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What must Sinclair be thinking of her now?

Again she had told him more than she had ever intended.

Even he had looked a little shocked when she informed him about the divorce.

But there had been no censure in his eyes.

He would have drawn her into his arms if she would have let him, and for a brief second the temptation had been great.

But what a mockery that would have been for both of them—to wail out her grief for her lost love against Sinclair’s strong shoulder. For she did still grieve for Jean-Claude, perhaps more so than if he had died.

The feeling angered, frustrated and shamed her. Obviously, Jean-Claude had managed to rebuild his life and remarry. Doubtless his bride had been some winsome English lass of gentle birth, not the mongrel daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury Lane.

And now he was a widower, but with a sweet-faced little son to bring him consolation. A son that might have been hers if things had been different.

Groaning softly, Belle rolled onto her stomach. Her gaze fell upon the laudanum Paulette had left. With such agonizing thoughts to torment her, even sleep with all its attendant nightmares seemed not so bad. Against her will, Belle reached for the glass.

The Good Lady Nell shuddered, her prow sluicing gracefully through the choppy channel waters.

Overhead the sails snapped and billowed in the stiff breeze.

The brisk wind had long since driven most of the passengers below except for the three men who ranged themselves along the deck and watched the outline of the distant shore emerge ever more sharp and clear.

Sinclair perched atop a barrel lashed to the deck, his easy pose belying the tension knotted between his shoulder blades. Through a haze of smoke from his cheroot, he divided his time between keeping an eye on Lazare and studying Jean-Claude Varens.

Varens stood alone by the deck rail, his fine-chiseled features suffused with an expression of melancholy.

Despite the simplicity of his dark suit and high-crowned beaver hat, something in the comte’s dignified carriage would ever mark him as an aristocrat, one of those noblemen who positively reeked of virtue, duty, and honor.

Sinclair tried to picture Belle as Jean-Claude’s wife, tried and failed. She had too much strength, too much vitality to be wed to a dull dog like that. Yet it appeared to be Varens who had ended the marriage, and Belle the one who still grieved.

Sinclair wished that Belle had not bared so much of her heart to him that morning.

She might come to hate him for that, making their relationship more awkward than it already was.

And there was some of her private pain he did not wish to know.

Bad enough that he desired the lady beyond all reason.

He didn’t need her stirring any deeper emotions inside him.

Yet it was his task to discover all that he could about her, to decide if she was the one passing information to Napoleon. But the assignment was beginning to leave a more bitter taste in his mouth than a stale cigar.

With a heavy sigh, Sinclair abandoned his lazy pose. Striding to the rail, he flung his cheroot into the churning waves. It was then that Lazare made his move. Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair watched with some surprise as Lazare approached Varens.

Jean-Claude gave a start as though rudely awakened.

Sinclair expected that the comte would snub any effort at conversation, sending Lazare on his way with a chilly dismissal.

Instead, Jean-Claude made a stiff bow. Although he looked somewhat apprehensive, he listened courteously to what Lazare had to say.

A passing acknowledgment between travelers meeting by chance on the same vessel?

Sinclair wondered. He wished he could inch close enough to hear what was being said without attracting attention, but that was impossible.

It didn’t matter anyway, for Lazare had finished his remarks.

With a brisk nod, he moved on and Varens returned to staring over the side.

How strange, Sinclair thought, his eyes narrowing. Strange indeed now that he happened to think about it—that Belle’s former husband should sail to France on the same ship as she.

Belle would doubtless dismiss Sinclair’s concern with an impatient shrug. A bizarre coincidence, she would likely say.

“There’s only one problem, Angel,” Sinclair murmured. “I don’t much believe in coincidence.”

Relieved when Etienne Lazare stalked away from him, Jean-Claude directed his gaze toward the approaching shoreline.

The sea spray misted against his cheeks, but some of the salt droplets originated from his own eyes.

His beloved France. How he had ached for this day when he would once more gaze upon the only land he could ever call home.

Yet the time had arrived and his vision blurred with tears.

All he could see was her face. Isabelle, the woman he had once cherished as his wife.

The shock of seeing her again had been enough to kill him. Time had changed her so little, her face yet blessed with that radiance, that purity which had once captured his heart. It touched him even now when he knew the painful truth about her.

She was so beautiful. He had forgotten how much so.

No, he lied. He had never forgotten. Isabelle’s image had been ingrained upon his soul even when he had sought life anew in the arms of the gentle Lady Sarah Belvoir.

God forgive him, even when he had laid his poor Sarah to rest in the churchyard, his thoughts had been of Isabelle, wondering if she yet lived.

And now he knew. Isabelle was very much alive and recently married to that darkly handsome man with the mocking eyes. Jean-Claude should at last be able to put her out of his heart, concentrate only on his return to France, the purpose that drew him back.

But he could not. The pain that she had caused him, the years of separation, even the knowledge that she now had another husband—one look at her and none of that seemed to matter. Jean-Claude buried his face in his hands. God help him, he still loved her.

What was that fool Varens doing? Lazare wondered as he studied the comte’s trembling shoulders. Shivering with cold or weeping over his return to France?

“Bah!” Lazare snorted. “What a weakling!”

Why had he ever bothered to seek out Varens?

The man would likely prove useless for the role Lazare had in mind.

Lazare’s gaze shifted to the companionway that led to the cabins.

He knew which door Belle sheltered behind.

Might it not be better even now to slip below and make an end?

He fingered the hilt of the knife concealed beneath his cloak.

Perspiration beaded his brow as he thought of pressing the sharp tip to Belle’s slender white throat, the point breaking through the skin, slicing in a slow arc, the rivulets of her warm blood trickling over his fingers.

A shiver of ecstasy coursed through him, stirring an ache deep in his loins, but he forced his hand away from the knife. He had waited too long for his revenge to finish it that quickly, that easily for Belle. And that Carrington fellow was watching him again.

“Stare all you like, Englishman,” Lazare muttered, self-consciously touching a hand to his scarred flesh. “In a month’s time the maggots will have devoured your eyes.”

And as for the Avenging Angel—Lazare sneered—she would count herself blessed if her own death came so swift as the one Lazare envisioned for Carrington.

Because Lazare had far different plans for Belle, a vengeance more subtle and sweet.

She herself had given him the key to it, that long ago night when her fever had raged.

In her delirium she had cried out her terrors of being locked away in the Conciergerie, of mounting the steps to the guillotine, of her despairing love for Jean-Claude Varens.

“So rest while you may, ma belle .” Lazare’s mouth tightened with grim satisfaction. “I am about to make all of your worst nightmares come true.”

Paulette’s laudanum took effect. Oblivious to the rocking of the ship and the three men who stalked the deck above her, Belle slept.