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A trill of laughter escaped Belle. The sound coming from her was so rare, so delightful, Sinclair forgot his annoyance.

He stared down at her. After a night spent in a bedchamber as heavily perfumed as a Turkish seraglio, Belle was like a breath of sweet English country air.

A fresh womanly scent emanated from her.

Her face was a trifle pale, but he had imagined that she would look pale upon rising, her complexion almost translucent.

His gaze traced the slender column of her throat, the neckline of her nightgown just visible beneath the robe she wore.

That, too, was as he would have imagined, so totally like what she would choose, of fine linen with no lacy frills.

Likely it would cling to her skin, revealing just a hint of the blushing hue of her curves beneath.

The sight of her never failed to stir his senses, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to check his errant thoughts.

“So how did you ever become connected with a doxy like that Beauvais woman?” he asked. She does not seem like the sort of efficient companion you would choose.”

“Paulette does well enough when set to simple tasks. I never tax her with any great matters. She can play the role of lady’s maid to perfection. Even you must admit she looks the part.”

“Except for that damned ribbon she always has tied about her neck. Why does she wear that thing?”

Belle’s smile faded. “Paulette wears it as a form of memorial. Her parents both died upon the guillotine.”

“Don’t you find that a little macabre?”

“We all have our own ways of remembering and forgetting.” Her voice sounded wistful, a little sad.

Before he could stop himself, Sinclair reached up one finger and traced one of the delicate blue shadows beneath her eyes. “And what were you trying so hard to forget last night, Angel?”

She shied away from his touch.”I never sleep too well in Paris.”I am sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t disturb me. I only wish you had …” He let the thought trail away unspoken, sensing her withdrawal even before she took a step back.

“I think we both had better get dressed,” she said. “The others will be here for the meeting soon.”

She slipped back into her own bedchamber and closed the door upon him. Again. But this time he made no movement to stop her.

“You only wished she had what, Carrington?” He mocked himself. Come to him last night, let him hold her in his arms while she poured out all the secrets of her heart? Everything is all right, Angel. You can tell me anything. Trust me.

Sinclair’s mouth twisted into a frown of self-disgust. Well, his father had always told him that being a spy was a profession only for a blackguard. For the first time in his life he was beginning to fear the old man was right.

Several hours later, after a light breakfast, Sinclair stood in the drawing room.

Hands on hips, his dove-colored frock coat shoved back, he watched the rain wash past the tall latticed windows.

It gushed from gutters above, sending a stream of water cascading upon the hapless pedestrians in the street below.

Huddled beneath cloaks and umbrellas, they scurried along like soaked rats through the river of chocolate-colored mud which the Rue St. Honoré had become.

With a warm fire crackling on the hearth behind him, Sinclair felt grateful to be up here, rather than out there.

Isabelle Varens in many respects made his job seem well nigh impossible, but in this one instance she had rendered his task easier for him. By calling this meeting she had gathered all his chief suspects under one roof, giving him a chance to assess each of them.

Turning from the window, he faced the other three men who occupied the drawing room.

Lazare slouched on a wing-backed chair before the fire, his muddy boots perched on a delicate table.

Although divested of his greatcoat, he had not troubled to remove his red Phrygian cap, the ends of his white-blond hair damp from the rain.

It was abundantly clear that he was tired of waiting for Belle.

He kept twisting a length of rope with his large hands, the firelight casting his hideous scar into shadow and accenting the sullen set of his aquiline profile.

The fallen angel Lucifer, Sinclair thought wryly, toasting his buttocks in hell. Lazare remained his favorite candidate for the counteragent, but he could not afford to indulge in wishful thinking.

His gaze moved on to the man seated on the settee opposite from Lazare.

Marcellus Crecy, Sinclair’s most recent acquaintance, the last of the names on his list. The fragile piece of furniture groaned under the man’s bulk.

Despite his size, Crecy was a handsome man, his silvery hair swept back from a leonine brow.

He exuded a manner of suave charm, his waistcoat exquisitely tailored to fit his portly girth.

