Rendezvous (9781301288946) (20 page)

"I'll be sure to build a large fire,"
he said.

She ran her hand up the folds of his
wine-colored robe, her fingertips grazing the exposed vee of his
chest. "I am very good at starting fires."

"I'll wager you are." He arrested the
movement of her hand, thrusting it back at her. "But you won't be
starting any here."

Her eyes narrowed to slits, her full
lips pursing into a pout. Sinclair took her by the elbow, preparing
to steer her out the door if necessary, when he halted, dismayed to
hear Belle's voice calling from the adjoining chamber.

"Paulette! Where have you got to?
Paulette?"

Though not guilty of anything, Sinclair
could not explain the impulse that caused him to frown at Paulette
and indicate with a jerk of his head that she should take her leave
as silently as possible.

Her teeth parted in a
malicious smile. "
Oui, ma chère
ami
!" she shouted. "I am in
here.”

Sinclair bit back an urge to curse her.
The door between his chamber and Belle's swung open.

"Paulette? What on earth are you doing
in—" Belle broke off. Clad only in her nightgown and dressing robe,
her blond hair spilling about her shoulders, she drew up short on
the threshold. She stared first at Paulette, her gaze then
traveling questioningly toward Sinclair.

To his annoyance, he felt the red creep
up his neck, and he tugged self-consciously at his robe, adjusting
it more tightly over the bared expanse of his chest.

As Belle's initial shock faded, she
arched one brow. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Carrington. I would not
have barged in upon you, but hearing Paulette in here, I assumed
you must have already gone below. I did not realize you had
er—pressed her into your service."

"I was just telling Miss Beauvais that
her services were not required," Sinclair snapped.

Unperturbed by the embarrassment she
had caused, Paulette sauntered to the door. She cast a wicked look
back over her shoulder. "Another time, perhaps,
monsieur."

Sinclair glared at her, but the woman
had already slipped past Belle into the other room. Belle also made
a movement to vanish, but Sinclair shot forward, catching the side
of the door to prevent her doing so.

"Belle, I know how that must have
looked, but-“

"You don't have to explain anything to
me, Mr. Carrington." Her voice was maddeningly cool. "1 am not your
wife. Remember?"

"All the same, I don't want you having
the impression that I was trying to seduce that French
strumpet."

Belle's lip quivered. She tried to look
away, but she could no longer hide the gleam of amusement in her
eyes. "Alas, I know my Paulette very well. Though I always thought
her tastes ran more to English sailors, I could tell when I entered
that she was, shall we say—rendering you somewhat
uncomfortable."

Sinclair folded his arms across his
chest. "To put it mildly. I am not accustomed to having my virtue
assaulted."

A trill of laughter escaped Belle. The
sound coming from her was so rare, so delightful, Sinclair forgot
his annoyance. He stared down at her. After a night spent in a
bedchamber as heavily perfumed as a Turkish seraglio, Belle was
like a breath of sweet English country air. A fresh womanly scent
emanated from her.

Her face was a trifle pale, but he had
imagined that she would look pale upon rising, her complexion
almost translucent. His gaze traced the slender column of her
throat, the neckline of her nightgown just visible beneath the robe
she wore. That, too, was as he would have imagined, so totally like
what she would choose, of fine linen with no lacy frills. Likely it
would cling to her skin, revealing just a hint of the blushing hue
of her curves beneath.

The sight of her never failed to stir
his senses, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to check his
errant thoughts.

"So how did you ever become connected
with a doxy like that Beauvais woman?" he asked. She does not seem
like the sort of efficient companion you would choose."

"Paulette does well enough when set to
simple tasks. I never tax her with any great matters. She can play
the role of lady's maid to perfection. Even you must admit she
looks the part."

"Except for that damned ribbon she
always has tied about her neck. Why does she wear that
thing?"

Belle's smile faded. "Paulette wears it
as a form of memorial. Her parents both died upon the
guillotine."

"Don't you find that a little
macabre?"

"We all have our own ways of
remembering and forgetting." Her voice sounded wistful, a little
sad.

Before he could stop himself, Sinclair
reached up one finger and traced one of the delicate blue shadows
beneath her eyes. "And what were you trying so hard to forget last
night, Angel?"

She shied away from his touch."I never
sleep too well in Paris."I am sorry if I disturbed you."

"You didn't disturb me. I only wish you
had . . ." He let the thought trail away unspoken, sensing her
withdrawal even before she took a step back.

"I think we both had better get
dressed," she said. "The others will be here for the meeting
soon."

She slipped back into her own
bedchamber and closed the door upon him. Again. But this time he
made no movement to stop her.

"You only wished she had what,
Carrington?" He mocked himself. Come to him last night, let him
hold her in his arms while she poured out all the secrets of her
heart? Everything is all right, Angel. You can tell me anything.
Trust me.

Sinclair's mouth twisted into a frown
of self-disgust. Well, his father had always told him that being a
spy was a profession only for a blackguard. For the first time in
his life he was beginning to fear the old man was right.

Several hours later, after a light
breakfast, Sinclair stood in the drawing room. Hands on hips, his
dove-colored frock coat shoved back, he watched the rain wash past
the tall latticed windows. It gushed from gutters above, sending a
stream of water cascading upon the hapless pedestrians in the
street below. Huddled beneath cloaks and umbrellas, they scurried
along like soaked rats through the river of chocolate-colored mud
which the Rue St. Honoré had become. With a warm fire crackling on
the hearth behind him, Sinclair felt grateful to be up here, rather
than out there.

Isabelle Varens in many respects made
his job seem well nigh impossible, but in this one instance she had
rendered his task easier for him. By calling this meeting she had
gathered all his chief suspects under one roof, giving him a chance
to assess each of them.

