Rendezvous (9781301288946) (6 page)

"But there is a loose nail in that
comer." His eyes twinkled. "You would not want me to tear a hole in
the seat of my—um—coat."

Belle compressed her lips, but decided
it would be best to ignore him, as much as one could ignore that
much masculinity pressed against one's side. Giving all of her
attention to Mr. Crawley, she fidgeted in her seat.

Crawley typically selected the most
straight-backed uncomfortable chair he could find. He drew it over
to the hearth and sat down, pulling a worn leather-bound ledger
from beneath his greatcoat. The tide was inked in neat gold
letters.

The Society for the Preservation of
Ancient Relics.

Belle pulled a face. Crawley and his
infernal mania for keeping up the appearance of being involved in
legitimate business!

Mr. Crawley cleared his throat. "When
you were fetching your brandy, Mr. Carrington, I was just on the
point of informing Mrs. Varens that you are to be her partner in
her next venture."

"What!" Belle sat bolt upright. She
turned to look at Sinclair. Although his smile was bland, there was
no mistaking the devilish gleam in his eyes.

"Out of the question!" she
snapped.

When she saw Crawley start to bridle,
she hastened to add, "Meaning no insult to Mr. Carrington, but I
have always selected my own cohorts."

"Not this time," Crawley said. "It is
Mr. Merchant's particular wish that you work with Mr.
Carrington."

"Mr. Merchant must leave the choice to
me as he has always done." Belle expected Sinclair to jump into the
middle of this quarrel, but he appeared content to lean back,
sipping his brandy. All the same she had the impression he was
merely biding his time.

Crawley puffed up his thin chest, the
prelude to delivering a lecture. "Mr. Merchant is not likely to
tolerate much more of your insubordination, Mrs. Varens. You will
find yourself without employment if you continue in this
manner."

“Perhaps I would be glad. I never
intended to follow this line of work forever."

"So you have told me many times, madam.
But your retirement may come sooner than you desire if you anger
Mr. Merchant. He was not at all pleased with what took place on
your last assignment. You must not expect to be paid for the
consignment you brought back from France."

The man's dry description of the
unfortunate Coterin family only added to Belle's irritation. "I
don't expect so much as a damned shilling."

"An attitude you can scarce afford,"
Crawley said. "You are a lady of expensive tastes—"

"If my bills worry you so, Quentin, I
shall have my dressmaker send the reckoning to you next
time."

"That should give him and Mrs. Crawley
something interesting to talk about on a long winter's eve,"
Sinclair drawled.

Despite how annoyed she was, Sinclair's
unexpected comment surprised a laugh from Belle. Crawley went
scarlet.

"Mr. Carrington! I have enough
difficulty with Mrs. Varens's unseemly humor as it is. She needs no
encouragement from you."

"I beg your pardon," Sinclair
said.

His intervention had helped Belle to
check her rising temper. When she glanced at him, he winked back,
and for a brief moment she felt a sense of kinship with him, as
though they stood together in conspiracy against the officious
Quentin Crawley.

"What's past is past," Belle said to
Crawley in milder tones. "So what is this next assignment that
Merchant believes I need Mr. Carrington's talents to
accomplish?"

"That will be revealed to you by Mr.
Merchant himself this evening."

"Victor Merchant is here in
Portsmouth?" Belle asked. When Crawley nodded, she struggled to
absorb this startling information. Merchant never came down from
London. In the three years she had worked for the society, she had
rarely met the Frenchman face to face. Always he had employed
Quentin Crawley as his go-between. What was afoot that required the
presence of Merchant himself?

"You and Mr. Carrington will meet with
Mr. Merchant at the Maison Mal du Coeur. It is a mansion up the
coast from—"

"I know where it is," Belle
said.

"Good. Then I will expect you both to
be there at midnight. Take the path up from the sea and enter by
way of the garden door. A lantern will be left burning for you.
Please be prompt." Crawley rose to his feet and began looking for
his hat.

Sinclair stood up in more leisurely
fashion, but Belle remained as she was. The Maison Mal du Coeur,
she thought with a frown. It was a Georgian manor house owned by
one Madame Dumont, a wealthy French émigré. The locals often
gossiped about her. An elderly lady, believed to be crippled, she
was scarcely ever seen. A meeting to be held in the home of this
recluse, at midnight, Victor Merchant coming all the way from
London . . . These unusual developments left Belle feeling
uneasy.

"At least give us some hint of what
Merchant has in mind," she called as Crawley made for the
door.

"You know I cannot do that, Mrs.
Varens. You must wait until tonight."

Belle persisted with her demand for
information, but Quentin Crawley shook his head. Bidding her and
Sinclair farewell, he slipped out the coffee room door.

"Damn that man!" Belle's fingers
tightened on her glass. "Why must he always be so mysterious?
Forever playing at being a spy!"

"Don't be too hard upon Quentin,"
Sinclair said. "Only consider. Most of the time he works as a
parish clerk, with a wife and eight little ones to support. His
meetings with you are likely his only excitement."

"Good God! Does Quentin really have
eight children?" Belle asked, momentarily diverted. To her, Crawley
had been nothing more than the annoying little man who had scuttled
in and out of her life for the past three years. Strange that
Sinclair already knew so much more about Quentin.

With Mr. Crawley gone, Belle expected
Sinclair also to take his leave. Yet although Sinclair had
courteously risen to his feet to see Crawley off, he showed no sign
of going anywhere. Belle was half-tempted to ask Sinclair what he
thought about the forthcoming assignation with Merchant, but his
mind appeared to be on other things. He was studying her again, and
from the glint in his eyes, Belle didn't think he was assessing her
competency as a fellow spy.

Well, she had dealt with overbold rakes
before. As he walked toward her, Belle scooted over, spreading out
her skins upon the bench, making it impossible for him to resume
his place by her side.