At the moment he appeared to have nothing weightier upon his mind than nibbling pastries from a china plate balanced upon his knee.

Sinclair mentally reviewed what information he had been provided about the man, Crecy was descended from a prominent noble family, the grandson of a marquis, but at present Crecy was the proprietor of a most discreet and successful gaming house.

He might in truth be a devoted member of Merchant’s society, longing for the return of the monarchy, or he might well be content with his life just as it was. Only time would tell,

Dismissing Crecy for the moment, Sinclair shifted his attention to the last of the three.

Baptiste Renault was not as easy to mount a covert study of.

The little man never kept still, leaping up to jab the poker at the fire, to straighten some books upon the shelf, or to peer out the door for Belle.

His restlessness reminded Sinclair of his brother Chuff’s fidgets, but with a marked difference.

Renault’s movements appeared to stem more from a man not accustomed to idleness or a man whose mind was not quite at ease.

These then were his choices. Despite a professed loyalty to Merchant’s cause, one of these three had likely been selling maps of the English coastline and encampments to Napoleon Bonaparte. These, all his chief suspects but for one …

Belle’s light step was heard approaching in the antechamber.

She paused a moment, framed in the drawing room’s double doorway, Garbed in forest green jaconet, she wore matching spencer, the close fitting jacket trimmed with military frogging.

Her golden hair was swept up in a chignon, the rather severe style emphasizing her high cheekbones.

Sinclair mentally applauded her choice. She was a woman entering a roomful of men over whom she needed to establish dominance, be acknowledged as their leader.

To do that she needed to suppress all hint of softness.

Yet Sinclair suspected she knew how to make full use of her femininity, her beauty when occasion demanded.

She was either the most complex woman he had ever known or the most accomplished actress.

She insisted she worked only for the money, yet she had forfeited her pay to rescue the Coterin family.

Sinclair had seen her look strong, almost ruthless, as she did now, and he had held her in his arms, vulnerable, trembling like a child from a bad dream.

He had watched how tenderly she could caress a small boy’s curls, but he knew those same delicate-veined hands were equally capable of shooting a man.

Isabelle Gordon … Isabelle Varens? What other names might she have?

“Who are you really, Angel?” Sinclair murmured to himself. He needed to know as much for himself as any other reason.

Stepping into the room, her glance angled toward him as though she perceived how strongly his thoughts centered upon her. Sinclair was quick to erase the troubled frown from his face, and her gaze moved on to encompass the other men in turn.

“Gentlemen.” She acknowledged them all in her cool, clear voice. Baptiste beamed at her while Crecy stopped eating long enough to scramble to his feet with a polished bow. Only Lazare remained seated, twisting his head to stare at her.

“Our intrepid leader at last,” he drawled.

Belle ignored him as though he had not even spoken. “I am glad that all of you could be so prompt. Pray do not stand on formality. Please be seated.”

Baptiste and Crecy settled themselves upon the settee. Sinclair drew up a stiff-backed chair, but remained near the windows, deliberately keeping outside of the circle, the better to observe. As Belle closed the double doors behind her, Lazare called out, “So where’s the dark-haired slut?”

“If you mean Paulette,” Belle said, “I saw no need for her to join us today. She is usefully engaged in taking care of more practical matters such as the marketing.”

“Indeed.” Crecy paused from licking his fingers to chortle. “Even spies must eat.”

“Some more so than others.” Lazare shot him a contemptuous look, before turning back to Belle. “You kept us cooling our heels long enough. We are all breathless to hear your instructions.”

With a fixed smile, Belle approached Lazare.”To begin with, you can remember you are under my roof, not in a tavern.” She swept Lazare’s feet off the table, knocking them to the floor. Then she snatched the cap off his head, tossing it into his lap.

Lazare caught it reflexively. He stiffened, his eyes flashing dangerously. Sinclair tensed, coming half off his chair. If Lazare made one move-

But with great visible effort Lazare controlled his temper. He stuffed the cap down on the seat beside him and settled back. Sinclair sat back down, yet felt far from easy. Lazare, his mouth set in a sullen line, resumed snapping the ends of the rope between his fingers.