Page 6

Two

R ain drummed against the latticed panes of the window, the sky beyond a depressing shade of gray. Belle could not recall having seen the sun for the entire fortnight since she had landed in Portsmouth, and sat cooling her heels, waiting for some contact from Victor Merchant.

She felt grateful for the well-tended fire in the coffee room at Neptune’s Trident.

The flames hissed softly, casting a glow on the chamber’s dark mahogany paneling and the gleaming row of copperware arranged on the chimney shelf.

The blazing logs dispelled much of the damp chill that seemed to linger forever in the air of a seaside town. The brandy didn’t hurt either.

Raising her crystal glass, Belle sipped at the golden liquid, then stretched, arching her spine like a restless cat.

Gone were the black silks and heavy veil of the Widow Gordon.

She had become Mrs. Varens again, in a fashionable muslin gown and close-fitting spencer of dark blue, her blond curls flowing down from a chignon at the crown of her head.

A young waiter, the chamber’s only other occupant, bustled about, quietly clearing away the remains of her luncheon, a boiled round of beef, pudding and parsnips, custard, tarts, jellies, and a bit of cheese.

She had come a long way from the Golden Sun.

Then why did she keep thinking about the wretched place and what had happened there?

Thirteen days ago she had parted from the Coterins at Portsmouth’s quay.

She never expected to cross paths with any of them again.

Phillipe was young. Hopefully within the month he would meet some pretty English girl and forget his painful disillusionment with Belle.

As for herself … Belle frowned, tapping her fingers against her glass. It might take her a little longer to forget. She kept seeing Phillips’s shocked face, hearing him whisper, You killed that man. You shot him down and never looked back.

Maybe the reason she kept recalling those words was that the action had shocked her as well.

She had seen too much of death during the Revolution, in its many violent guises.

Had she become so calloused by it all that the taking of a life affected her so little?

The thought frightened her. She took another gulp of the brandy, but felt no warmth from the fiery liquid.

“Is there anything else you could wish for, Mrs. Varens?”

Belle glanced up to find that the host of the inn had stepped into the coffee room. The waiter exited, taking away the tray of dishes.

A tall man of distinguished bearing, Mr. Shaw beamed at her over the rims of his spectacles.

“No, nothing except a bit of sun, perhaps?” Belle nodded toward the rain-glazed windows.

“I’ll see what can be arranged,” Shaw said. “The Neptune’s Trident always strives to please its longtime patrons.”

The slamming of a door echoed from the taproom beyond, announcing some new arrivals. Mr. Shaw consulted his pocket watch.

“Too early for the stage to have arrived,” he said. “Perhaps it is someone traveling post, unless it turns out to be one of your, er—friends, Mrs. Varens. Please excuse me.”

Giving her his smartest bow, Mr. Shaw hustled off to see.

Belle permitted herself a wry smile. Behind those spectacles, the host’s keen eyes missed little.

Although he had never said anything, Belle had the feeling Mr. Shaw had long ago guessed what her occupation was, but the landlord was discreet and it made her comings and goings that much easier.

Lingering over her brandy, Belle watched with idle interest as Mr. Shaw returned with the latest guests—a formidable matron and another harassed-looking woman, obviously either a maid or a companion.

Shivering, they divested themselves of dripping cloaks and prepared to draw near the coffee room fire.

But as soon as the matron caught sight of Belle, her mouth pursed into a moue of disapproval.

Belle had no difficulty reading the woman’s mind. How shocking! A woman dining alone in the public room of an inn. Obviously a creature of questionable morals. The haughty dame turned to Mr. Shaw, demanding to be shown immediately to a private parlor.

“Of course, madam,” Shaw said. “Step this way, please.” He waited until the woman’s back was turned before he grimaced and cast an apologetic glance at Belle before escorting the two women from the room.

But Belle was accustomed to being snubbed by the so-called ‘ladies’ of this world.

She did have a fellow agent who frequently acted as her maid, but Paulette was above stairs, applying a roast onion to her earache.

Why should Belle have dined closeted in her room or have dragged the poor woman out of bed simply to feign respectability for some old harridan like that?

Snatching up her glass, she stalked over to the high backed bench by the fire and plunked down upon it. Heat warmed her cheeks, but she was honest enough to admit it was not caused by the fire. So she did still mind the snubs, even after all these years. What a fool she was!