"It seems there is nothing more to be
done until tonight," she said pointedly. "You need not feel obliged
to stay on my account."

Sinclair's lips quivered as though he
suppressed an amused smile. "But I have not finished my brandy
yet."

He retrieved his glass from where he
had set it down by the bench, then straightened. Belle wondered if
it was not worse having him tower over her in this fashion. The
firelight brought out a bluish sheen in his dark hair and cast one
side of his face into intriguing shadow. Belle had an absurd
thought. If the devil had assumed the guise of mortal man for the
purpose of seducing innocent maids, he would likely have taken on
the form of Sinclair Carrington. But then—she was no longer an
innocent.

"The rain seems to have almost ceased,"
she said. "You'd best finish your brandy and go before it starts to
pour again."

"My dear Mrs. Varens." Sinclair feigned
a wounded expression. "Anyone would think you were trying to be rid
of me." He took a step back and rested one arm along the fireplace
mantel. Somehow the nonchalant pose suited him.

"Shall I propose a toast?" he asked.
"To our becoming much better acquainted?"

Belle regarded him in stony silence,
making no effort to raise her glass.

"At least you will drink with me to the
success of our assignment," he coaxed, "whatever it may be, and to
the restoration of good King Louis."

Belle set down her glass with a sharp
click. It seemed suddenly important that Sinclair Carrington should
hold no illusions about her. "I could not care less about 'good'
King Louis. Whatever I do, I do for the money."

Sinclair tossed down the rest of his
brandy. He rested his empty glass atop the mantelpiece. "That's a
practical enough reason. But what does Mr. Varens think of your
dangerous occupation?"

His unfortunate question brought an
image of Jean-Claude to her mind with painful clarity. She drove it
back into the recesses of her memory.

"I no longer have to consider Mr.
Varens's opinions," she said.

"I'm sorry." His voice gentled. Most
people uttered that commonplace, but Sinclair sounded as though he
really meant it. He regarded her with a compassion that brought a
unexpected lump to her throat. Like everyone else, Sinclair
obviously assumed that her husband had died, and Belle could not
bring herself to correct him.

"Have you been widowed a long time?" he
asked.

"Mr. Carrington! You'd best understand
one thing. You were engaged to pry into Napoleon Bonaparte's
affairs, not mine.”

She pushed herself to her feet, but was
startled to feel a tug on her gown. Gazing behind her in disbelief,
she saw a fold of the soft muslin caught upon a nail. She tugged
ruthlessly to free herself and the delicate fabric gave way,
setting her off balance.

She staggered into Sinclair, and his
arms folded about her, helping her regain her footing.

"I did warn you about that nail,
Angel."

"I detest that nickname. I forbid you
to use it. Now, let go of me."

If anything, his arms tightened,
drawing her closer. "Forgive me." He continued to use that gentle
tone which so unnerved her. "I didn't mean to distress you with my
question. It was a clumsy attempt to discover if you were
married."

"What has that got to say to anything?"
she asked. She should have struggled to break away from him, not
continue to bandy words within the circle of his embrace. But it
had been a long time since any man had held her so tenderly.
Sinclair's touch roused in her bittersweet desires which she had
all but forgotten.

"Jealous husbands can be the very
devil." A lopsided smile curved his lips. There was a sensitivity
about his mouth which had escaped her notice before. His head bent
lower, the heavy lids hooding his eyes, but not enough to mask the
fire in those brilliant green depths.

Belle braced her hands against his
chest. She said rather breathlessly, "Mr. Carrington, I am becoming
more convinced that any partnership between us would be most
unwise."

"Unwise certainly, but it could be very
pleasant."

"I don't look for pleasure."

"Maybe that is your problem,
Angel."

"I told you I hate—"

She was silenced by the warmth of his
lips grazing against hers. A quiver of response shot through her.
Alarmed by her temptation to succumb to the kiss, Belle drew back
her hand and struck Sinclair hard across the face.

Reeling back, Sinclair blinked and
pressed a hand to the crimson imprint her fingers had left on his
skin. Belle pushed past him, storming toward the door.

As her fingers closed over the brass
handle, she drew in a composing breath before she trusted herself
to speak. "I shall tell Mr. Merchant he must make other
arrangements for this next mission.

"Good-bye, Mr. Carrington," she added,
hoping he detected the note of finality in her voice Without
looking back, Belle flung open the coffee room door and hurtled
herself across the threshold. Slamming the heavy portal behind her,
she did not hear Sinclair echo her parting words.

"Good-bye, Angel," he said with a
rueful smile as he rubbed his stinging flesh. "At least until
tonight."

CHAPTER THREE

The rain had turned to a fine mist by
the time Sinclair wended his way toward the house where he had
rented lodgings—a two-story stucco building with black roof tiles
glazed to withstand the buffets of winds blowing off the sea. He
walked slowly, in no hurry to return to his empty rooms, especially
when he saw the figure lurking beneath the narrow portico of the
front door. It appeared to be a man of medium height, the collar of
his coat pulled up to his ears, obscuring his face.

Sinclair hooked his umbrella over his
arm and approached with deliberate casualness. Pausing a few yards
down the street, he pretended to grope in the pocket of his boxcoat
for his room key while he stole a glance at the bedraggled
figure.

As he studied the blond curls plastered
to ruddy cheeks, the wet cloak clinging to a familiar stocky frame,
Sinclair swore, the tension between his shoulder blades relaxing.
In civilian dress, soaked to the skin, the man looked not in the
least like Lieutenant Charles Carr of the Ninth Cavalry, but very
much like Chuff, Sinclair's nuisance of a younger brother, his
junior by eight years.

Sinclair covered the distance between
them in four great strides. "Chuff! What the devil are you doing
here?"