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The boy proudly held up all the fingers on one hand. Then as though smote by conscience, he looked a little sheepish and tucked under the thumb.

“Four years old,” Belle said, feigning amazement. “I am sure that is quite grown up, but still a little young, I think, to be wandering these docks alone.”

She made a closer inspection of the boy’s attire.

Although smudged with dirt, his trousers were woven of the softest fawn cashmere, his close-fitting jacket of crimson velvet studded with brass buttons, his collar of exquisite white lace.

Obviously he did not belong to any of the rough dockhands or fisherwomen who sat mending their nets.

“Are you lost, child?” she asked.

John-Jack’s small chest puffed out with indignation. “No such stuff. I give Nurse Gummwidge the slip.”

This statement provoked another laugh from Sinclair. “The young rascal appears to have a promising future ahead of him in intelligence work, wouldn’t you agree, Angel?”

Belle glared up at him. “You should not encourage the child to think such behavior amusing. His poor mother will be quite distracted with worry when she discovers him gone.”

“My mama’s gone to heaven.” The truculent set of John-Jack’s chin was betrayed by a quiver. “And now Papa’s going, too. On that boat.” He pointed toward the Good Lady Nell. “He’s going all the way to Fwance. That’s fawther away than heaven, I think.”

The catch in the child’s voice tugged at Belle’s heart. But what astonished her was Sinclair’s response. His roguish eyes softened with tenderness as he scooped the child up in his arms.

“There now, Master John-Jack. France is not so far away as all that.” He turned and directed the child’s attention across the rippling green channel waters to the dark mass of land that appeared no more than a shadow on the horizon.

“See? You can almost reach out and touch it. Your papa can come sailing home from there before you’ve even had a chance to miss him. ”

“Twuly?” Although John-Jack looked skeptical, he wrapped one arm about Sinclair’s neck, and he leaned forward to squint. Sinclair soon had the little boy convinced that he very nearly had touched the coastline of France,

Belle could only stare. She knew few men who would have been perceptive enough to recognize the child’s fear of losing his father, fewer still who would have troubled to do anything about it.

Sinclair looked so natural, so at ease with the boy in his arms, he might well have been parent to a numerous brood of his own.

Which he could be, for all she yet knew of Carrington.

Although his background remained a mystery to her, she was discovering more about Sinclair that she liked and desired.

She supposed she should be angry with him for stealing the kiss, but how could she, knowing she had been a willing partner in the crime?

She was no missish virgin to fool herself into thinking that women were not prey to the same passions as men.

It had taken Sinclair Carrington to remind her of that.

If circumstances were different, if they were not facing such a dangerous mission …

But they were, and in future she had best try harder to keep a clear head and him at arm’s length.

Both their lives might depend upon it. Even now it was high time one of them remembered the business at hand, that they should be boarding the packet before it sailed without them.

Although loath to interrupt Sinclair as he charmed away the last of John-Jack’s forlorn expression, she said, “We really must return that child to his family and?—”

“ Jean-Jacques .” A man’s voice called in the distance behind her.

“And then-.” Belle stumbled over what she had been about to say. The voice called again, its French inflection plucking at her heart like the haunting refrain of an old melody.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned slowly, the man’s shadow falling across her. He halted at the sight of her, catching his breath, his familiar features becoming white and pinched.

Belle felt as though a hand of iron seized her heart and crushed it. A drumming sounded in her ears. Sinclair, the child, the bustling dockyard blurred, vanishing in a thick haze that left her alone with this man who stood so close she could have reached out and touched his hand.

The grains of Time appeared to have been magically pulled back into the top of the hourglass. She might once more have been standing upon the stone steps of Saint?Saveur, the noble Comte de Egremont coming to claim his bride.

Except that Time was cruel, a malicious prankster. His waving hair, once so golden brown, was now shot through with silver. Deep furrows bit deep into his brow and alongside his mouth were lines far too harsh for such a gentle face.

“Jean-Claude,” Belle whispered. Somehow she’d always known she was fated to see him again one day and had imagined what she would do and say. The time had come and her voice failed her. All she could do was scan his gaunt face for some sign that he had at last forgiven her.

He hadn’t. His gray eyes no longer filled with dreams, only hurt and disillusionment. Neither Time nor the Revolution had done that to him. The guilt was all hers.

