Rendezvous (9781301288946) (5 page)

"Too early for the stage to have
arrived," he said. "Perhaps it is someone traveling post, unless it
turns out to be one of your, er—friends, Mrs. Varens. Please excuse
me.”

Giving her his smartest bow, Mr. Shaw
hustled off to see. Belle permitted herself a wry smile. Behind
those spectacles, the host's keen eyes missed little. Although he
had never said anything, Belle had the feeling Mr. Shaw had long
ago guessed what her occupation was, but the landlord was discreet
and it made her comings and goings that much easier.

Lingering over her brandy, Belle
watched with idle interest as Mr. Shaw returned with the latest
guests—a formidable matron and another harassed-looking woman,
obviously either a maid or a companion. Shivering, they divested
themselves of dripping cloaks and prepared to draw near the coffee
room fire. But as soon as the matron caught sight of Belle, her
mouth pursed into a moue of disapproval.

Belle had no difficulty reading the
woman's mind. How shocking! A woman dining alone in the public room
of an inn. Obviously a creature of questionable morals. The haughty
dame turned to Mr. Shaw, demanding to be shown immediately to a
private parlor.

"Of course, madam," Shaw said. "Step
this way, please." He waited until the woman's back was turned
before he grimaced and cast an apologetic glance at Belle before
escorting the two women from the room.

But Belle was accustomed to being
snubbed by the so-called ‘ladies’ of this world. She did have a
fellow agent who frequently acted as her maid, but Paulette was
above stairs, applying a roast onion to her earache. Why should
Belle have dined closeted in her room or have dragged the poor
woman out of bed simply to feign respectability for some old
harridan like that?

Snatching up her glass, she stalked
over to the high backed bench by the fire and plunked down upon it.
Heat warmed her cheeks, but she was honest enough to admit it was
not caused by the fire. So she did still mind the snubs, even after
all these years. What a fool she was!

Belle set her glass down upon the
bench. She had no more sense than that eleven-year-old girl who had
hovered outside her mother's dressing chamber at the Drury Lane
Theatre, Staring deep into the leaping red-gold flames, Belle could
almost envision the scrawny child she had been, peeking around the
theater curtains at the galleries so far above her. How those tiers
of boxes had dazzled her eyes with the ladies bedecked in an array
of silks and gemstones, their gentlemen no less magnificent, so
dashing, so attentive.

"I'm not going to be like you, Mama,"
she had vowed, "prancing down here on the stage to be gaped at and
scorned. I'm going to be up there, one of them, a real
lady."

What a foolish child's dream—to think
that she could ever be a lady of quality, admired, respected and
loved.

"But I did almost realize that dream,
didn't I, Jean-Claude?" Belle murmured. These days the most she
hoped for was to one day retire from this uncertain life, purchase
a small cottage, perhaps in Derbyshire. There, with her past
buried, she could at least end her days in the role of the
respectable widow. Playacting, Belle thought wearily, forever
playacting, just like Mama after all. She took another sip of the
brandy. It tasted strangely bitter as poorly brewed
beer.

Outside, the rain continued to beat a
melancholy tattoo against the windows. Belle heard the flurry of
another arrival in the taproom. More ladies, perhaps, to be
horrified at finding a ‘loose’ woman frequenting Neptune's
Trident?

Mr. Shaw had left the coffee room door
ajar upon his last exit. Belle faced the opening, her chin thrust
upward. But she relaxed her attitude of belligerence as she
glimpsed a gentleman attempting to shake the rainwater from his
greatcoat. When a waiter offered to help him out of the wet
garment, he declined.

"I shan't be staying that long. When
Mr. Carrington comes in from the stableyard, say that I await him
in the coffee room."

Belle had no difficulty recognizing the
reedy voice of Victor Merchant's messenger.

"Quentin Crawley," she said softly to
herself. "It's more than time. You've only kept me waiting for two
weeks!"

