Page 37

Eleven

T he ride back from the Tuileries was accomplished in silence. Belle retreated deep within her hood, still deeper within the confines of herself.

When they reached the apartment, Sinclair saw that she meant to bid him good night in the antechamber and turn to go upstairs without another word.

He gently caught her arm. “Belle, please stay a moment. I’d like to?—”

“I know. We have much to discuss. I want tell you all about what happened with Bonaparte. But I am so tired. We can talk about everything in the morning.”

Sinclair frowned. From her shuttered expression, he knew that ‘everything’ was not likely to include Jean-Claude Varens. He found something strange about the Comte’s sudden reappearance and was still disturbed by the possibility of a link between Varens and Lazare.

But one glimpse of Belle’s pale face and Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to mention the man’s name again tonight. Her shoulders sagged with fatigue, her eyes beset by a kind of defeated weariness that appeared to run soul deep.

He stepped aside and permitted her to retreat up the stairs.

As he watched her solitary figure trudge toward the shadows of the landing above, Sinclair was reminded curiously of Chuff, how he had held his younger brother’s hand to help him brave the hobgoblins waiting in the dark.

Sinclair wished he could do the same for that proud, lonely woman as she vanished up the stairs to battle with her own demons.

He cursed, consigning Jean-Claude Varens to the bottom of the Seine. Astonishing what havoc that stiff-necked nobleman could wreak upon Belle. When Sinclair had returned to the reception salon with her cloak, he had seen her speaking to Varens.

It had been obvious that they quarreled.

Belle had been angry, but the anger had been quickly replaced with devastation.

Sinclair could not understand it. Bold enough to flirt with a dangerous man like Bonaparte, capable of snapping out commands to a half-mad dog like Lazare, and yet Belle could be crushed by one unkind word from Varens.

What hold did that somber man possess over her?

Sinclair could think of only one—love, the once and forever kind. For all her cool exterior, Belle was an intensely passionate woman. When she chose to love, it would be for always, and Jean-Claude just happened to be the man who had stirred those feelings inside of her.

“I came into your life years too late, Angel,” Sinclair murmured sadly.

Belle had told Paulette not to wait up, but the woman hadn’t listened. She bustled about the bedchamber full of questions about the reception. Had Belle met Napoleon? What had happened? Did Belle have any more idea of what her plans were?

Belle was of no humor to answer questions or to listen to Paulette’s bright chatter.

As soon as the woman helped Belle out of her gown, Belle dismissed her to her own bed.

Paulette’s eyes narrowed with annoyance, then her mouth twisted into a smirk.

“But of course, chérie . If there are any other services you want performed, you can always summon Monsieur Carrington.”

Belle did not reply to this pert comment, all but shutting the door in Paulette’s face.

She leaned up against the barrier listening to Paulette retreat down the hall.

Then she exuded a wearied sigh. Her mind felt numb from the bewildering whirl of events that had taken place that evening.

She could not allow herself to think about any of it.

Belle pushed away from the door and, with motions that were instinctive, gathered up her gown.

She smoothed out the folds, then put it away and returned her slippers and chemise to the wardrobe drawer before donning her nightgown.

After removing the pearl netting, she brushed out her hair with rhythmic strokes, then rearranged the things on her dressing table until they lay with their customary mathematical precision.

It was as though by restoring order to the room, she hoped she could restore order to her mind as well, but it was not working.

A montage of scenes from the reception whirled through her brain: the heat of Sinclair’s gaze as he had handed her from the carriage, the uneasiness of being questioned by Fouché, the brief interlude with Napoleon, her sense of triumph which had faded with the sight of Jean-Claude, the grim confrontation that had followed, Sinclair’s tormenting question, “What the devil is he doing here in Paris?”

How she longed to be able to answer that, even if only for herself.

That reception at the Tuileries was the last place she would have expected to encounter Jean-Claude.

Had he come to plead for the return of his estates, or to seek his fortune with the new government?

Neither action sounded like the proud Comte de Egremont.

Jean-Claude had ever been a man of principle.