Belle lowered her gaze, no longer able to bear to look at him. When she and Jean-Claude stood silent as though struck from stone, Sinclair shifted restlessly behind her, the boy still in his arms.

Sinclair had watched Belle’s eyes widen with recognition, the shock hard followed by the color draining from her cheeks as though she had taken to bleeding inwardly.

Never had he thought to see the proud Isabelle look so stricken, so humbled, and the obvious cause of it was this pale stranger with his flinty, accusing eyes.

“Now, who the devil might this Jean-Claude be?” Sinclair did not realize he had muttered the words aloud until John-Jack answered him.

“That’s no devil. That’s my papa.”

When the child squirmed to be free, Sinclair set him down. John-Jack ran over and flung his arms about the man’s knees.

“Papa! Papa! This gent’mum’s been teaching me how to touch Fwance.”

The child’s piping voice seemed to break the spell, at least for the stranger if not for Belle. The man she had called Jean-Claude slowly inclined his head toward the boy.

“Jean-Jacques. Where have you been? I have shouted myself hoarse calling you.”

“Why, I was wight here all the time, Papa.”

“The fault is mine,” Sinclair said. “I was amusing the lad, and although I heard your call, I did not make the connection. The child told us his name was John-Jack.”

Cold gray eyes shifted toward Sinclair as though recognizing his existence for the first time. “My son has difficulty with his native tongue. Your country seems to have made a proper Englishman of him.”

What a world of bitterness lie concealed in those flat tones, Sinclair thought.

“I thank you for looking after Jean-Jacques,” Jean-Claude continued. “I am sorry that he should have given you any trouble.”

“It was no trouble.”

The Frenchman took his son by the hand to lead him away without another word. The movement stirred some life back into Belle.

“Then the boy is yours, monsieur,” she said in a small voice, as though she could not comprehend the fact. “You married again?”

“ Oui , I did,” was the curt reply. “But I am now a widower.” As though dragged against his will, Jean-Claude turned back to Belle. Like thin ice cracking, some of his brittle shell seemed to melt.

“It has been a long time, Isabelle,” he said softly. “You are still very beautiful.”

The color rushed back into Belle’s cheeks. “Thank you, Jean-Claude.”

She sounded so damn grateful and looked so vulnerable, Sinclair felt a surge of irritation.

The way she pronounced the man’s name told him all he needed to know about how intimate she and this Jean-Claude once had been.

Sinclair experienced a strange sensation, like a giant claw raking across his insides.

He surprised himself by stepping closer to Belle and wrapping his arm possessively about her waist.

“It would seem that you and my wife are acquainted, monsieur.”

He felt Belle stiffen at his words, a spark of anger firing her eyes. Jean-Claude flinched as though Sinclair had dealt him a blow to the face.

“Your—your wife?”

“No—” Belle started to say, trying to pull away from him.

“Just recently wed.” Sinclair cut her off, tightening his grip. “Sinclair Carrington’s the name. And you are?”

“The Comte de Egremont.” Jean-Claude’s lips tightened, but he forced a smile.

“My congratulations, monsieur, Isabelle.” He regained his icy composure.

“Pray excuse my rudeness. My son grows restless.” He glanced down to where John-Jack wriggled, clearly impatient with all this mysterious adult conversation.

“I must see him returned to his bonne .”

“No, Jean-Claude. Wait.” But Belle’s protest came too weak and too late.

Scarce giving John-Jack a chance to wave farewell, Jean-Claude tugged his son along the docks.

Sinclair was astonished by the degree of vicious satisfaction he felt at the man’s retreat, almost as though he had vanquished an enemy.

Belle wrenched herself away from Sinclair. He half expected her to go running after the Frenchman. She took a few hesitant steps and stopped, rounding on Sinclair. Her face was taut with fury.

“How dare you tell him that! How dare you refer to me as your wife!”

“I thought we had agreed on that, Angel.”

“But you needn’t have introduced me that way to—to?—”

“To Jean-Claude?” Sinclair filled in. “Why? What difference does it make?”

Her lips parted to make a furious retort and then clamped shut. The fire in her eyes slowly died to be replaced by emptiness. “No difference, I suppose. None at all.”