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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.

Sinclair said nothing, but watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, apparently as amused by her defiance as he had been by Quentin’s furtiveness. Belle did not care. She was in no humor for any of Quentin’s game playing.

The chamber now ablaze with light, Belle took full stock of her surroundings. This Madame Dumont had not fled France so much as brought it with her. The chamber appeared much like dozens of elegant salons she had visited as Jean-Claude’s bride.

The high walls had been left tastefully plain to provide an unobtrusive background for the elaborate gilt furnishings, the patterned Savonnerie carpet.

All but forgetting Sinclair’s presence, Belle began to stroll about the room, examining each object with wonder—the pendulum clock with its face set in Roman numerals, the torchere holding a vase of fading roses, the painted ecran that screened the fireplace.

Above the mantel hung a three-quarter-length portrait of the late king, Louis XVI.

He looked somehow ill at ease in his robes, but the artist had captured Louis’s aura of gentle patience, the expression that Belle remembered so well from when the monarch had been trundled forth to meet his death upon the guillotine.

She averted her eyes, not wanting to explore that memory any further.

To the left of the fireplace stood a console table, its polished surface laden with small treasures.

Thanks to Jean-Claude’s tutelage, Belle could identify most of them—a Sevres figurine of Cupid and Psyche; a snuff box, likely Vincennes, the enamel lid decorated with a scene from Italian comedy; a pastille burner of glazed white porcelain from the workshops of Saint-Cloud.

Belle touched this last with reverent fingers.

She and Jean-Claude had had one nearly like it in their rooms in Paris.

A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over her.

Although scarce suited to Jean-Claude’s station in life, Belle had loved that tiny cramped apartment.

Of course, by the time Jean-Claude had come to Paris as a delegate to the revolutionary convention, they had no longer been the Comte and Comtesse de Egremont.

Just plain Citizen and Citizeness Varens, having prudently dropped the de from their name.

It had not been wise to flaunt aristocratic origins before the volatile Parisian mobs.

But Belle had preferred it that way. She had never been comfortable being the comtesse, tiptoeing through the vast cold rooms of Jean-Claude’s chateau, the portraits of his dour ancestors seeming to glower at her with disapproval.

She had always imagined that those noble forebears peering out of their gilt frames had guessed her secret long before Jean-Claude, that they knew she had no right to be within the halls of Egremont, polluting that hallowed ground with her commoner’s blood, she, the illegitimate daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury Lane.

Lost in her memories, Belle did not notice that Sinclair had also begun to stroll about, examining the salon, but from a far different perspective.

He had not her eyes for French antiques or objets d’art , but he recognized the trappings of wealth when he saw them.

Apparently this Madame Dumont had fled France with her pockets better lined than most emigres.

It was therefore possible, then, that she and not Napoleon could be the source of Victor Merchant’s unexplained funds.

A wealthy royalist patroness would certainly make Merchant a less likely candidate to be Bonaparte’s spy.

But what of Isabelle Varens? Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, lingering by the console table, one finger tracing the pattern of the white porcelain.

Her eyes almost luminous, she seemed to have retreated to some world of her own dreamings.

A not entirely happy world, to judge from her expression.

Her features were shadowed with grief, the set of her mouth soft and vulnerable.

Once more she roused in him that inexplicable urge to enfold her in his arms, pull her out of that dark, cold world with his embrace.

He took a step toward her and then checked himself.

He had vowed to himself on the way here tonight that he would maintain an objective attitude toward Isabelle, keep his desires under more rigid control.

That vow had almost gone straight out the window with his first sight of her slipping into the garden.

Sinclair was not often given to flights of fancy, but with a halo of moonlight rimming her fine gold hair, her pearly-hued skin almost translucent, she had indeed seemed like some angel sent to earth to dazzle the eyes of mortal man.

Except that beneath her cloak, he had caught glimpses of the tantalizing swell of her breasts, the full curve of her hips, reminding him that she was very much a woman, vibrant and alive.

It had been damned hard to apologize to the lady for kissing her when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and make a more thorough job of it.

And for a brief moment he had thought she was equally as willing.

Ruefully Sinclair raked his hands through his hair.

Such thoughts as these could scarcely be construed as objective.

He tried again, this time stalking toward the long windows, deliberately putting the length of the room between himself and Isabelle.

Lost in her own musings, she seemed oblivious to his movements, continuing to caress the china.

Fact one, Sinclair told himself, the lady apparently had a taste for the finer things, a very expensive taste.

Fact two, she had told him herself this afternoon that she was only involved in all this for the money.

With an attitude like that, she might not be particular where her funds came from, Victor Merchant or Bonaparte.