Chapter 11

11

For Annelise, the day did not start in an auspicious manner. She hadn’t slept well—tossing and turning with nightmares so vivid they should have woken her up. It would have been a blessing if they had—she simply would have lit the candles by her bed and read something improving until her mind settled. Well, perhaps not really. She would have read something thrilling and romantic (she was halfway through The Dungeon’s Bride) with the assurance that it would distract her thoroughly. Unfortunately she drifted just below the surface of sleep, prey to the most disturbing imaginings.

It was very early when she awoke, barely light, and she expected the other members of the household would rise even later than usual, given that the party had gone on till the early-morning hours. She would have time to enjoy a solitary, peaceful breakfast and perhaps even a walk in the park before the Chipples straggled out of bed.

She dressed quickly, pushed open her shutters and dismissed the idea of a walk in the park. It was pouring rain—if she’d been halfway observant she would have heard it lashing against the windows. The streets below were awash, refuse floating by in the deep running puddles, and people picked their way carefully through the mess.

At least there’d be no Chipples. She could still have her peaceful meal, then find a nice quiet room to read and restore her disordered senses. The last few days had upset her equilibrium—she would simply insist on some time to herself.

Breakfast was laid out in the smaller dining room that had been painted an alarming shade of yellow. She ate quickly, then took her cup of hot chocolate with her as she went in search of more salubrious surroundings.

There were no servants around—clearly they were taking advantage of their master’s laxness to enjoy a little peace themselves. Annelise wandered through the ground floor of the mansion, keeping as far away from the front hall as she could. Part of her dream the night before had been that the

statues had moved, coming toward her with ominous intent. Even more disturbing, it had been the rakehell who had rescued her, when any sane woman would prefer possessed statues over the inherent danger of a man like Christian Montcalm.

She opened an unfamiliar door, and for a moment thought she had discovered the perfect retreat. It could only be Mr. Chipple’s library, and the rows and rows of unread books drew her irresistibly forward, when she should have just closed the door and retreated.

She let out a little squeak as she saw the statue. This one was male, and completely unclothed, and after the first few moments of fascinated regard she turned her gaze away, determined to vacate the room immediately, when she saw the unexpected hole in the wall. She turned her back on the offensive statue and approached the mysterious crevice. Part of the book shelf had been cunningly designed to disguise it, but a hidden compartment lay in the midst of the books.

She did have a problem with curiosity as well as imagination, and while she knew she should just turn around and leave, she couldn’t resist drawing closer to inspect the hole. There were no lights in the room and the gloom outside didn’t do much to penetrate the shadows. She couldn’t actually see inside the compartment, so she put a tentative hand in, wondering whether she’d touch something nasty.

She did. It was hard and cold and even before she drew it out she knew it was a pistol—but unlike any one she’d ever seen. Not a gentleman’s pistol for the unspeakable practice of dueling. This one had no ornamentation, no delicacy. It was large, and heavy, and it looked as if it had no use in this world but to kill.

She shoved it back into the hole, terrified that it might go off, and slammed the door shut. A moment later she realized her mistake—she should have left things as she found them. She tried to reopen the hidden door, but it remained closed, and all the tricks she attempted did no good.

She was making a fuss for nothing, she told herself, stepping away from the desk. There was still a glass with a splash of cognac in it—clearly the servants hadn’t been in yet. They could have closed the door—no one would even suspect the Honorable Miss Kempton had been snooping.

She stepped out into the empty hallway, then turned and closed the door silently behind her.

“May I help you, miss?”

The butler’s voice made her jump, and she spun around, her hand pressed against her racing heart. “I was looking for a quiet place to read, Jameson.”

“You don’t want to go in there, Miss Kempton. That’s the master’s study, and we’re none of us allowed inside except when he tells us. When the maids clean he stands right there watching. He wouldn’t like it if he thought you were snooping around.”

Annelise straightened her back and gave the impudent Jameson a haughty stare. “I don’t snoop,” she said. A complete lie, but it wasn’t his place to point it out to her. “Find me a quiet room with decent light where I can read and I’ll trouble you no more.”

