Anne Stuart - The Devil's Waltz

“This taut romantic suspense novel from RITA ®Award winner Stuart [The Widow] delivers deliciously evil baddies and the type of disturbing male protagonist that only she can transform into a convincing love interest…. Brilliant characterizations and a suitably moody ambience drive this dark tale of unlikely love.”

—Publishers Weekly on Black Ice (starred review)

“[A] sexy, edgy, exceptionally well-plotted tale.”

—Library Journal on Into the Fire

“Before I read…[a] Stuart book I make sure my day is free…once I start, she has me hooked.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“A master at creating chilling atmosphere with a modern touch.”

—Library Journal

For Gackt—the most delicious

450-year-old Norwegian vampire/Japanese

rock star/Georgian rake alive today.

Exquisitely beautiful, he’s the

best inspiration around.

Arigato, Gackt-san.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

The Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton did not suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately it was her lot in life to suffer them far too often, and to maintain a relatively polite mien in the face of idiocy. It came from being penniless, almost thirty years old, unmarried, not a beauty and far too bright for a woman.

She’d accepted that lot long ago, with her usual lack of self-pity. Her profligate father hadn’t been able to arrange any chance of marriage, but her godmother, Lady Prentice, had managed to provide her with a season when she was seventeen. Which, as her astringent older sister, Eugenia, had pointed out, was a total waste of money, since Annelise was hardly the type to attract many suitors. Eugenia herself had refused the offer of a season, knowing her own limitations, and married a vicar in Devon, where she happily ran her household, her husband, the church and the village.

But no offers had appeared for Annelise, who was taller than most of the indolent young men of society and unfortunately blunt, and her godmother chose to sponsor her younger sister, Diana, the next time around. Diana at last had succeeded, marrying a plump, pompous widower with three children and then promptly presenting him with four more.

And Annelise stayed at home, watching her father lose everything, including, eventually, his life in a drunken riding accident.

Lady Prentice stepped in once more, but there hadn’t been much she could do. Diana would have welcomed her into her home, but Diana’s husband was a toad, the children were spoiled, and she would do nothing more than take care of the litter as it yearly increased.

Eugenia would have taken her—she was a woman who knew her duty, but two strong-minded women could hardly share the same household, and besides, Joseph’s vicarage was barely large enough for their two children and three servants. There was no room for a spinster aunt.

And the Honorable Miss Kempton could hardly work for a living in any of the posts suitable to one of a slightly lesser station. She might have been a companion or a governess, but her bloodlines went back to the Magna Carta, and no Kempton could accept money for services rendered.

They could, however, accept hospitality. And in the five years since her father’s death, Annelise had lived with the Duke and Duchess of Warwick, proving a good friend to the dying duchess and keeping news of her husband’s infidelities away from her fading eyes. Once the duchess passed away there was no place for her, and she moved to the Merediths in Yorkshire, where she spent her time entertaining a half-senile old lady, speaking French with the passably well-behaved grandchildren and growing older.

But the old lady died, as old ladies tend to do, and the children grew and had no interest in French since their countries were, as usual, at war, and once more Annelise moved on, this time to the London home of one Mr. Josiah Chipple and his exquisitely beautiful daughter, Hetty. Lady Prentice, the architect behind these living arrangements, had manufactured a lifelong friendship between Annelise’s mother and Hetty Chipple’s grandmother, ignoring the fact that one of Hetty Chipple’s grandmothers was a barmaid and the other a farm girl. Not that it mattered. No one was going to bother to check the gentle fiction, and Hetty Chipple was about to make her debut in a society that would fall upon her like a pack of wolves. She was young, she was beautiful and what she lacked in breeding and background she more than made up for in fortune. There were dozens of young men willing to overlook the smell of the shop for the needed influx of money, and that sort of thing bred itself out in a generation or two, while the sort of money Miss Chipple had could last much, much longer if carefully tended.

The first sight of the town house was not reassuring to the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton. Chipple House had been carved into the marble plaque beside the commanding front door, and the front hallway was so littered with marble statues that one had to move very carefully to avoid knocking into one. The effect, clearly meant to be tasteful and pleasing, was instead overblown and chaotic.

She was shown into a drawing room decorated in just the wrong shade of blue, and the furniture was all very new, very shiny and very uncomfortable. She sat on the cerulean sofa, her back ramrod straight, her long, gloved hands folded in her lap, and considered taking off her glasses so as to dull the effect of the rococo trim on the walls. She glanced upward, as if seeking heavenly guidance, only to find a painted ceiling that was a far cry from the Italian masters who had perfected the art. She lowered her eyes to her lap again, looked at the gray kid gloves that lay against her gray wool skirt and sighed.

She hadn’t a vain bone in her body, but surely a new dress now and then shouldn’t be too much to ask. Except, of course, that her visitations were that of a guest, not an employee, and one could not accept anything so personal as a gift. Lady Prentice had paid for her wardrobe when her father died, mourning and demi-mourning, all of the best cloth that lasted forever and would never wear out, so Annelise went through her drab life in drab colors, and probably would until she died.

She’d considered eating huge amounts of food so that the clothes would no longer fit her, but unfortunately her constitution was such that she could never put any extra weight on her spare body. When she did, it went straight to her already full breasts, and that was not a part of her anatomy that she cared to have straining at the dull gray cloth.

She reached up and moved her spectacles up a bit. She needed them more for reading than anything else, but felt they gave her a distinguished air that went well with her narrow, plain face and severe hair. She looked like what she was: a well-bred virgin of no attraction and therefore worthy of no untoward attention.

She dropped her glasses back down on her straight nose and sighed again. A lesser woman would have relaxed her backbone, at least while no one was there, but the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton was no such laggard. She sat, and she waited, until she heard the sound of voices and laughter from the hall beyond the closed doors.