Rendezvous (9781301288946) (15 page)

But he discovered he was wrong. She was
aware of both him and his silence, for she remarked bitterly,
"Well, Mr. Carrington? You are always so curious. I had expected by
now to be barraged with questions about my relationship to the
Comte de Egremont."

"I am not sure this time, Angel, that l
want to know—"

"He was my husband."

For a moment Sinclair was too stunned
to say anything. Then he blurted out, "Your husband! I thought he
was dead."

“To me, he is, but it is a living
death. In France they call it divorce."

Sinclair thought himself past the age
of being shocked by anything, but he could not quite manage to
conceal his dismay.

"Divorce?”

"Another of the Revolution's civilizing
improvements, Mr. Carrington." She essayed a careless laugh, which
stuck in her throat. "It does not require an act of Parliament to
dissolve a marriage in Paris, only a few pen strokes on a piece of
parchment, a mutual agreement to make an end."

How mutual had that agreement been in
Belle's case? Sinclair wondered. One look at the misery brimming in
her eyes answered his question. As he groped for his pocket
handkerchief, he damned Jean-Claude Varens for a fool.

Usually adept at turning aside the
flood of feminine tears he so disliked, for once Sinclair could not
think of anything witty or consoling to say. He handed Belle the
handkerchief in a gesture of silent sympathy.

She stared at the soft linen blankly at
first, then her eyes widened with comprehension. "Oh, I see. You
thought I was going to cry. No fear of that. I have forgotten how."
She returned the handkerchief to him with a self-mocking smile. "A
pity, isn't it? Weeping, when done prettily, can be such a useful
accomplishment for a woman."

The way she sought to conceal her pain
moved Sinclair far more than any tears would have done. He reached
for her, but she shrank from his touch.

"If you do not object, Sinclair, I
believe I will go on board now."

"Belle-“

"I always spend the crossing alone in
the cabin, but I will join you when we disembark."

She backed away from him, so clearly
rejecting his comfort. Sinclair allowed his arm to drop helplessly
to his side. She spun on her heel and fled along the dock toward
the gangplank.

Sinclair stared after her, crumpling
the handkerchief in his fist, struck by the irony of the situation.
All his life he had striven to avoid weeping females, yet he would
have given much to cradle Belle in his arms and let her sob out her
grief against his chest. But all he could do was stand there and
let her go.

Never sure how she managed it, Belle
hurried blindly aboard the Good Lady Nell. The ship's planking
seemed to rock beneath her feet. When she located her cabin, she
stumbled across the threshold. The chamber was narrow and dark but
for the light filtering from one small lantern, giving her the
queasy sensation of being swallowed whole into the maw of some
mammoth sea beast.

But she welcomed even the creaking
confines of the ship's cabin as a haven. She slammed the door
behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes as though that
action could somehow also shut out the tormenting thoughts chasing
through her mind.

Jean-Claude . . . Had she only dreamed
what had happened upon the pier, or after so many empty years had
he actually walked back into her life again? No, she would have
never imagined that sort of a meeting, that they would draw so
close and never touch, strangers and yet not strangers, that he
would appear to her and so swiftly vanish without a word of
farewell. Not even her nightmares had ever been that
cruel.

"Ah,
chérie
, there you are at last,"
Paulette Beauvais's cheery greeting jangled Belle's
nerves.

Belle opened her eyes, her vision
assaulted by the too-bright yellow of Paulette's low-cut gown, the
garishness of the frock accented by the thin red ribbon she
habitually wore tied about her neck and the blowsy disorder of her
short brown curls.

Paulette stood over an open trunk,
shaking out a somber gown of black wool. Her dark eyes twinkled. "I
thought it time I changed into my guise of your oh so proper
maidservant before—"

Paulette's stream of chatter halted as
she peered at Belle. The scrutiny emphasized the elfin slant of the
Frenchwoman's eyes.

"
Qu'est que c'est, chérie
? You look as
though you have seen the ghost."

Paulette's remark hit so near the truth
that Belle suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical
laughter.

Paulette frowned, "Is it
Lazare who has upset you? I saw him come aboard. The
varien!
. I will fling him
into the sea if he—"

"No. It is nothing to do with Lazare."
Belle moved away from the door. She sank down upon the cabin's hard
cot. "It is only that-that you know how I feel about
ships."

All solicitude, Paulette
bustled to her side. "
Ma
pauvre
. How stupid of me to forget." She
pressed her thin hand to Belle's brow. "You anticipate the
mal de mer
. Never fret.
Paulette will take care of you as soon as I change my
frock."

Belle removed Paulette's hand from her
forehead. Go away, Paulette, she thought wearily, wishing the
vivacious Frenchwoman would sense her need to be alone.

Oblivious to Belle's mood, Paulette
hummed a little tune and shrugged her short, wiry frame out of the
yellow gown. Even to be rid of Paulette's unwanted presence, Belle
could not bring herself to reveal any portion of the real cause of
her distress. Despite having worked with Paulette for over a year,
Belle had never been able to confide in her anything of importance.
Useful enough for the role she played, Paulette seemed too flighty
to ever be trusted in any great matters.

While Belle wished her elsewhere,
Paulette slipped into the black dress, bubbling on about the
amusement she had found amongst the handsome sailors in
Portsmouth's Royal Navy Yard.

"All the same, I shall be glad to
return to my Paris. That is the best place on earth to find
love."

Or to lose it, Belle thought sadly. Her
gaze roved toward the bare wooden beams of the ceiling as she
strained to hear sounds coming from the deck above. The boy,
Jean-Jacques, had said something about his father returning to
France on this same ship. Could Jean-Claude even now be that close
to her? Napoleon had granted amnesty to the émigrés from the
Revolution. She had noticed that Jean-Claude had resumed the use of
his title. Did he intend to resume his old life at Merevale as
well?

