Choosing not to reply to his brother's comment, Sinclair fetched Charles's still damp coat from the peg.
Charles stood up slowly. "This has turned out to be a rather short visit," he said in forlorn accents.
"Bad timing, old fellow. In a few months, when this work is done, I'll look you up and we'll spend a night carousing and scouring the streets for wicked women."
Sinclair's words coaxed a faint smile from Charles, but as he helped Charles into his coat, the young man sighed. "I suppose you won't be slipping to Norfolk to see Mother anytime soon, either."
"Regrettably, no. You must give her and the girls my love.” The girls? Sinclair rolled his eyes at his own choice of words. His sisters were older than himself, spinsters both of them because none of their suitors had ever measured up to the general's exacting standards. Eleanor and Louise had been pretty enough in their youth, soft and blond like Sinclair's mother, like Charles. It was rather ironic, Sinclair thought, that it was himself, the wayward son, who was the only Carr to bear a strong physical resemblance to the general.
Even after Charles pulled his cloak around him, he attempted to linger. Sinclair took his brother by the arm and guided him inexorably toward the door.
"Mother will be terribly disappointed to hear you can't come home for so long," Charles said.
"Can't be helped." Sinclair felt ashamed of himself for sounding so cheerful. Although he did occasionally slip home to see his mother when he knew the general would be gone, the visits were more penance than pleasure. His mother invariably began crying over his disreputable life, then his sisters would join in. Weeping females always made Sinclair uncomfortable. They generally could never find their own handkerchiefs and ended by snuffling against the shoulder of one's favorite frock coat.
As Sinclair maneuvered his brother to the door, for one moment he had the horrible fear that even Charles meant to burst into tears. But although Charles looked pale, he managed to smile as he held out his hand.
"I suppose this is good-bye then," Charles said. "Dammit, Sinclair. I hate seeing you go off on these things. It would be far easier to watch you charge a row of blazing cannons than this affair where you won't even know who your enemy is. I have a very bad feeling about this assignment of yours."
Charles caught Sinclair's fingers in a hard clasp. The gesture triggered a memory in Sinclair, his father barking at Chuff not to be a puling babe, that Charles didn't need a candle to find his way to the nursery. The general's orders bedamned—Sinclair had always let his brother clasp his hand, guiding Chuff up the dark stairs to his little bed.
Although much moved by Charles's concern, Sinclair tried to shrug it off. "Are you turning fortuneteller, Chuff?"
"It is nothing to make jests about. I keep having these horrible visions of you lying somewhere dead with a knife stuck in your back."
Sinclair had had the same premonition himself more than once—that he would end his life in just such a fashion, dying alone in some dismal set of lodgings like these. But he gave Charles's hand a reassuring squeeze before pulling away.
“I will watch my back," Sinclair promised. "And you take care of yourself, young scapegrace. After all, you're the only one of my relatives I can tolerate for more than ten minutes at a time."
He clapped Charles on the back, keeping their final farewell light. But as soon as he saw Charles out the door, the grin faded from Sinclair's lips. He found himself doing something he had never done before.
Striding to the window, he brushed back the lace curtain and peered through the dirty panes. He watched Charles trudge down the cobbled street until he lost sight of Chuff's stocky form in the rumble of carriages and other pedestrians scurrying along the walkway. It was almost as though he never expected to see Charles again.
Sinclair let the curtain fall, stepping back from the window. What was wrong with him? He was letting his brother's dark fears color his own mood.
"What an old woman you're getting to be, Carrington," Sinclair muttered. But he was forced to admit that he too carried an inexplicable apprehension about this latest assignment. Yet he had taken far greater risks in his life. What made this time so different?
Maybe it was the woman, Sinclair thought, his mind once more envisioning Isabelle Varens's gold hair and all too seductive curves. A woman like that could be a man's undoing. Sinclair had seen it happen to others of his sex many times, but he had always guarded his own heart too well. Maybe he was long overdue for a fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The manor house known as Maison Mal du Coeur perched in solitary grandeur upon a hill overlooking the sea. Outlined against the starless midnight sky, the mansion appeared stark in the simplicity of its classical design, its only ornament the balustrade at the roofline, each corner surmounted by a stone urn.
No outbuildings nestled close by, no line of trees sheltered Mal du Coeur. The white stone walls seemed to hurl defiance at the breakers crashing upon the pebbled beach far below, daring Poseidon, great god of the sea, to do his worst—buffets of wind, maelstroms, tidal waves—Mal du Coeur would withstand them all.
Slipping along the path that led to the gardens at the rear of the house, Belle paused to gaze upward at the massive walls looming over her. The hood of her cloak fell back and the night wind tangled strands of her hair about her face. Belle brushed the tendrils aside, her eyes fixed upon the moon.
Partly obscured by a mist of clouds, the crescent hung in the sky like some ghostly scimitar suspended above Mal du Coeur.
Belle shivered, overcome by the same strange brooding sensation she had had when first glimpsing the mansion from the carriage. She had no idea what to expect from this meeting with Merchant tonight, but she had the feeling that in some way it would prove momentous, one of those events that would drastically alter the course of her life.
She would have dismissed such notions as nonsense, an irritation of the nerves, if she had not experienced such premonitions before, premonitions that had proved all too true. That long-ago evening in Paris, in the suite of rooms she and Jean-Claude had rented-had she not somehow sensed that something was terribly wrong? The intimate supper her maid had laid upon the table had long ago turned cold before Jean-Claude had burst into the room. He had never been late before. . .
Lifting the hem of her gown, Belle continued along the path, hardly noticing the garden ahead of her with its low lying hedges and rosebushes set in a symmetrical line. The wind rustling the leaves, the distant roar of the sea all faded before the insistent clamor of voices from her past.
"You deceived me," she heard Jean-Claude accuse. “You have been doing so since the day we were wed, the hour we first met."
Then her own voice, pleading, "Please, Jean-Claude. I always meant to tell you the truth. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to, but I was afraid of losing you. I beg you to forgive me."
But her words were lost in the raw anguish of his cry. "You betrayed my trust, the one thing left in all this madness I had to believe in—our love, what we shared together. It has all been nothing but a lie."
“Before God, no! My past, who I am-yes, I did deceive you about that, but there is one part of it that was not a lie. I do love you, Jean-Claude. I always will."
Always will-the words echoed mockingly back to her upon the wind, the painful recollection swallowed up by the night.
Belle passed a hand across her brow. Why was she even thinking about such things now, when she needed all her wits to deal with Merchant? Memories of Jean-Claude had a habit of creeping up on her at the worst times.
No more tonight, she vowed, moving forward into the garden. A lantern had been lit and left resting upon a stone bench just as Quentin Crawley had promised.
"Quentin?" Belle called softly. No one answered, and yet she sensed another presence in the garden, eyes watching her. The hair at the back of her neck prickled as she moved cautiously toward the lantern.
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.
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