Although he supported some goals of the Revolution, he had remained fiercely loyal to the Bourbon kings.

To think that he might at last be capable of sacrificing his notions of honor brought Belle real pain.

The Revolution had robbed him of so many of his dreams, and she had helped.

She had always been able to console herself that at least Jean-Claude had been spared his pride.

A shiver coursed through her, and she noticed that the fire on the grate was dying, a chill settling over the room. She must abandon these miserable thoughts and seek out her bed. Time to face what she most dreaded, the extinguishing of the candles.

The elaborate bed looked empty and uninviting. Over large, it might have been a state bed for a queen, the gauzy white curtains stirring eerily in the draft, a fit place to be laid out to die.

Belle tried to close her mind against the grim thought. This night would be no better than last. She faced another lonely vigil in hell. She was already so cold.

The sound of someone stirring in the next room carried to her ears, Sinclair, preparing for bed.

She must take care not to disturb him tonight with her pacing.

Belle ran her fingers over her chilled flesh.

She could not help remembering how warm, how strong Sinclair’s arms could be, what fire his kisses had spread through her body.

Her eyes tracked to the door connecting their chambers, the thought rising unbidden that she need not be alone tonight. Sinclair’s voice echoed through her mind, “If anything is troubling you, Angel, feel free …”

Only a few steps, a door separated them. What would Sinclair do if she came to him? She had read enough of want in his eyes. She did not think he would send her away.

She glided forward like a sleepwalker, only staying herself when her hand encountered the hard reality of the doorknob.

No, how could she? She had tried passion a time or two before as an opiate to her pain.

It could be as effective as laudanum, but the aftereffects of making love without love were more bitter.

And she had nothing but passion to give.

Hazarding one’s life was one thing, but her heart- she could never do that again.

But the thought persisted that with Sinclair, this time would be different. There would be no regrets. Yet when she tried to turn the knob, her hand fell away, her courage deserting her.

But to face the prospect of that lonely bed, the nightmares, was equally impossible.

She fetched her shawl instead and swirled it about her shoulders.

She knew of a bottle of brandy that had been left below stairs in the kitchen When all else fails, seek out Mama’s tried and true remedy for heartache, she told herself bitterly.

She would sit by the window and get quietly drunk.

The clock had just chimed quarter after two when Sinclair thought he heard a noise downstairs.

He went to investigate, still clad in his shirtsleeves and breeches.

He had been unable to sleep in any case.

Attempts to read a book had proved futile.

The silence from Belle’s room had seemed to roar in his ears.

How he sensed that she also was not asleep he could not have said. Nor even why he stalked so fearlessly downstairs, not in the least apprehensive of whom the intruder might be. Somehow he already knew.

The antechamber was dark, but light emanated from the drawing room.

Through the half-open door, Sinclair could see a fire crackling upon the hearth, a candle left lit upon the mantel.

But when he peered inside the chamber, he discovered Belle ensconced on the side of the room that remained cold and uninviting, where the wind rattled the glass of the tall, latticed windows.

She huddled upon a wing-backed chair, an Indian shawl flung over her nightgown as she sat staring past the draperies.

Silhouetted by the moonlight, her golden hair appeared spun from its beams, her eyes hollowed by shadows as foreboding as the night itself.

Although she started at Sinclair’s entrance, she did not acknowledge his presence. Her breath stilled as though she waited to see if he would go quietly away and leave her prey to her night terrors, to fight on alone as she must have done so many times.

“Not this time, Angel,” Sinclair murmured to himself. “Curse me, hate me, try to shut me out. But I cannot leave you alone tonight.”

He crossed the room silently. She did not look toward him even when his shadow fell across her.

When she spoke, her voice was calm. “Good evening, Mr. Carrington.”

“Perhaps you should say good morrow. It must be nearly half past two.”

“Is it?” She leaned closer to the window pane, tipping her head back. “It looks nothing like morning to me. But then, the sky always seems to me much darker over Paris. There have been times I would have sworn dawn would never break here again.”