Turning from the window, he faced the
other three men who occupied the drawing room. Lazare slouched on a
wing-backed chair before the fire, his muddy boots perched on a
delicate table. Although divested of his greatcoat, he had not
troubled to remove his red Phrygian cap, the ends of his
white-blond hair damp from the rain. It was abundantly clear that
he was tired of waiting for Belle. He kept twisting a length of
rope with his large hands, the firelight casting his hideous scar
into shadow and accenting the sullen set of his aquiline
profile.

The fallen angel Lucifer, Sinclair
thought wryly, toasting his buttocks in hell. Lazare remained his
favorite candidate for the counteragent, but he could not afford to
indulge in wishful thinking.

His gaze moved on to the man seated on
the settee opposite from Lazare. Marcellus Crecy, Sinclair's most
recent acquaintance, the last of the names on his list. The fragile
piece of furniture groaned under the man's bulk. Despite his size,
Crecy was a handsome man, his silvery hair swept back from a
leonine brow. He exuded a manner of suave charm, his waistcoat
exquisitely tailored to fit his portly girth. At the moment he
appeared to have nothing weightier upon his mind than nibbling
pastries from a china plate balanced upon his knee.

Sinclair mentally reviewed what
information he had been provided about the man, Crecy was descended
from a prominent noble family, the grandson of a marquis, but at
present Crecy was the proprietor of a most discreet and successful
gaming house. He might in truth be a devoted member of Merchant's
society, longing for the return of the monarchy, or he might well
be content with his life just as it was. Only time would
tell,

Dismissing Crecy for the moment,
Sinclair shifted his attention to the last of the three. Baptiste
Renault was not as easy to mount a covert study of. The little man
never kept still, leaping up to jab the poker at the fire, to
straighten some books upon the shelf, or to peer out the door for
Belle. His restlessness reminded Sinclair of his brother Chuff's
fidgets, but with a marked difference. Renault's movements appeared
to stem more from a man not accustomed to idleness or a man whose
mind was not quite at ease.

These then were his choices. Despite a
professed loyalty to Merchant's cause, one of these three had
likely been selling maps of the English coastline and encampments
to Napoleon Bonaparte. These, all his chief suspects but for one .
. .

Belle's light step was heard
approaching in the antechamber. She paused a moment, framed in the
drawing room's double doorway, Garbed in forest green jaconet, she
wore matching spencer, the close fitting jacket trimmed with
military frogging. Her golden hair was swept up in a chignon, the
rather severe style emphasizing her high cheekbones.

Sinclair mentally applauded her choice.
She was a woman entering a roomful of men over whom she needed to
establish dominance, be acknowledged as their leader. To do that
she needed to suppress all hint of softness. Yet Sinclair suspected
she knew how to make full use of her femininity, her beauty when
occasion demanded.

She was either the most complex woman
he had ever known or the most accomplished actress. She insisted
she worked only for the money, yet she had forfeited her pay to
rescue the Coterin family. Sinclair had seen her look strong,
almost ruthless, as she did now, and he had held her in his arms,
vulnerable, trembling like a child from a bad dream. He had watched
how tenderly she could caress a small boy's curls, but he knew
those same delicate-veined hands were equally capable of shooting a
man.

Isabelle Gordon . . Isabelle Varens?
What other names might she have?

"Who are you really, Angel?" Sinclair
murmured to himself. He needed to know as much for himself as any
other reason.

Stepping into the room, her glance
angled toward him as though she perceived how strongly his thoughts
centered upon her. Sinclair was quick to erase the troubled frown
from his face, and her gaze moved on to encompass the other men in
turn.

"Gentlemen." She acknowledged them all
in her cool, clear voice. Baptiste beamed at her while Crecy
stopped eating long enough to scramble to his feet with a polished
bow. Only Lazare remained seated, twisting his head to stare at
her.

"Our intrepid leader at last," he
drawled.

Belle ignored him as though he had not
even spoken. "I am glad that all of you could be so prompt. Pray do
not stand on formality. Please be seated."

Baptiste and Crecy settled themselves
upon the settee. Sinclair drew up a stiff-backed chair, but
remained near the windows, deliberately keeping outside of the
circle, the better to observe. As Belle closed the double doors
behind her, Lazare called out, "So where's the dark-haired
slut?"

"If you mean Paulette," Belle said, "I
saw no need for her to join us today. She is usefully engaged in
taking care of more practical matters such as the
marketing."

"Indeed." Crecy paused from licking his
fingers to chortle. "Even spies must eat."

"Some more so than others." Lazare shot
him a contemptuous look, before turning back to Belle. "You kept us
cooling our heels long enough. We are all breathless to hear your
instructions."

With a fixed smile, Belle approached
Lazare.”To begin with, you can remember you are under my roof, not
in a tavern." She swept Lazare's feet off the table, knocking them
to the floor. Then she snatched the cap off his head, tossing it
into his lap.

Lazare caught it reflexively. He
stiffened, his eyes flashing dangerously. Sinclair tensed, coming
half off his chair. If Lazare made one move-

But with great visible effort Lazare
controlled his temper. He stuffed the cap down on the seat beside
him and settled back. Sinclair sat back down, yet felt far from
easy. Lazare, his mouth set in a sullen line, resumed snapping the
ends of the rope between his fingers.

You are going to have more than your
share of trouble with that one, Angel, Sinclair mused grimly. If
Belle thought so, too, no sign of it appeared in her cool demeanor,
but Crecy mopped nervously at his brow with a
handkerchief.

"It would seem to already be a trifle
warm in here," Crecy muttered.

"I will open the window a crack." The
restless Baptiste was ready to leap up at once to do so, but Belle
stayed him.