Rendezvous (9781301288946) (51 page)

"I am glad Merchant has been arrested,"
she said, moving to pour herself a glass of brandy. "Though it is
most unfortunate for you, Quentin. No more spying. You will have to
be content with life as a parish clerk."

"Not at all." Excitement rippled across
Crawley's bland features. He puffed up his chest with pride. "You
see, Mrs. Varens, funding for our society never did come from
Merchant. Madame Dumont is in truth our director. A great lady. She
never was too pleased with Merchant, but she desires that our work
be continued." Quentin's eyes dropped modestly down. "She has named
me as Merchant's successor."

"Congratulations," Belle said dryly,
saluting him with her glass. "This calls for a toast." She poured
him out some brandy, biting back a smile. She never thought Crawley
would accept it, but to her astonishment he did, sipping cautiously
at the amber-colored liquid as though it were some foul-tasting
medicine.

"I do not delude myself but what I have
undertaken a difficult task," Quentin said after Belle had toasted
him. "We have lost so many good agents, but I trust I may still
depend upon you."

"Not a chance," Belle said, setting
down her glass with a sharp click. "I am through with the
society."

"My dear Mrs. Varens! I understand that
your confidence in our organization has been a little bruised. But
you cannot believe I would ever serve you such a trick as Merchant
did."

"Of course not, Quentin. But I told you
all along I would quit one day. I have had enough."

Crawley's indulgent smile was patent
with disbelief. "I will not be gainsaid so easily. I also hope to
recruit Mr. Carrington as well."

"Sinclair? He works for the British
army."

"I can pay him much better," Crawley
said confidently. "And offer him far more intriguing assignments.
When you hear what I have next in mind—"

"I don't want to hear." Belle
snapped.

Crawley's mouth drew down into
something approaching a pout. "Well! You can at least furnish me
with Mr. Carrington's present address."

"I cannot do that, either," Belle said
bleakly. She wished that Crawley would simply go away and leave her
in peace. To her relief, a discreet knock sounded on the coffee
room door. Grateful for any interruption, Belle moved to answer
it.

Mr. Shaw hovered upon the threshold. He
slipped her a folded note closed with a blot of sealing wax. "A
stable lad just delivered this for you, Mrs. Varens. I thought it
might be important, so I brought it to you at once."

Belle thanked Shaw. As the innkeeper
quit the room, she examined her name inked upon the paper. The
scrawl was all but illegible and heart-stoppingly familiar. Her
pulse raced as she broke open the seal. Unfolding the note, she
struggled to read the brief message,

Angel, I meant to say my farewells in
person, but I thought it better this way. I know how hard it has
been for you with Varens and me both tugging at your heartstrings.
I love you too well to put you through any more of this. I realize
how much what he can offer means to you. Wishing that you find all
that you desire, Sinclair.

Belle sighed mentally
blotting out all the other phrases save one:
I love you too well
.

Becoming aware of the curious stare of
Quentin Crawley, she hastily refolded the note.

"Good tidings?" he asked.

"Er, yes. I find I don't owe my
dressmaker as much as I thought." She slipped the note behind her
back with an over-bright smile. "If you will excuse me, Quentin, I
find it chilly in here. I will just slip upstairs to fetch my
shawl."

"Indeed? I would be happy to partake of
luncheon with you, Mrs. Varens, though I fear it not quite proper
without a third party present to serve as chaperon."

"I'll fetch one of those,
too," Belle said. If Quentin had any notion where she was bound,
she feared he would follow her. For what she had in mind, Crawley
would definitely be
de
trop
.

Whisking out of the room, she quickened
her steps and managed to locate the stable lad who had brought the
message, He was down in the kitchen, gnawing on a roasted chicken
leg. His eyes grew round as she held up a golden guinea.

"I will give you one of these," she
said, "to furnish me with the address where this letter came from .
. . and another to forget it."

Sinclair opened the trunk upon his bed,
commencing the nigh hopeless task of gathering his scattered
belongings to stuff inside. He was retrieving his shaving brush,
which somehow had rolled beneath the bed, when he thought he heard
the creak of a footfall outside his room.

He paused, listening. He had nearly
convinced himself that he had imagined it when he saw the knob
slowly turn. A rattling sound followed. Someone was trying to pick
the lock. Sinclair tensed, tiptoeing in search of a weapon. He had
little time. The door had begun to open.

Sinclair snatched up the first thing to
hand, the iron shovel used to clear out ashes from the grate. He
stalked forward, raising it only to halt at the sight of cool blue
eyes, fine-boned features framed by a halo of curls.