Belle set her glass down upon the bench.

She had no more sense than that eleven-year-old girl who had hovered outside her mother’s dressing chamber at the Drury Lane Theatre, Staring deep into the leaping red-gold flames, Belle could almost envision the scrawny child she had been, peeking around the theater curtains at the galleries so far above her.

How those tiers of boxes had dazzled her eyes with the ladies bedecked in an array of silks and gemstones, their gentlemen no less magnificent, so dashing, so attentive.

“I’m not going to be like you, Mama,” she had vowed, “prancing down here on the stage to be gaped at and scorned. I’m going to be up there, one of them, a real lady.”

What a foolish child’s dream—to think that she could ever be a lady of quality, admired, respected and loved.

“But I did almost realize that dream, didn’t I, Jean-Claude?

” Belle murmured. These days the most she hoped for was to one day retire from this uncertain life, purchase a small cottage, perhaps in Derbyshire.

There, with her past buried, she could at least end her days in the role of the respectable widow.

Playacting, Belle thought wearily, forever playacting, just like Mama after all.

She took another sip of the brandy. It tasted strangely bitter as poorly brewed beer.

Outside, the rain continued to beat a melancholy tattoo against the windows. Belle heard the flurry of another arrival in the taproom. More ladies, perhaps, to be horrified at finding a ‘loose’ woman frequenting Neptune’s Trident?

Mr. Shaw had left the coffee room door ajar upon his last exit.

Belle faced the opening, her chin thrust upward.

But she relaxed her attitude of belligerence as she glimpsed a gentleman attempting to shake the rainwater from his greatcoat.

When a waiter offered to help him out of the wet garment, he declined.

“I shan’t be staying that long. When Mr. Carrington comes in from the stableyard, say that I await him in the coffee room.”

Belle had no difficulty recognizing the reedy voice of Victor Merchant’s messenger.

“Quentin Crawley,” she said softly to herself. “It’s more than time. You’ve only kept me waiting for two weeks!”

The wiry little man pushed open the coffee room door and bustled inside. He espied Belle by the fireside.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens,” he said, doffing his hat and mopping at some rain droplets which clung to his balding forehead. Tufts of sandy hair sticking out from behind his ears gave Crawley the appearance of being perpetually startled.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley.” Belle leaned back against the bench and saluted him with her brandy glass. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Unlikely, Mrs. Varens. Very unlikely.” Crawley grimaced his version of a smile. He moved as though to warm his hands at the fire, but drew up short. His head shifted as he examined the coffee room and then frowned.

“This will never do for our meeting. We must have a private parlor.”

Belle sighed. Quentin Crawley always treated the most perfunctory transactions between them as though they stood in danger of discovery from Bonaparte’s agents lurking under every hearth rug.

“The private parlor is already engaged,” Belle said. “We can manage well enough here.”

“Entirely too public,” Crawley fussed. “If we were seen together by someone I know, how would I ever explain the purpose of our rendezvous?”

Belle infused a sultry quality into her voice. “Why, Quentin, you could always say that I was soliciting your company for a night’s entertainment.”

Crawley colored to the roots of his hair. It was so easy to make him turn red, the temptation was irresistible. He eyed her sternly.

“Mrs. Varens! You have a sense of levity that is frequently unsuited to the serious nature of our work and furthermore?—”

Belle had heard this lecture so often, she felt relieved when a sound from the taproom distracted Crawley. He whipped around. “Ah, that must be Mr. Carrington arriving.”

“Who the devil is Mr. Carrington?”

But Crawley didn’t answer her, having gone to thrust his head out the coffee room door and call, “In here, sir. In here.”

Beyond Crawley’s shoulder Belle saw a tall man garbed in a caped boxcoat and a high-crowned hat. She could discern nothing of his face as he bent over, struggling to close his umbrella.

French, perhaps? Belle wondered. Not likely with a surname like Carrington. And yet few Englishmen were practical enough to carry an article, however useful, that would earn them the contempt of their peers as being effeminate.

With a final spray of droplets, the man snapped the umbrella shut. He followed Mr. Crawley into the coffee room, presenting Belle with her first full view of the stranger’s profile. She stared as the tall man whipped off his hat, raking his fingers through a mass of damp coal-dark hair.