Jameson stared at her for a long moment. He was an odd sort of butler, and Annelise assumed he was merely typical of Chipple’s mistaken notions of society. Most butlers managed a veneer of gentility so as not to offend their sensitive masters, but Jameson looked more like a pugilist than a valet.

His uniform fit his bulky body perfectly, but he made Annelise think of an unpleasant wild animal, like a bear, just waiting to attack.

Imagination again, she chided herself. And she wasn’t going to offer any more babbling excuses. Not that Jameson would tell on her, but it was demeaning to feel as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. As, in fact, she had.

“I’ll escort you to the pink salon,” Jameson said. “Miss Hetty never uses it, but it was designed for ladies to retire to. I’m certain you’ll be quite comfortable.”

“Thank you, Jameson.” She was certain of no such thing. If the shade of pink was bilious enough she’d have no choice but to return to her room, or face the downpour herself. But the pink room was less ghastly than it could have been, the chaise was surprisingly comfortable, and within moments a servant had arrived to start a cozy fire. She curled up in the lounge and opened her book, ready to disappear into the fanciful dungeons herself.

The only problem with books, she thought dreamily, is that for some reason the heroes were always just a bit too perfect, almost to the point of tediousness. Their noble behavior would just as likely endanger the hapless heroine. And the heroines themselves showed little ingenuity or resilience.

She would hope that if she were kidnapped by a scheming villain she’d be able to do more than weep and faint.

And as for the villains, it was easy enough to see that those disreputable characters were by far the most interesting aspect of the books. They were Machiavellian, monstrous, charming and evil, and it was with great satisfaction that Annelise read of their bloody demise. If only the same thing could happen to the real villain in her life.

The moment the thought popped into her head she sat up, horrified at herself. She didn’t wish ill on anyone, even Christian Montcalm. She didn’t want him to die, she just wanted him to go away and set his sights on some other young heiress with a protector who was far less vulnerable than Annelise was.

Not that she ever would have thought herself vulnerable. She had always been excellent at setting things to right, curbing young men’s mischievous behavior and keeping her father in one piece until his last, fateful ride. It was absurd that one overly handsome man would be able to disturb her so effectively.

In truth her state of unrest probably had absolutely nothing to do with Christian Montcalm and more to do with Annelise herself. She was facing the advanced age of thirty, the point of no return, and while part of her viewed her advancing spinsterhood with equanimity, a small, vain part of her cried out, “Why not me?” Silly, of course. Childbirth was painful and dangerous, men were ill behaved and annoying, and she liked not having to answer to anyone very well.

Except she did—to Mr. Chipple, Lady Prentice, her interfering sisters and all of society. Perhaps she should make the first steps to sell the pearls, she thought. Even if she succeeded and Hetty Chipple managed to marry wisely, it wasn’t enough to give her a sense of accomplishment. She was tired of all this, and she wanted nothing more than to run away.

She couldn’t run, of course. But she could walk, sedately, with enough money to set herself up. And as soon as Hetty was settled, that was exactly what she would do.

The rain had stopped and the sun had come out, sending sparkling diamond motes through the air. She put her book down and rose from the chaise. With the advent of the sun the room had grown stiflingly hot, and the latticed door leading to one of the gardens would let in a breath of fresh spring air…

She put her hand on the doorknob and then froze, staring through the glass. This side garden was a mirror image of the one where she’d met with

Montcalm the night before—it lay on the other side of the main gardens and was presumably for the use of the ladies of the household. Early roses were blooming, their soft petals wet with rain, and standing in the middle of the garden, looking up at the house with a speculative expression on his face, was Christian Montcalm.

It was just past eight o’clock in the morning—no time for visits. He was up to something nefarious, as always, and she could simply ignore his mysterious presence and go back to her room, or she could confront him.

Confronting him would lead to nothing but trouble, she knew. But she opened the door and stepped out into the tiny garden.

