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Eight

H is first night in Paris was not the worst Sinclair had ever spent, but he could not rank it among the best, either. The next morning he awoke to the sound of rain drumming against the window and a dull ache behind his eyes.

He had slept poorly, and insomnia was not an affliction he was accustomed to endure.

It was partly the fault of this damned bed, he thought as he rolled over with a groan.

He stared with disgust at the golden canopy suspended tent-like above him, the corners caught in the grasp of fat, grinning cherubs.

The mattress and pillows were too soft. His weight seemed to sink beneath a billowing cloud of silk, silk moreover that reeked of eau de heliotrope.

The cloying scent clung to him, making him feel like he had spent the night with a Covent Garden doxy.

But the bed, he had to admit, had only been part of the problem. Most of his sleeplessness was owing to the sounds that had emanated from the bedchamber adjoining his, the creak of the floorboards, the footfalls which told him that Belle had stayed awake well past midnight.

Glancing toward the sheer bed-curtains drawn together to keep the draft from his naked flesh, Sinclair could just make out the gray light of morning and wondered if Belle had paced until nearly dawn.

More terrifying dreams? Or was her restlessness owing to those memories that frequently brought that look of hopelessness to her eyes?

Sinclair’s urge to go to her had been strong, but he knew from bitter experience she would spurn his comfort.

Belle seemed to have learned a long time ago to endure her pain alone.

Who had helped her to con that lesson, the Comte de Egremont, Jean-Claude Varens?

Astonishing, Sinclair thought, that one could begin to harbor an intense loathing for such a noble gentleman, one that he scarcely knew.

All things considered, it was for the best that he had curbed his desire to slip into Belle’s room.

He was no saint, and Belle had been honest enough to admit she was not impervious to his touch.

What might have begun as comfort could have ended far differently.

He had known casual encounters in bed before and so, he suspected, had Belle, but he feared that the emotion that pulsed between them was too intense for that.

She might finish by hating him, and he didn’t want that.

But it was a prospect he had to face all the same, for it had occurred to him there might be one other reason to account for her sleeplessness.

She could be suffering from a guilty conscience.

An ugly thought that—and he had lain awake a great deal of the night, attempting to convince himself beyond all doubt that it could not be so, that it could not possibly be Belle who was the traitor he had been sent to capture.

His every instinct told him that she was not, but could instinct be trusted when clouded by an image of hair of spun gold; eyes, the color of an azure sky; a face so rife with hidden strength and delicate beauty it could haunt a man to the end of his days?

How he prayed the counteragent would prove to be Lazare.

If it was, he could derive great pleasure from putting an end to Lazare’s activities in passing information to the enemy.

Slowly Sinclair raised to a sitting position, wincing at his stiff muscles. However the affair turned out, he needed to stop thinking and start acting. He was in Paris now. Time to cease the speculations and set about finding out the truth.

He started to fling the coverlet aside when he heard the door to his chamber swing open.

Astonished, he froze in position, observing a shadowy figure rustling about beyond the bedcurtains.

Who in thunder would enter his room that boldly?

He had been careless in not locking his door, in not keeping a weapon close to hand, especially with a madman like Lazare, overly fond of his knife, living just two floors above in the garret.

Cautiously Sinclair parted his bedcurtains just enough to peer out.

He relaxed somewhat. It was only that woman Paulette, Belle’s erstwhile maid, her brown curls peeking out from beneath a frilled cap.

She had deposited a white pitcher upon the dressing table and now stooped to pick Sinclair’s shirt off the floor.

In one day he had already managed to reduce his room to a state of comfortable clutter.

Paulette would have appeared the image of the perfect maid tidying up, garbed in her somber gown, except for the thin red ribbon forming a bright slash about her throat and an indefinable something in her manner that rendered Sinclair uneasy.

As he watched her bend to retrieve his breeches, all but caressing the fabric, he felt his flesh crawl. Thrusting the bed-curtain back, he gripped the sheet about himself and boomed out, “What the devil do you think you are doing in here?”

