Page 28

Nine

W ith the others gone, a silence settled over the drawing room, the rain beating out a monotonous rhythm against the window.

Belle glanced out at the slate-colored sky.

Not a hint of the sun. The rain was likely to continue all day—typical Paris weather as she remembered it, the city forever washed in gray.

Watching the rivulets trickle down the panes of glass, she reviewed the morning’s events. The meeting had gone well enough, she judged. She had maintained a reasonable amount of control over Lazare, as much as anyone could. But she was glad he had no share in what was to take place tonight.

At last she would meet Bonaparte face to face—the plot would begin to take form. From this night on, there could be no turning back from the course she would set into motion. A shiver—part fear, part anticipation—coursed through her.

But first there was the interminable dreariness of the afternoon to be gotten through. She was not the sort of woman to spend an entire day preparing herself for an evening’s event. Time enough to worry about her appearance whenever Paulette returned.

Her chief concern for now was what to do in the hours stretching until then, hours to be spent in the apartment, alone with Sinclair.

Although she had her back to him, she remained conscious of his presence.

She knew he sprawled in the chair where Lazare had sat.

As soon as the men had gone, Sinclair had made himself comfortable, stripping off his frock coat and cravat.

Even without looking at him, Belle retained a clear picture, Sinclair’s image imprinted upon her mind, the way his dark head rested against the back of the chair, the cast of his rakehell features for once solemn and thoughtful.

He was so quiet. Too quiet for Sinclair. What was he thinking? She had no idea. Sometimes she wondered if she ever truly knew what went on in his head. It occurred to her more forcibly than ever how little she knew of her partner.

Belle frowned as her thoughts shifted back to Sinclair’s disturbing remark about Feydeau. Sinclair’s explanation had been plausible enough, and yet it had startled her, his betraying knowledge that she found unaccountable.

Over the years, Belle had acquired an instinct for detecting when a man was being less than honest. When she had asked Sinclair about Feydeau, she could have sworn Sinclair was lying to her.

And all those questions about Paulette this morning.

Sometimes Sinclair seemed far more bent upon seeking information about the society than about Napoleon. But why?

Vague suspicions drifted through Belle’s mind as intangible as wisps of smoke.

She shook her head as though to clear it.

Perhaps once more she was building a case upon trifles.

That was the difficulty sometimes. Being suspicious, not trusting, had become second nature to her.

It had saved her life upon more than one occasion.

But life on the edge as Sinclair described it could be a wearisome affair.

Hearing Sinclair stirring at last, she turned to face him. He had shifted to the edge of his chair, removed his pocket watch from its fob to examine it, shook it first, then held it to his ear.

As though feeling her gaze upon him, he glanced up and smiled.

When he smiled at her like that, she felt that she knew him very well, his eyes reaching out to encompass her in their warmth, something in his glance establishing a conspiracy between them, a conspiracy of hearts which shut out the rest of the world.

An absurd thought. Yet she found herself returning his smile, slowly pacing toward the side of the room where he sat.

She stood over him, watching as he deftly wielded a tiny gold key, winding his watch.

The timepiece bore a look of spartan plainness, the face set with bold black Roman numerals, no scene engraved upon the gold case, yet somehow more elegant for its simplicity.

“That’s a most handsome timepiece,” she remarked.

“A gift from my father,” Sinclair said, without looking up from his task. “One of those rare occasions I ever merited his approval.”

It was the first time Belle could ever recall Sinclair mentioning anything about family. Drawing up a stool from in front of the hearth, she settled herself upon it, so close that she could lean upon the arm of Sinclair’s chair.

“You and your father,” she asked, “you do not get on well?”

“Well enough—as long as neither of us speaks to the other.”

He spoke in his usual light fashion, but Belle detected an undercurrent, a hint of regret that perhaps only she could have caught, harboring so many regrets herself.

As she observed him give the key one final turn, she said, “I never had the opportunity to quarrel with my father. I never even knew who he was.”

Why had she told Sinclair that? she wondered. Perhaps there was something about sitting before a crackling fire on a wet gray day that invited confidences. Perhaps for some odd reason she could not define, she felt it was time Sinclair knew the truth about her.