"Belle," he breathed, slowly lowering
his arm. He half-feared he might be dreaming. His nights had been
haunted with images of her that seemed all too real, as real as
this apparition.

She closed the door, surveying the
disorder of the room with a slight frown. "I don't think that
little shovel is going to be of much help, Mr.
Carrington."

Stooping down, she retrieved a stray
cravat and began to fold it. No, Sinclair thought, with a wry
smile. In his dreams she would not have been doing anything as
practical as that. What was she doing here? He felt a wild hope
thrum through him, but he forced himself to remain casual. "Why
didn't you just knock?" he demanded.

"I was not sure you would not try to
bolt if forewarned." Belle put the cravat in the trunk, following
it up with a crumpled linen shirt, trying to keep her voice light.
She wondered if Sinclair could see the way her hands trembled. How
much courage it had taken her to come through that door! After all,
she might have been wrong about that letter. It could have been
Sinclair's kind way of ending an awkward affair.

But his eyes told her differently. He
might be able to summon that raffish smile, remain at a distance,
but his eyes were closing it with an intensity that made her catch
her breath.

"Did you not receive my note?" he
asked.

"Yes, that's how I knew where to find
you." Belle gave up the pretense of calm. She walked toward him,
resting her hands against his chest. She could feel the thud of his
heart. Smiling up at him, she murmured, "I do so hate it when you
try to be noble, Sinclair."

"I was only trying to make things
easier for you," he said hoarsely. His hand came up to cover hers.
"Where is Jean-Claude?"

"Well on his way home to John-Jack, I
hope."

His eyes probed hers as he hovered
between joy and apprehension. "You will be joining him
soon?"

"No," she said. "I sent him away. And
in truth, I think he was relieved."

The night in Rouvray Forest, she
believed, Jean-Claude had finally come to an acceptance of who she
was, an understanding of their differences. Their parting had been
like the man himself, gentle, full of quiet dignity.

Sinclair expelled a deep breath. "Then
it did not work out between you and Jean-Claude. I am
sorry."

"Are you?" She raised one brow
quizzically.

"No, damn it, I fear I am not. The
question is: Are you?"

For her answer she cupped her hands
behind his head, twining her fingers in the velvety masses of his
dark hair, pulling him down to touch her lips to his. It took him
less than a heartbeat to respond.

"Belle." His mouth crushed hers in a
searing embrace. Holding her close, he breathed a feverish trail of
kisses against her hair, his voice gone husky with passion. "You
won't regret this choice, I promise. If it is the respectable life
you want, I will find a way to get it for you, the blasted
ivy-covered cottage and all. I can seek a post in government, make
up the quarrel with my father—"

Belle halted this rash flow of pledges
with another fervent kiss. She gazed up at him with tender
amusement. "No, Mr. Carrington. Let us take life as we have always
done. One day at a time."

As he cradled her close, she cried.
"Sinclair, Sinclair, I love you so. I was a fool not to have
realized it sooner."

"Yes, you were, weren't you?” He
swooped her up to carry her to bed, knocking the trunk and its
contents heedlessly to the floor.

They tumbled down upon the mattress,
longing only to become lost in each other's embrace, when they were
rudely jarred by a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Sinclair
growled.

"The porter, sir. I just called to tell
you that there is a gentleman below asking for you. A Mr.
Crawley."

"Crawley? What the deuce does he
want?"

Belle groaned. "The wretched man must
have followed me here after all." She called out to the porter.
"Tell him Mr. Carrington is not at home."

As the footsteps retreated, Belle
scrambled from the bed and began to close the shutters.

Sinclair trailed after her, looking
bewildered. "Angel, what on earth is this all about?"

"Crawley has become the new head of the
society. He has some infernal mission he is trying to get us to
undertake."

Belle paused in the act of bolting the
last shutter to peer anxiously into the street below. "Good. He's
leaving."

Sinclair craned his neck, looking over
her shoulder. As they watched Crawley attempt to summon a hackney
cab, Sinclair said, "Of course, we have not the slightest interest
in knowing what it is all about."

"Not the slightest," Belle said firmly.
She started to close the shutter, but she couldn't help herself.
She stole one more speculative glance at Crawley. She caught
Sinclair doing the same.

Their eyes met in guilty fashion and
both erupted into laughter. Without another word, Sinclair tugged
her by her hand, and tossed her back upon the bed. His lean hard
frame closed over her as he claimed her mouth with the tender fury
of his kiss.

No, Belle thought, feeling the fires
stir between them. She and Sinclair had not the slightest interest
in discovering what Crawley wanted.

At least not until tomorrow.

###