Page 19

Wrapping her arms about herself, she walked to the end of the pier and stared unseeing at the channel. She looked weary, a woman defeated. Sinclair had an urge to go to her, pull her into his arms, but his mind reeled with confusion over his own feelings.

What the devil had gotten into him just now?

He had been acting like a jealous lover.

Which was absurd because he had never made love to Isabelle Varens.

What had they shared? A kiss. Never mind that it had been a kiss unlike any other that he had ever known, that the ridiculous thought had flashed through his mind that in Belle he had found something he had been searching for all his life.

So this is what it felt like to make an idiot of oneself over a woman. Chuff, if only you could see your rakehell brother now, he thought with a groan.

Completely cool in his past relations with women, Sinclair was not sure how to cope with this new unsettling experience.

Did one apologize for behaving like a jealous fool or simply let the matter drop?

Belle seemed too lost in her own unhappy thoughts to take any interest in what he might have to say.

But he discovered he was wrong. She was aware of both him and his silence, for she remarked bitterly, “Well, Mr. Carrington? You are always so curious. I had expected by now to be barraged with questions about my relationship to the Comte de Egremont.”

“I am not sure this time, Angel, that l want to know?—”

“He was my husband.”

For a moment Sinclair was too stunned to say anything. Then he blurted out, “Your husband! I thought he was dead.”

“To me, he is, but it is a living death. In France they call it divorce.”

Sinclair thought himself past the age of being shocked by anything, but he could not quite manage to conceal his dismay.

“Divorce?”

“Another of the Revolution’s civilizing improvements, Mr. Carrington.” She essayed a careless laugh, which stuck in her throat. “It does not require an act of Parliament to dissolve a marriage in Paris, only a few pen strokes on a piece of parchment, a mutual agreement to make an end.”

How mutual had that agreement been in Belle’s case? Sinclair wondered. One look at the misery brimming in her eyes answered his question. As he groped for his pocket handkerchief, he damned Jean-Claude Varens for a fool.

Usually adept at turning aside the flood of feminine tears he so disliked, for once Sinclair could not think of anything witty or consoling to say. He handed Belle the handkerchief in a gesture of silent sympathy.

She stared at the soft linen blankly at first, then her eyes widened with comprehension.

“Oh, I see. You thought I was going to cry. No fear of that. I have forgotten how.” She returned the handkerchief to him with a self-mocking smile.

“A pity, isn’t it? Weeping, when done prettily, can be such a useful accomplishment for a woman. ”

The way she sought to conceal her pain moved Sinclair far more than any tears would have done. He reached for her, but she shrank from his touch.

“If you do not object, Sinclair, I believe I will go on board now.”

“Belle—”

“I always spend the crossing alone in the cabin, but I will join you when we disembark.”

She backed away from him, so clearly rejecting his comfort. Sinclair allowed his arm to drop helplessly to his side. She spun on her heel and fled along the dock toward the gangplank.

Sinclair stared after her, crumpling the handkerchief in his fist, struck by the irony of the situation.

All his life he had striven to avoid weeping females, yet he would have given much to cradle Belle in his arms and let her sob out her grief against his chest. But all he could do was stand there and let her go.

Never sure how she managed it, Belle hurried blindly aboard the Good Lady Nell.

The ship’s planking seemed to rock beneath her feet.

When she located her cabin, she stumbled across the threshold.

The chamber was narrow and dark but for the light filtering from one small lantern, giving her the queasy sensation of being swallowed whole into the maw of some mammoth sea beast.

But she welcomed even the creaking confines of the ship’s cabin as a haven. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes as though that action could somehow also shut out the tormenting thoughts chasing through her mind.

Jean-Claude … Had she only dreamed what had happened upon the pier, or after so many empty years had he actually walked back into her life again?

No, she would have never imagined that sort of a meeting, that they would draw so close and never touch, strangers and yet not strangers, that he would appear to her and so swiftly vanish without a word of farewell.

Not even her nightmares had ever been that cruel.

“Ah, chérie , there you are at last,” Paulette Beauvais’s cheery greeting jangled Belle’s nerves.