Not that any of that was her concern.
Belle lowered her head, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing
temples. No matter what Jean-Claude's plans, there was no place in
them for her. She thought she had learned to live with that fact
years ago. Then why did seeing him again hit her so
hard?

Perhaps it had been the look in his
eyes, still so shattered and unforgiving of the deception she had
practiced upon him long ago. Perhaps it was the knowledge that
until he pardoned her, she would never be able to forgive
herself.

"Here,
chérie
. Drink this."

Belle blinked, becoming aware that
Paulette stood over her, offering her a glass half-filled with a
muddy-colored liquid. Her curls secured beneath a mob cap, her
lithe frame attired in sober black, Paulette had effected an
amazing transformation into that of a proper, middle-aged lady's
maid.

Belle eyed the glass with suspicion.
"What is it?"

"Laudanam,
ma chére
. It will put you
to sleep. Then you will not feel the ship's rockings."

Belle's lip curled with distaste. But
with all those phantoms that lurked in the darker corners of her
mind, waiting to be set free, Belle had found sleep more often a
curse than a blessing.

Too weary to resist Paulette's
insistence, Belle accepted the glass and set it down on top of a
small shelf affixed to the wall. By pretending she would take the
laudanum in a few minutes, she managed to be rid of Paulette at
last, encouraging the woman to take the air on deck.

As the door closed behind Paulette,
silence settled over the cabin, as heavy as the weight of memories
pressing upon Belle's heart. She stretched out on the hard cot,
flinging one arm across her eyes.

How strange it all was. After a
lifetime of being haunted by thoughts of Jean-Claude, Fate should
decree that their paths cross on this particular day, a day in
which he had not once entered her mind, a day in which she had
admitted to feeling desire for another man.

What must Sinclair be thinking of her
now? Again she had told him more than she had ever intended. Even
he had looked a little shocked when she informed him about the
divorce. But there had been no censure in his eyes. He would have
drawn her into his arms if she would have let him, and for a brief
second the temptation had been great.

But what a mockery that would have been
for both of them—to wail out her grief for her lost love against
Sinclair's strong shoulder. For she did still grieve for
Jean-Claude, perhaps more so than if he had died.

The feeling angered, frustrated and
shamed her. Obviously, Jean-Claude had managed to rebuild his life
and remarry. Doubtless his bride had been some winsome English lass
of gentle birth, not the mongrel daughter of a second-rate actress
from Drury Lane.

And now he was a widower, but with a
sweet-faced little son to bring him consolation. A son that might
have been hers if things had been different.

Groaning softly, Belle rolled onto her
stomach. Her gaze fell upon the laudanum Paulette had left. With
such agonizing thoughts to torment her, even sleep with all its
attendant nightmares seemed not so bad. Against her will, Belle
reached for the glass.

The Good Lady Nell shuddered, her prow
sluicing gracefully through the choppy channel waters. Overhead the
sails snapped and billowed in the stiff breeze. The brisk wind had
long since driven most of the passengers below except for the three
men who ranged themselves along the deck and watched the outline of
the distant shore emerge ever more sharp and clear.

Sinclair perched atop a barrel lashed
to the deck, his easy pose belying the tension knotted between his
shoulder blades. Through a haze of smoke from his cheroot, he
divided his time between keeping an eye on Lazare and studying
Jean-Claude Varens.

Varens stood alone by the deck rail,
his fine-chiseled features suffused with an expression of
melancholy. Despite the simplicity of his dark suit and
high-crowned beaver hat, something in the comte's dignified
carriage would ever mark him as an aristocrat, one of those
noblemen who positively reeked of virtue, duty, and
honor.

Sinclair tried to picture Belle as
Jean-Claude's wife, tried and failed. She had too much strength,
too much vitality to be wed to a dull dog like that. Yet it
appeared to be Varens who had ended the marriage, and Belle the one
who still grieved.

Sinclair wished that Belle had not
bared so much of her heart to him that morning. She might come to
hate him for that, making their relationship more awkward than it
already was. And there was some of her private pain he did not wish
to know. Bad enough that he desired the lady beyond all reason. He
didn't need her stirring any deeper emotions inside him.

Yet it was his task to discover all
that he could about her, to decide if she was the one passing
information to Napoleon. But the assignment was beginning to leave
a more bitter taste in his mouth than a stale cigar.

With a heavy sigh, Sinclair abandoned
his lazy pose. Striding to the rail, he flung his cheroot into the
churning waves. It was then that Lazare made his move. Out of the
corner of his eye, Sinclair watched with some surprise as Lazare
approached Varens.

Jean-Claude gave a start as though
rudely awakened. Sinclair expected that the comte would snub any
effort at conversation, sending Lazare on his way with a chilly
dismissal. Instead, Jean-Claude made a stiff bow. Although he
looked somewhat apprehensive, he listened courteously to what
Lazare had to say.

A passing acknowledgment between
travelers meeting by chance on the same vessel? Sinclair wondered.
He wished he could inch close enough to hear what was being said
without attracting attention, but that was impossible. It didn’t
matter anyway, for Lazare had finished his remarks. With a brisk
nod, he moved on and Varens returned to staring over the
side.

How strange, Sinclair thought, his eyes
narrowing. Strange indeed now that he happened to think about
it—that Belle's former husband should sail to France on the same
ship as she.

Belle would doubtless dismiss
Sinclair's concern with an impatient shrug. A bizarre coincidence,
she would likely say.

"There's only one problem, Angel,"
Sinclair murmured. "I don't much believe in
coincidence."