The wiry little man pushed open the
coffee room door and bustled inside. He espied Belle by the
fireside.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens," he said,
doffing his hat and mopping at some rain droplets which clung to
his balding forehead. Tufts of sandy hair sticking out from behind
his ears gave Crawley the appearance of being perpetually
startled.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley." Belle
leaned back against the bench and saluted him with her brandy
glass. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about
me."

"Unlikely, Mrs. Varens. Very unlikely."
Crawley grimaced his version of a smile. He moved as though to warm
his hands at the fire, but drew up short. His head shifted as he
examined the coffee room and then frowned.

"This will never do for our meeting. We
must have a private parlor."

Belle sighed. Quentin Crawley always
treated the most perfunctory transactions between them as though
they stood in danger of discovery from Bonaparte's agents lurking
under every hearth rug.

"The private parlor is already
engaged," Belle said. "We can manage well enough here."

"Entirely too public," Crawley fussed.
"If we were seen together by someone I know, how would I ever
explain the purpose of our rendezvous?"

Belle infused a sultry quality into her
voice. "Why, Quentin, you could always say that I was soliciting
your company for a night's entertainment."

Crawley colored to the roots of his
hair. It was so easy to make him turn red, the temptation was
irresistible. He eyed her sternly.

"Mrs. Varens! You have a sense of
levity that is frequently unsuited to the serious nature of our
work and furthermore—"

Belle had heard this lecture so often,
she felt relieved when a sound from the taproom distracted Crawley.
He whipped around. "Ah, that must be Mr. Carrington
arriving."

"Who the devil is Mr.
Carrington?"

But Crawley didn't answer her, having
gone to thrust his head out the coffee room door and call, "In
here, sir. In here."

Beyond Crawley's shoulder Belle saw a
tall man garbed in a caped boxcoat and a high-crowned hat. She
could discern nothing of his face as he bent over, struggling to
close his umbrella.

French, perhaps? Belle wondered. Not
likely with a surname like Carrington. And yet few Englishmen were
practical enough to carry an article, however useful, that would
earn them the contempt of their peers as being
effeminate.

With a final spray of droplets, the man
snapped the umbrella shut. He followed Mr. Crawley into the coffee
room, presenting Belle with her first full view of the stranger's
profile. She stared as the tall man whipped off his hat, raking his
fingers through a mass of damp coal-dark hair.

He had a face no woman was apt to
forget. Heavy black brows, his eyes hooded with a sensual languor,
his granite jaw line softened by a small indention in the chin, his
swarthy complexion—all conveyed an aura of dangerous
attraction.

Absorbed in studying Mr. Carrington,
Belle realized with a jolt that he was returning the favor. His
gaze started at her face and continued in a lingering inspection of
her curves. Belle sat down her glass on the arm of the bench and
straightened self-consciously. Not that she was unaccustomed to
being ogled by men, but mostly it took the form of bashful glances
or sly leers. No one had ever regarded her with such open and frank
appreciation.

The coffee room seemed suddenly warmer.
Belle touched a hand to her face. Good lord, he had raised a blush
to her cheeks, something no man had been able to accomplish since
she was in her teens.

"This is Mr. Sinclair Carrington,”
Crawley said. “He is the newest member of our-ahem-little
society,"

"Indeed?" Belle replied.

Dropping his umbrella and hat on one of
the tables, Carrington strode across the room to stand before
her.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said. She
liked his voice. It was deep and resonant, his accent crisply
English.

"How do you do, sir." Belatedly, she
remembered to offer him her hand.

His fingers engulfed hers as he bent
forward, raising her hand to his lips. He looked deep into her
eyes, and she noticed that his own were a hunter's green, fringed
with thick black lashes.

The warm texture of his mouth caressed
her skin in a manner that made Belle's pulse quicken. She felt a
spark of acute physical awareness pass between them, charging the
atmosphere of the room.