“I wondered if you were going to join me, dragon,” he murmured, still staring up at the house. “I saw you watching me for quite a while, and I couldn’t believe you’d slink away without doing battle once more.”

“What are you doing here? It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning—

I’m surprised you’re already up.”

He looked at her then, and smiled. “I didn’t go to bed.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Because you’re becoming far too familiar with my little ways, my pet.

Which room belongs to your charge?”

“As if I would tell you! What were you going to do, serenade her with a French love ballad?”

“No!” There was a surprising harshness to his voice, one he immediately banished. “I have lamentably little musical talent—if I were to sing to her she’d run screaming from the house.”

“Then feel perfectly free to do so. I can even have the servants drag a piano near the window so that I might accompany you.”

“So helpful,” he said. “But I will decline your kind offer. I merely came to bid a distant farewell to my lost love.”

“Your lost love?”

“Yes—Miss Hetty. I have relinquished any claim I might have on her hand.”

“You had no claim on her hand,” Annelise snapped. “And I had no idea you possessed such good sense. What made you decide to be reasonable?”

“Oh, a number of very persuasive reasons,” he said. “For one thing, I have an absolute terror that she might have inherited her father’s decorating tastes, and I couldn’t let her clutter up Wynche End with naked statues.”

Indeed, the statue in this garden was entirely nude, and though she could only see it from the back, presumably male, due to the musculature and the arrangement of the hair. If Annelise never saw a marble statue again it would make her a very happy woman.

She felt a faint splotch of color rise to her cheeks, both at the sight of the marble buttocks and the memory of her fascinated survey of the male statue in Chipple’s study. Would this one be the same in front, or was there a variation in men’s…

“Why are you blushing, dragon? Surely you’ve been subjected to all these second-rate sculptures already.”

“Most of them. I try not to look,” she said firmly. “What is Wynche End?”

“Alas, the place I call home when I’m not in London. Which, admittedly, is seldom. My esteemed grandfather managed to make certain I inherited nothing from his estate but the eventual title, but Wynche End belonged to my mother’s family, and since they’re all dead it now belongs to me. It’s in a state of total ruination—the roof leaks, the wood is rotting, the surrounding village and farmland lying fallow, but it’s mine, and Miss Hetty’s money would have enabled me to put it in good heart once more.

However, I can’t trust her taste in decoration, and Greek statues were too high a price to pay.”

“Indeed. And where is this monumental ruin?”

“Were you thinking of taking her place, dragon? I’m certain your preferences would be an improvement, but I somehow doubt you’d be as enthusiastic about the other duties of connubial bliss. It’s in Devon, near a tiny village called Hydesfield. The coast around there is none too welcoming—a stretch of land once peopled by wreckers, but in the last century they’ve resorted to simple smuggling. I could always join in if I have to resort to earning a living.”

“Surely things couldn’t be that bad.” She let the irony hang heavy in her voice.

“I could always take you as a shining example. I could go on a series of well-disguised visits, teach young men the ways of society.”

“God help them and society in general. One of you is more than enough.”

“You wound me to the heart, Miss Kempton,” he said with mock sorrow. There was a glint of devilry in his eyes. “You seem so wise—you

always have the answer for everything. Perhaps you might help with a question that’s been plaguing me.”

“If you go away I’ll help you with anything.”

“I wouldn’t be so rash in my promises if I were you, dragon. I have a habit of holding people to things.”

“I’ll be more than happy to answer whatever question you might have if you’ll just leave.”

His wicked smile widened. “It’s this statue. How are you on your Greek mythology? I’m certain you’re well versed in all manner of intellectual studies—what do you remember about this one?”

She was going to have to move around to the front and join him. That, or admit defeat and run, and she wasn’t about to admit defeat to a man like Montcalm. At least she’d spent far too many moments examining the unmentionable parts of the male statue in the library. Marble-engraved…

parts…wouldn’t have to shock her.

“Which God is he?” she asked in a deliberately calm voice, moving around to the front of the statue and then freezing.

“Priapus. The very fertile son of Aphrodite and Dionysus. I’ve always wondered what the explanation for his condition was.”

