Rendezvous (9781301288946) (9 page)

The folds of her cloak brushed against
one of the rose bushes, the overblown blossoms as yet not fallen
victim to the first frost. A cascade of pink petals littered the
ground. The heady, almost too sweet fragrance wafted to Belle's
nostrils, along with another familiar acrid scent. She sniffed the
air. She had spent enough time in the company of gentlemen to
recognize the smell of burning tobacco.

She caught a gleam just beyond the
bench, the glowing tip of a cigar. A tall form with broad shoulders
melted out of the shadows, a form that she instinctively recognized
before the man stepped in the lantern's ring of light.

"'Evening, Angel," Sinclair Carrington
said with his slow, easy smile. He dropped his cheroot to the
gravel path and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

"Mr. Carrington." Belle pronounced his
name with a wearied resignation.

"Well! You don't seem that startled to
find me here."

"I'm not. Somehow I thought that you
would not be that easily gotten rid of." Belle instantly regretted
her sharp retort. She didn't want him to know she had been thinking
about him at all, which she had, far more than she had wished. She
had spent most of the afternoon rebuking herself for the little
scene that had taken place in the coffee room. Slapping a man for
stealing a kiss! Just as though she were some prim spinster! She
was more accomplished in dealing with men than that. It irritated
her no end that Sinclair had managed to overset her icy control,
and make her behave like a fluttery schoolgirl. Even now she could
not deny a small tingle of pleasure at seeing him again. But then,
he was a sight to gladden most women's hearts—the night breeze
ruffling his black hair, a scarlet-lined cape flung carelessly
about his shoulders.

Realizing that she was staring at him,
Belle wrenched her eyes away and demanded, "Has Mr. Crawley arrived
yet?"

Sinclair stalked toward her. For such a
large man he could move with incredible quietness. He stopped bare
inches from where she stood by the roses, his shadowed features
towering above her, his very nearness intimidating and
enticing.

"No, we are all alone," he murmured,
his voice husky, suggestive.

And she had regretted slapping him?
Belle thought. She obviously should have hit him harder. She drew a
sharp intake of breath, but before she could speak, Sinclair flung
up one hand in a playful defensive gesture.

"No, I implore you, Mrs. Varens. There
is no need to prepare yourself to take aim at my jaw again. I am
glad that Mr. Crawley is not here, but only so I can apologize for
my behavior this afternoon. The lapse of my gentlemanly
instincts."

"I am not sure you possess any, Mr.
Carrington."

"Occasionally I lay claim to a few
noble scruples. I usually wait at least two hours after being
introduced to a lady before I assault her."

Like a mask being stripped away, his
devil-may-care expression vanished to be replaced by one of rare
seriousness. "I truly am sorry for upsetting you. I could plead the
excuse that your beauty overwhelmed me, but likely you've heard
that one too many times. I can do no more than ask you to forgive
me."

The directness of his request, the soft
light shining from his green eyes, left her little room to doubt
his sincerity. She knew how to handle his flirting, his teasing,
but Sinclair in this gentle, chastened mood left her
disconcerted.

She moved away from him. A few steps
brought her to the edge of the garden terrace, where she could gaze
down upon the surf pounding the beach below.

"Perhaps I owe you an apology as well,
Mr. Carrington. I did not exactly claw my way out of your arms. My
own behavior might have misled you, in which case it was not fair
of me to have slapped your face."

She sensed rather than heard him come
up to stand behind her. His voice rumbled warm and close by her
ear. "Are you telling me that you were not entirely immune to
my—er—charms?"

"Perhaps not," Belle admitted
reluctantly.

His hands came up to rest on her
shoulders. "That is rather dangerous information to hand over to
the enemy, my dear."

"I never surrender any weapon, unless I
am sure I have my armor well fixed in place." She turned and firmly
thrust his hands away from her.

She risked a glance up at him. The moon
skimmed from behind the clouds enough for her to make out the look
of puzzlement furrowing his brow.

