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“Indeed? I would be happy to partake of luncheon with you, Mrs. Varens, though I fear it not quite proper without a third party present to serve as chaperon.”

“I’ll fetch one of those, too,” Belle said. If Quentin had any notion where she was bound, she feared he would follow her. For what she had in mind, Crawley would definitely be de trop .

Whisking out of the room, she quickened her steps and managed to locate the stable lad who had brought the message, He was down in the kitchen, gnawing on a roasted chicken leg. His eyes grew round as she held up a golden guinea.

“I will give you one of these,” she said, “to furnish me with the address where this letter came from … and another to forget it.”

Sinclair opened the trunk upon his bed, commencing the nigh hopeless task of gathering his scattered belongings to stuff inside. He was retrieving his shaving brush, which somehow had rolled beneath the bed, when he thought he heard the creak of a footfall outside his room.

He paused, listening. He had nearly convinced himself that he had imagined it when he saw the knob slowly turn. A rattling sound followed. Someone was trying to pick the lock. Sinclair tensed, tiptoeing in search of a weapon. He had little time. The door had begun to open.

Sinclair snatched up the first thing to hand, the iron shovel used to clear out ashes from the grate. He stalked forward, raising it only to halt at the sight of cool blue eyes, fine-boned features framed by a halo of curls.

“Belle,” he breathed, slowly lowering his arm. He half-feared he might be dreaming. His nights had been haunted with images of her that seemed all too real, as real as this apparition.

She closed the door, surveying the disorder of the room with a slight frown. “I don’t think that little shovel is going to be of much help, Mr. Carrington.”

Stooping down, she retrieved a stray cravat and began to fold it.

No, Sinclair thought, with a wry smile. In his dreams she would not have been doing anything as practical as that.

What was she doing here? He felt a wild hope thrum through him, but he forced himself to remain casual.

“Why didn’t you just knock?” he demanded.

“I was not sure you would not try to bolt if forewarned.” Belle put the cravat in the trunk, following it up with a crumpled linen shirt, trying to keep her voice light.

She wondered if Sinclair could see the way her hands trembled.

How much courage it had taken her to come through that door!

After all, she might have been wrong about that letter.

It could have been Sinclair’s kind way of ending an awkward affair.

But his eyes told her differently. He might be able to summon that raffish smile, remain at a distance, but his eyes were closing it with an intensity that made her catch her breath.

“Did you not receive my note?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s how I knew where to find you.” Belle gave up the pretense of calm. She walked toward him, resting her hands against his chest. She could feel the thud of his heart. Smiling up at him, she murmured, “I do so hate it when you try to be noble, Sinclair.”

“I was only trying to make things easier for you,” he said hoarsely. His hand came up to cover hers. “Where is Jean-Claude?”

“Well on his way home to John-Jack, I hope.”

His eyes probed hers as he hovered between joy and apprehension. “You will be joining him soon?”

“No,” she said. “I sent him away. And in truth, I think he was relieved.”

The night in Rouvray Forest, she believed, Jean-Claude had finally come to an acceptance of who she was, an understanding of their differences. Their parting had been like the man himself, gentle, full of quiet dignity.

Sinclair expelled a deep breath. “Then it did not work out between you and Jean-Claude. I am sorry.”

“Are you?” She raised one brow quizzically.

“No, damn it, I fear I am not. The question is: Are you?”

For her answer she cupped her hands behind his head, twining her fingers in the velvety masses of his dark hair, pulling him down to touch her lips to his. It took him less than a heartbeat to respond.

“Belle.” His mouth crushed hers in a searing embrace.

Holding her close, he breathed a feverish trail of kisses against her hair, his voice gone husky with passion.

“You won’t regret this choice, I promise.

If it is the respectable life you want, I will find a way to get it for you, the blasted ivy-covered cottage and all.

I can seek a post in government, make up the quarrel with my father?—”

Belle halted this rash flow of pledges with another fervent kiss. She gazed up at him with tender amusement. “No, Mr. Carrington. Let us take life as we have always done. One day at a time.”

As he cradled her close, she cried. “Sinclair, Sinclair, I love you so. I was a fool not to have realized it sooner.”

“Yes, you were, weren’t you?” He swooped her up to carry her to bed, knocking the trunk and its contents heedlessly to the floor.

They tumbled down upon the mattress, longing only to become lost in each other’s embrace, when they were rudely jarred by a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Sinclair growled.

“The porter, sir. I just called to tell you that there is a gentleman below asking for you. A Mr. Crawley.”

“Crawley? What the deuce does he want?”

Belle groaned. “The wretched man must have followed me here after all.” She called out to the porter. “Tell him Mr. Carrington is not at home.”

As the footsteps retreated, Belle scrambled from the bed and began to close the shutters.

Sinclair trailed after her, looking bewildered. “Angel, what on earth is this all about?”

“Crawley has become the new head of the society. He has some infernal mission he is trying to get us to undertake.”

Belle paused in the act of bolting the last shutter to peer anxiously into the street below. “Good. He’s leaving.”

Sinclair craned his neck, looking over her shoulder. As they watched Crawley attempt to summon a hackney cab, Sinclair said, “Of course, we have not the slightest interest in knowing what it is all about.”

“Not the slightest,” Belle said firmly. She started to close the shutter, but she couldn’t help herself. She stole one more speculative glance at Crawley. She caught Sinclair doing the same.

Their eyes met in guilty fashion and both erupted into laughter. Without another word, Sinclair tugged her by her hand, and tossed her back upon the bed. His lean hard frame closed over her as he claimed her mouth with the tender fury of his kiss.

No, Belle thought, feeling the fires stir between them. She and Sinclair had not the slightest interest in discovering what Crawley wanted.

At least not until tomorrow.