“I am illegitimate, the daughter of a Drury Lane actress.” She pretended to gaze into the orange-gold glow of the flames, all the while covertly studying him, awaiting his reaction.

“Well, Angel,” he drawled as he reattached the watch to its fob. “I have frequently been called a bastard myself.”

His response provoked a laugh from her, the words so irreverent, so improper, so totally Sinclair.

She had just told him her greatest source of shame, the secret that had devastated Jean-Claude Varens, and Sinclair had not raised so much as an eyebrow.

Instead he had managed to make her laugh over something that had always caused her pain.

In that instant she knew what it was about Sinclair that disarmed her. He never judged. He gave her complete freedom to be exactly who she was, nothing more, nothing less. A rather overwhelming gift and a little frightening. She was not sure she was ready to accept it as yet.

She felt relieved when he turned the subject, although she suspected he might have been doing so to avoid any more discussion about his own past. Picking up the rope that Lazare had been toying with earlier, he said, “I suppose you noticed our friend Lazare’s handiwork.”

“The noose? Yes, I observed him fashioning it during the meeting. I expect he thought to unnerve me.”

“Angel—”

“I know.” She cut him off, recognizing Sinclair’s warning growl. “You want to tell me again to be careful. I shall. I do assure you that I shall keep Lazare’s role in this affair to a minimum.”

Sinclair did not appear satisfied, but he swallowed what he had been about to say.

He fiddled with the rope, and the knots Lazare had made easily came undone.

Sinclair gave a snort of contempt. “The man appears to be handier with his knife than a rope. Whatever part he plays, I hope if there is any trussing up to be done, you don’t entrust it to him. ”

Belle smiled. “If anything in that line becomes necessary, I could do it myself. I tie a very wicked knot.”

Sinclair said nothing, casting a skeptical glance at her hands. She could tell he was assessing the softness and whiteness of her fingers, then drawing his own doubtful conclusions. This hint of male arrogance sent a prickle of annoyance through her.

“Believe me, Mr. Carrington,” she said. “If I ever tied your hands together, you would not get them undone very quickly.”

“Care to wager on that?” A wicked sparkle appeared in his eyes.

“No,” she retorted, “for I fear any wagers made with you would not involve money.”

“But what have you to fear?” He favored her with the most maddeningly superior grin. “If milady is so sure of herself.”

He dropped the rope in her lap. She should have laughed off his remarks and let it go at that. But she had never, from the time she was a little girl, borne sense enough to back down from a dare.

Sinclair clasped his hands together in front of him and docilely held them out to her. Slowly Belle picked up the rope.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I would never make it that easy for someone I had captured. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind you.”

He did as he was told, but with such a smirk on his face, Belle resisted the urge to give the rope an extra hard tug as she began knotting it about his wrists.

Frequently she had found one could judge the strength of a man by his hands.

Sinclair’s tanned fingers were long and well formed, the tips slightly calloused.

She could feel the tautness of the muscle coming down from his forearm and took great care to make the knots tight, well secured.

“There.” She stood back, admiring her handiwork. “I would likely bind your ankles as well, but since I don’t have another rope, this will do for demonstration purposes.”

He cast a patronizing look over his shoulder. “If you wish, I will pretend to have my ankles tied.” Stiffening his legs together, he took a slight hop forward.

“Step back and give me a little room. After capturing me, I would assume you went on your way, pursuing your nefarious schemes.”

“Consider me gone.” Belle dipped into a mocking curtsy. She moved back to the doorway, hands propped on her hips, waiting to see what he would do next.

Sinclair dropped to his knees and rolled to one side.

Belle watched him flex his shoulders back, straining to move his arms past the hard curve of his buttocks, then down over his legs in an effort to draw his hands up in front, It was rather an incredible maneuver, considering Sinclair’s muscular build and the tightness of the shirt and waistcoat restraining him.

He appeared to be quite limber, but from the beads of perspiration dotting his brow and the set of his lips, Belle could tell the movement was not performed without some pain.

She had never intended the foolish game to go that far. “Sinclair?—”

“Quiet,” he said through clenched teeth. “I need to concentrate.”