about to catalog her deficiencies it would be nothing new to her. And she had already listed his. “But it is no concern of yours. Miss Chipple is a beautiful, wealthy heiress and I’m a very determined, strong-minded spinster who’s not going to let Hetty throw her life away on a rake and a scoundrel and a…a…degenerate.” The last insult came out a little desperately, and she had the sudden feeling she’d gone too far.

Apparently she hadn’t. Mr. Montcalm merely smiled lazily, despite the darkness in his eyes. “And what do you know of degeneracy, Miss Kempton?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then leave it to me to instruct you. Once I marry Miss Chipple I’ll have more than enough time for your education. You’d be surprised how…stimulating certain experiences can be.”

Before she could gather her wits and reply he was gone, strolling away from her and the duck pond, most likely dismissing all thought of her. And she would have given anything if she had been able to dismiss him and his words as easily.