As though from a great distance,
Crawley's voice came, "Oh, yes. How stupid of me! Mr. Carrington,
this is—"

"Isabelle Varens," Sinclair filled in
smoothly. "The Avenging Angel."

The sound of that detested nickname
snapped Belle back to her senses. She realized Mr. Carrington still
held her hand and that she was permitting him to do so. She pulled
free of him.

"I am simply Mrs. Varens."

"That does not suit you near as well."
He smiled. He had a lazy, seductive kind of smile. "You don't look
like a 'Mrs. Varens,' whereas you are the nearest thing to an angel
I ever expect to see."

"When you have worked in our business
long enough, Mr. Carrington, you will discover appearances can be
deceiving." Her icy remark did not appear to daunt him. But
whatever retort Sinclair meant to deliver next was interrupted by
Crawley thrusting himself between them.

"Now that the introductions have been
taken care of, perhaps we may get on with the purpose of our
meeting."

"Certainly," Belle said. "If you like,
I could summon Shaw to bring you gentlemen some refreshment. Or you
are welcome to share the brandy with me."

"No, thank you." Quentin frowned at the
glass she held.

"I forgot, Mr. Crawley. You disapprove
of women drinking strong spirits." Belle looked at Sinclair. "And
are you shocked, Mr. Carrington? Perhaps you also think I should be
sipping tea."

"Not at all. The women I know who
habitually drink tea seem to be the most insipid
creatures."

A reluctant smile escaped Belle. "I
have been called a good many things in my life, but at least
insipid has never been one of them."

"Beautiful. You must have been called
that often," Sinclair murmured, his gaze once more upon her
face.

Belle felt as though his bold eyes
caressed her, raising a fluttery sensation in the pit of her
stomach. Annoyed with herself, she strove to hide her foolish
reaction.

"You will find the decanter on the
table over there," she told Sinclair. "I believe the waiter left
another glass."

Sinclair retreated toward the table,
stripping off his damp boxcoat as he went. So his broad shoulders
had not been merely an illusion caused by the cape, Belle thought.
The well-tailored frock coat straining across his back made it more
than evident that he had no need to resort to padding. Her gaze
strayed to the tight-fitting cashmere breeches that encased his
tautly honed thighs. An embroidered waistcoat and military boots
completed the outfit, that of a perfect gentleman. Or so it would
have been if Sinclair's neckcloth had not been so carelessly
arranged. But something made Belle doubt that Sinclair was ever a
perfect gentleman. Likely it was the hint of roguishness in those
disturbing green eyes of his.

As Sinclair helped himself to the
brandy, Quentin bent over Belle and whispered, "Well, what do you
think? What is your opinion of his attributes?"

Her gaze skated over Sinclair's
muscular frame. She said in a low voice, "If you send him across
the channel, I think there will be more than one Frenchwoman
beckoning him toward her boudoir."

Mr. Crawley flushed. "I wasn't speaking
of those attributes, Mrs. Varens. What I meant was, does he seem
like a capable man to you?"

How on earth did Crawley expect her to
answer that upon such short acquaintance? But her intuition told
her that Sinclair would be very capable. His movements were
characterized by a tigerlike grace, which made her think he might
be good in a fight, as well as skilled in the
bedchamber.

"What does it matter what I think?" she
asked Crawley.

By this time their whispered
conversation had caught Sinclair's attention. He regarded them with
one dark brow upraised. Quentin straightened with a guilty
smile.

"Ah, er—are you ready to proceed, Mr.
Carrington?"

By way of reply, Sinclair picked up his
glass and rejoined them by the fireside. Belle should have
anticipated the man's next move, but she was too slow.

Sinclair lowered himself upon the bench
beside her, sitting so close that his thigh brushed against
hers.

"Sorry to crowd you," he said. "These
settles are so narrow."

"There is a good six inches of space on
the other side of you, Mt. Carrington."