She couldn’t move. She’d recognized all the other ancient Greek statues

—she should have realized that Chipple wouldn’t have the taste to keep this one out of sight.

There was most definitely a difference in the depiction of his marble genitals. The god Priapus was in an eternal state of excitement, and his marble phallus jutted out, almost at eye level.

She could do nothing to control the wash of color that swept over her. “I have no idea,” she said in a hoarse voice, unable to move.

“Apart from exposure to you, I mean,” he whispered. “Perhaps if you go back in the house he’ll change to a more sedate fellow.”

She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, and she swallowed nervously. She managed to rally. “I believe you were in his presence first, Mr. Montcalm. If anyone has excited him it must be you.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “Still fighting, dragon? Perhaps you’re right—those Greeks were odd fellows. I was just judging by the effect you tend to have on me.”

She couldn’t help it—her eyes dropped to a part of his body she never should have acknowledged, then darted away from him. She struggled for

her vanished composure. “Unfortunately the sculptor was prone to exaggeration in this one’s case. Such proportions are highly unlikely,” she said. She was very proud of her cool, distant tone. She could have been discussing the artistic merits of a landscape.

Except that Christian Montcalm’s beautiful mouth curved into a broader smile. “Ah, my precious, what an innocent you really are, even at such an advanced age. I should have realized you were simply an aging virgin. If anything, his cock is on the small side.”

She jerked her head around, shocked. No one had ever used that word in her presence, though she’d overhead the stable boys bandy it about, and she knew perfectly well what it meant. But that a gentleman should use such a word in her presence was beyond belief.

“Don’t faint, dragon,” he murmured. “It’s just a word. Words have only the power you give them.”

“I want you to leave.”

“And I will, my pet. I told you, this was just a farewell visit to the object of my twisted desires.”

“She doesn’t need you to say farewell. I’ll convey your regrets.”

“I wasn’t talking about Hetty.”

Annelise was a strong woman, but this was one assault too many. “Go away!” she cried, unaccountably near tears. “Stop mocking me and leave, or I’ll have Jameson toss you out.”

“Oh, my precious!” He pulled her into his arms, and she could only put up a token fight. The tears she’d been fighting for hours, seemingly for days, had broken through, and even though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was cry in front of him, it was already past her control.

He held her in his arms, against his body, and the strength and warmth were oddly soothing, considering he was the bane of her existence. She was afraid he was going to kiss her again, and afraid he wouldn’t, but he simply held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing noises in her ear.

“You don’t belong here, Annelise,” he said, and she could hardly object to him using her name. He’d already used a number of offensive words, and in comparison her name seemed harmless enough. “Go back to Lady Prentice and stay there. This isn’t a safe place for you.”

She didn’t bother to argue—the only danger to her was the man holding her. And he would soon be gone. “I can always sell my pearls…” she said with a hiccup.

He put his hands on her arms and drew her away, looking into her eyes.

Her tears and his body heat had steamed up her spectacles, and she couldn’t see him clearly, which was just as well. “Annelise, the pearls are fake,” he said gently.

“They’re not. They can’t be! They’ve been in our family for hundreds of years and no one would ever….” She let her voice trail off.

He already knew the answer. “It must have been someone at the very end of their rope. When someone is that lost in rage and grief they do foolish things, forgetting when there are still people who love them.”

She pulled herself out of his arms, letting denial and fury sweep over her. “What would you know about that?”

“About being lost in grief and rage? I know far too well. As for people who still love them—well, I’m afraid that’s a mystery to me. Anyone who loved me died twenty years ago.”

There was something in his voice that sounded harsh. Something she was afraid to question.

And then it was too late. He kissed her, hard and quick, as if he was afraid to linger. And then he was gone, with the side gate clanging shut behind him, leaving her standing there, alone, hopeless, and totally confused.

She looked up at the satyr-like statue. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him in a weak voice.

The statue said nothing, merely looking down at her impassively, as if to say, what should I be ashamed of? But by then Annelise was gone.

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