"I have never met any woman quite like
you, Isabelle Valens," he said at last. "Most females think nothing
of breathing hot, then cold upon a man. Few would ever trouble to
explain their behavior or apologize for being unfair. Are you
always this honest?"

Belle gave a tiny shrug. "I can be as
devious as any of my sex. But at the moment I have no reason to
practice my wiles upon you."

"I would be happy to give you a
reason." He was standing too close again. Even the scent of him was
thoroughly masculine, a combination of the salt sea breeze,
tobacco, and musk. Belle was far too much of a woman not to feel a
stirring of desire as he reached for her. A protest formed on her
lips, but it was unnecessary. Sinclair stopped himself, although he
lowered his aims with obvious reluctance. Belle was conscious of a
feeling of disappointment.

"No," he said, "I told myself I would
behave tonight. How else can I hope to convince you to change your
mind about working with me? If I promised you, upon my honor, that
I would act like a gentleman, that there would be no repetition of
what happened at the inn—"

"Can I trust your promises, Mr.
Carrington?"

"No, very likely you can't." He
smiled.

Her own lips quivered in response. He
was a complete rogue, but she liked him in spite of the fact, liked
him perhaps too much for her peace of mind.

"You should reconsider anyway," he
continued to urge. "We would make a perfect team. We have so much
in common."

Belle shot him a look of
incredulity.

"Obviously we both like to keep free of
any entanglements. We both have chosen to thumb our noses at
respectable society, to conduct ourselves as we please. We both
like living just a little on the edge."

"No, Mr. Carrington. You may have
chosen such a life. Mine was forced upon me. One day I still intend
to-"

"Shh!"

Belle broke off as Sinclair held up one
finger to his lips. "I thought I heard something."

Both of them lapsed into silence and
stood tensed, listening. At first Belle detected nothing but the
breeze rustling the rosebushes. Then she heard it, too, the sound
of a twig crackling underfoot.

"On the path. Over there," Sinclair
whispered. He pressed close to her side, and the two of them
strained to peer through the darkness of the garden. The glimmer of
moonlight was enough to outline a short figure all cloaked in
black, stealthily making its way in an exaggerated zigzag pattern
as though eluding some imaginary pursuer through the
hedges.

When a rabbit flashed across the
figure's path, a familiar voice let out a frightened croak. “Dear
me!"

Belle sensed Sinclair relaxing even as
she did so herself. "Quentin Crawley," they both murmured in the
same breath. Their eyes met and they broke into simultaneous
laughter.

"You see?" Sinclair said. "We have at
least one thing in common. We both possess a most unseemly sense of
humor." Sinclair so precisely imitated Quentin's peevish tones that
Belle erupted into fresh laughter.

She felt Sinclair's gaze upon her face,
warm, admiring. "Ah, that's much better. You should laugh more
often. I shall make it a point to see that you do,
Angel."

Belle checked her mirth at once. Now
was the time to tell Sinclair firmly that he would not make a point
of doing anything. They definitely would not be working
together.

Instead she heard herself saying, "Mr.
Carrington, if I give you leave to use my first name, will you
please stop calling me by that detestable nickname?"

The moonlight glinted off his
mischievous smile. "We have already established that my promises
are most unreliable, Isabelle."

"Belle. I am usually called
Belle."

"So you are," he said. Even through the
night shadows, his eyes seemed to pierce her, the green lights
becoming intent.

Belle's pulse raced. She felt relieved
when Quentin Crawley slunk into the garden.

"Why, Quentin," she said. "I do believe
you are two minutes late."

Crawley hushed her in a loud, stagy
whisper. He would permit no greetings, frantically motioning them
both to silence.

Sinclair bent down and murmured in
Belle's ear, "Bonaparte is hiding in the shrubberies, don't you
know?"

Belle muffled a laugh behind her hand.
She didn't need the light spilling from the lantern to know that
Crawley was glaring at both of them. Picking up the lantern, he
gestured for Belle and Sinclair to follow him.

