The Devil's Waltz by Anne Stuart Page B

quiet, and when she lay down on the bed, she felt the paper press against her breast. She reached inside her gown and pulled the note and handkerchief free. The small fire was burning in the grate to ward off the evening chill, but she was too tired to climb off the bed and toss the note in. She could accomplish that simple act eventually. There was no great rush.
    She looked at the lacy handkerchief in her hand, then brought it to her face. It smelled of her scent, of course, the subtle rose that she favored. But it smelled of him as well—something spicier, foreign and mysterious.
    She reached under the coverlet and shoved the offending handkerchief under her pillow, along with the note, then wrapped herself in the throw at the foot of the bed. Easy enough to dispose of later, she thought sleepily. There was no hurry to get rid of the things. Now that she’d managed to get rid of Montcalm himself.

8
    C hristian Montcalm knew quite a bit about women, and he knew when to advance and when to retreat. He’d been quite assiduous in his attentions to the silly Miss Chipple, and she’d jumped like a trout for a piece of bait. A night or two of absence would no doubt begin to eat away at her blithe certainty that he was hers for the taking—the chit was far too sure of herself.
    He didn’t have the slightest concern that the appearance of Hetty’s childhood sweetheart would prove an obstacle in his plans. Miss Chipple was young and impressionable enough to be distracted quite easily, and she’d be married before she even realized she wanted someone else.
    Tant pis, he thought. Too damned bad, he corrected himself. He hated it when he absently lapsed into the French that had been as familiar to him as English. He found himself doing it more so, in fact, since he’d lived in France with his family.
    But that had been a lifetime ago, and there was nothing French about him. Not even his lovely mother would recognize him.
    A night at the cards without the distraction of Miss Chipple and her dragon proved very pleasant. His luck held, and by the early hours of the morning he was pleasantly at peace with the world. Two bottles of wine had contributed to that mellowness and the plump size of his purse moved things along. Even though he’d turned down the generous offer of the beautiful Mrs. Hargate, he still strode home through the early-morning streets a comparatively well-pleased gentleman.
    He managed to live in a decent part of town, but no area was safe at that early an hour. Not that Christian had any particular concern. He had a certain reputation, even on the streets, and most men of the criminal class gave him a wide berth. Perhaps it was respect for a fellow transgressor, he thought with some amusement.
    So it was with some surprise that he turned the corner into the narrow street where he lived and realized he wasn’t alone.
    They were hiding in the shadows—at least two of them. He wondered whether they were waiting especially for him, or if they were looking for any victim who happened to wander into their path. He was about to find out.
    He whistled an old country song as he made his way down the alley, stumbling slightly as a drunken man should, muttering to himself and giving the perfect impersonation of easy prey. They let him make it as far as his door before they emerged out of the darkness. Two of them, sailors by the look of them—big men—neither as tall as he was but far bulkier. Which would give them more brute strength, but make them move slower, he thought as he deliberately fumbled with his key. They would be easy enough to take and a fight would be invigorating, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to be bothered.
    They thought they were creeping up on an oblivious, drunken gentleman. He rattled the keys once more, put his hand on his sword and said in a clear, distinct voice, “Let’s not do this.”
    It stopped them cold. He turned to look at