She straightened with a tiny gasp, clasping her hands to her ample bosom. “Monsieur Carrington! How you startled me. I thought you still asleep.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I brought you up some hot water for shaving and started to tidy some of your things. Since you have no valet?—”

“I manage quite well without one. You might have seen fit to knock, mademoiselle.”

“But I did, monsieur. You must not have heard me.” She lowered her lashes demurely but not before Sinclair sensed her hot gaze rake over him.

He felt at a distinct disadvantage. It was difficult to appear indignant reclining on a bed, garbed only in a sheet.

With a low curse he stretched down to scoop up his dressing robe.

Retreating behind the bed-curtains, he struggled into the garment, tying the sash with a hard tug.

When he emerged, he discovered Mistress Beauvais had nonchalantly gone on with her task of cleaning up, moving toward his cloak draped over a chair and his umbrella.

Sinclair leaped out of bed and started toward her, his bare feet padding across the thick rosette-patterned carpet.

He reached her side in time to snatch the umbrella from her grasp and toss it upon a gilt-edged dressing table.

It was unlikely that anyone could detect the secret compartment in the handle that housed his papers, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“ Merci bien , mademoiselle,” he said. “If I require anything else, I will ring.”

She used the opportunity of his nearness to sidle up against him. “I could help you with your shaving,” she purred. “I have helped many gentlemen before.”

“I would never trust any woman with a razor.”

She flung back her head, giving a throaty laugh. “Monsieur is so droll.” Making no attempt to hide the hunger in her gaze, she brushed her hips against his. “Monsieur wears no nightshirt? Even in October our nights in Paris can be cold. You will catch your death.”

“I’ll be sure to build a large fire,” he said.

She ran her hand up the folds of his wine-colored robe, her fingertips grazing the exposed vee of his chest. “I am very good at starting fires.”

“I’ll wager you are.” He arrested the movement of her hand, thrusting it back at her. “But you won’t be starting any here.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, her full lips pursing into a pout. Sinclair took her by the elbow, preparing to steer her out the door if necessary, when he halted, dismayed to hear Belle’s voice calling from the adjoining chamber.

“Paulette! Where have you got to? Paulette?”

Though not guilty of anything, Sinclair could not explain the impulse that caused him to frown at Paulette and indicate with a jerk of his head that she should take her leave as silently as possible.

Her teeth parted in a malicious smile. “ Oui, ma chère ami !” she shouted. “I am in here.”

Sinclair bit back an urge to curse her. The door between his chamber and Belle’s swung open.

“Paulette? What on earth are you doing in—” Belle broke off. Clad only in her nightgown and dressing robe, her blond hair spilling about her shoulders, she drew up short on the threshold. She stared first at Paulette, her gaze then traveling questioningly toward Sinclair.

To his annoyance, he felt the red creep up his neck, and he tugged self-consciously at his robe, adjusting it more tightly over the bared expanse of his chest.

As Belle’s initial shock faded, she arched one brow. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Carrington. I would not have barged in upon you, but hearing Paulette in here, I assumed you must have already gone below. I did not realize you had er—pressed her into your service.”

“I was just telling Miss Beauvais that her services were not required,” Sinclair snapped.

Unperturbed by the embarrassment she had caused, Paulette sauntered to the door. She cast a wicked look back over her shoulder. “Another time, perhaps, monsieur.”

Sinclair glared at her, but the woman had already slipped past Belle into the other room. Belle also made a movement to vanish, but Sinclair shot forward, catching the side of the door to prevent her doing so.

“Belle, I know how that must have looked, but?—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Mr. Carrington.” Her voice was maddeningly cool. “1 am not your wife. Remember?”

“All the same, I don’t want you having the impression that I was trying to seduce that French strumpet.”

Belle’s lip quivered. She tried to look away, but she could no longer hide the gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“Alas, I know my Paulette very well. Though I always thought her tastes ran more to English sailors, I could tell when I entered that she was, shall we say—rendering you somewhat uncomfortable.”

Sinclair folded his arms across his chest. “To put it mildly. I am not accustomed to having my virtue assaulted.”