As they made their way toward the back
of the house, Sinclair managed to link his arm through hers,
somehow infusing even that courtly gesture with warmth.

Quentin led the way into the house
through a pair of tall French doors. As they crossed the threshold,
Belle pulled free of Sinclair, gazing about her. They were in some
sort of parlor, as near as she could tell. Quentin was quick to
draw the heavy velvet drapes and would only light one small
candle.

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley—" Belle
started to complain.

"Keep your voice down, Mrs. Varens,"
Crawley said. "The servants here are all abed. Madame Dumont has
been good enough to let us use her home for this meeting, but she
expects no disturbances."

"Who exactly is this Madame Dumont who
is so gracious with her hospitality?" Sinclair asked.

"That does not concern us, Mr.
Carrington." Crawley made an elaborate show of arranging an
armchair near the candle's glow. Belle recognized the piece of
furniture at once as being valuable, a painted fauteuil with
fragile carved legs, the upholstery done in a floral silk
pattern.

When Crawley had done fussing with the
chair, he said, "Make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Merchant will be
here in a few minutes."

As soon as Crawley disappeared into the
shadows beyond the salon door, Belle gave vent to an impatient
oath. She snatched up the taper and proceeded to light a silver
branched candelabrum she found on a tulipwood parquetry table. From
there she stretched up to light the candles in all the wall
sconces.

Sinclair said nothing, but watched her,
his arms crossed over his chest, apparently as amused by her
defiance as he had been by Quentin's furtiveness. Belle did not
care. She was in no humor for any of Quentin's game
playing.

The chamber now ablaze with light,
Belle took full stock of her surroundings. This Madame Dumont had
not fled France so much as brought it with her. The chamber
appeared much like dozens of elegant salons she had visited as
Jean-Claude's bride.

The high walls had been left tastefully
plain to provide an unobtrusive background for the elaborate gilt
furnishings, the patterned Savonnerie carpet. All but forgetting
Sinclair's presence, Belle began to stroll about the room,
examining each object with wonder—the pendulum clock with its face
set in Roman numerals, the torchere holding a vase of fading roses,
the painted ecran that screened the fireplace.

Above the mantel hung a
three-quarter-length portrait of the late king, Louis XVI. He
looked somehow ill at ease in his robes, but the artist had
captured Louis's aura of gentle patience, the expression that Belle
remembered so well from when the monarch had been trundled forth to
meet his death upon the guillotine.

She averted her eyes, not wanting to
explore that memory any further. To the left of the fireplace stood
a console table, its polished surface laden with small treasures.
Thanks to Jean-Claude's tutelage, Belle could identify most of
them—a Sevres figurine of Cupid and Psyche; a snuff box, likely
Vincennes, the enamel lid decorated with a scene from Italian
comedy; a pastille burner of glazed white porcelain from the
workshops of Saint-Cloud.

Belle touched this last with reverent
fingers. She and Jean-Claude had had one nearly like it in their
rooms in Paris. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over her.
Although scarce suited to Jean-Claude's station in life, Belle had
loved that tiny cramped apartment. Of course, by the time
Jean-Claude had come to Paris as a delegate to the revolutionary
convention, they had no longer been the Comte and Comtesse de
Egremont. Just plain Citizen and Citizeness Varens, having
prudently dropped the de from their name. It had not been wise to
flaunt aristocratic origins before the volatile Parisian
mobs.

But Belle had preferred it that way.
She had never been comfortable being the comtesse, tiptoeing
through the vast cold rooms of Jean-Claude's château, the portraits
of his dour ancestors seeming to glower at her with disapproval.
She had always imagined that those noble forebears peering out of
their gilt frames had guessed her secret long before Jean-Claude,
that they knew she had no right to be within the halls of Egremont,
polluting that hallowed ground with her commoner's blood, she, the
illegitimate daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury
Lane.