Belle opened her eyes, her vision assaulted by the too-bright yellow of Paulette’s low-cut gown, the garishness of the frock accented by the thin red ribbon she habitually wore tied about her neck and the blowsy disorder of her short brown curls.

Paulette stood over an open trunk, shaking out a somber gown of black wool. Her dark eyes twinkled. “I thought it time I changed into my guise of your oh so proper maidservant before?—”

Paulette’s stream of chatter halted as she peered at Belle. The scrutiny emphasized the elfin slant of the Frenchwoman’s eyes.

“ Qu’est que c’est, chérie ? You look as though you have seen the ghost.”

Paulette’s remark hit so near the truth that Belle suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

Paulette frowned, “Is it Lazare who has upset you? I saw him come aboard. The varien! . I will fling him into the sea if he?—”

“No. It is nothing to do with Lazare.” Belle moved away from the door. She sank down upon the cabin’s hard cot. “It is only that-that you know how I feel about ships.”

All solicitude, Paulette bustled to her side. “ Ma pauvre . How stupid of me to forget.” She pressed her thin hand to Belle’s brow. “You anticipate the mal de mer . Never fret. Paulette will take care of you as soon as I change my frock.”

Belle removed Paulette’s hand from her forehead. Go away, Paulette, she thought wearily, wishing the vivacious Frenchwoman would sense her need to be alone.

Oblivious to Belle’s mood, Paulette hummed a little tune and shrugged her short, wiry frame out of the yellow gown.

Even to be rid of Paulette’s unwanted presence, Belle could not bring herself to reveal any portion of the real cause of her distress.

Despite having worked with Paulette for over a year, Belle had never been able to confide in her anything of importance.

Useful enough for the role she played, Paulette seemed too flighty to ever be trusted in any great matters.

While Belle wished her elsewhere, Paulette slipped into the black dress, bubbling on about the amusement she had found amongst the handsome sailors in Portsmouth’s Royal Navy Yard.

“All the same, I shall be glad to return to my Paris. That is the best place on earth to find love.”

Or to lose it, Belle thought sadly. Her gaze roved toward the bare wooden beams of the ceiling as she strained to hear sounds coming from the deck above.

The boy, Jean-Jacques, had said something about his father returning to France on this same ship.

Could Jean-Claude even now be that close to her?

Napoleon had granted amnesty to the émigrés from the Revolution.

She had noticed that Jean-Claude had resumed the use of his title.

Did he intend to resume his old life at Merevale as well?

Not that any of that was her concern. Belle lowered her head, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. No matter what Jean-Claude’s plans, there was no place in them for her. She thought she had learned to live with that fact years ago. Then why did seeing him again hit her so hard?

Perhaps it had been the look in his eyes, still so shattered and unforgiving of the deception she had practiced upon him long ago. Perhaps it was the knowledge that until he pardoned her, she would never be able to forgive herself.

“Here, chérie . Drink this.”

Belle blinked, becoming aware that Paulette stood over her, offering her a glass half-filled with a muddy-colored liquid. Her curls secured beneath a mob cap, her lithe frame attired in sober black, Paulette had effected an amazing transformation into that of a proper, middle-aged lady’s maid.

Belle eyed the glass with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Laudanam, ma chére . It will put you to sleep. Then you will not feel the ship’s rockings.”

Belle’s lip curled with distaste. But with all those phantoms that lurked in the darker corners of her mind, waiting to be set free, Belle had found sleep more often a curse than a blessing.

Too weary to resist Paulette’s insistence, Belle accepted the glass and set it down on top of a small shelf affixed to the wall. By pretending she would take the laudanum in a few minutes, she managed to be rid of Paulette at last, encouraging the woman to take the air on deck.

As the door closed behind Paulette, silence settled over the cabin, as heavy as the weight of memories pressing upon Belle’s heart. She stretched out on the hard cot, flinging one arm across her eyes.

How strange it all was. After a lifetime of being haunted by thoughts of Jean-Claude, Fate should decree that their paths cross on this particular day, a day in which he had not once entered her mind, a day in which she had admitted to feeling desire for another man.