Page 7

He had a face no woman was apt to forget. Heavy black brows, his eyes hooded with a sensual languor, his granite jaw line softened by a small indention in the chin, his swarthy complexion—all conveyed an aura of dangerous attraction.

Absorbed in studying Mr. Carrington, Belle realized with a jolt that he was returning the favor.

His gaze started at her face and continued in a lingering inspection of her curves.

Belle sat down her glass on the arm of the bench and straightened self-consciously.

Not that she was unaccustomed to being ogled by men, but mostly it took the form of bashful glances or sly leers.

No one had ever regarded her with such open and frank appreciation.

The coffee room seemed suddenly warmer. Belle touched a hand to her face. Good lord, he had raised a blush to her cheeks, something no man had been able to accomplish since she was in her teens.

“This is Mr. Sinclair Carrington,” Crawley said. “He is the newest member of our-ahem-little society,”

“Indeed?” Belle replied.

Dropping his umbrella and hat on one of the tables, Carrington strode across the room to stand before her.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said. She liked his voice. It was deep and resonant, his accent crisply English.

“How do you do, sir.” Belatedly, she remembered to offer him her hand.

His fingers engulfed hers as he bent forward, raising her hand to his lips. He looked deep into her eyes, and she noticed that his own were a hunter’s green, fringed with thick black lashes.

The warm texture of his mouth caressed her skin in a manner that made Belle’s pulse quicken. She felt a spark of acute physical awareness pass between them, charging the atmosphere of the room.

As though from a great distance, Crawley’s voice came, “Oh, yes. How stupid of me! Mr. Carrington, this is?—”

“Isabelle Varens,” Sinclair filled in smoothly. “The Avenging Angel.”

The sound of that detested nickname snapped Belle back to her senses. She realized Mr. Carrington still held her hand and that she was permitting him to do so. She pulled free of him.

“I am simply Mrs. Varens.”

“That does not suit you near as well.” He smiled. He had a lazy, seductive kind of smile. “You don’t look like a ‘Mrs. Varens,’ whereas you are the nearest thing to an angel I ever expect to see.”

“When you have worked in our business long enough, Mr. Carrington, you will discover appearances can be deceiving.” Her icy remark did not appear to daunt him. But whatever retort Sinclair meant to deliver next was interrupted by Crawley thrusting himself between them.

“Now that the introductions have been taken care of, perhaps we may get on with the purpose of our meeting.”

“Certainly,” Belle said. “If you like, I could summon Shaw to bring you gentlemen some refreshment. Or you are welcome to share the brandy with me.”

“No, thank you.” Quentin frowned at the glass she held.

“I forgot, Mr. Crawley. You disapprove of women drinking strong spirits.” Belle looked at Sinclair. “And are you shocked, Mr. Carrington? Perhaps you also think I should be sipping tea.”

“Not at all. The women I know who habitually drink tea seem to be the most insipid creatures.”

A reluctant smile escaped Belle. “I have been called a good many things in my life, but at least insipid has never been one of them.”

“Beautiful. You must have been called that often,” Sinclair murmured, his gaze once more upon her face.

Belle felt as though his bold eyes caressed her, raising a fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach. Annoyed with herself, she strove to hide her foolish reaction.

“You will find the decanter on the table over there,” she told Sinclair. “I believe the waiter left another glass.”

Sinclair retreated toward the table, stripping off his damp boxcoat as he went.

So his broad shoulders had not been merely an illusion caused by the cape, Belle thought.

The well-tailored frock coat straining across his back made it more than evident that he had no need to resort to padding.

Her gaze strayed to the tight-fitting cashmere breeches that encased his tautly honed thighs.

An embroidered waistcoat and military boots completed the outfit, that of a perfect gentleman.

Or so it would have been if Sinclair’s neckcloth had not been so carelessly arranged.

But something made Belle doubt that Sinclair was ever a perfect gentleman.

Likely it was the hint of roguishness in those disturbing green eyes of his.

As Sinclair helped himself to the brandy, Quentin bent over Belle and whispered, “Well, what do you think? What is your opinion of his attributes?”

Her gaze skated over Sinclair’s muscular frame. She said in a low voice, “If you send him across the channel, I think there will be more than one Frenchwoman beckoning him toward her boudoir.”

Mr. Crawley flushed. “I wasn’t speaking of those attributes, Mrs. Varens. What I meant was, does he seem like a capable man to you?”

How on earth did Crawley expect her to answer that upon such short acquaintance? But her intuition told her that Sinclair would be very capable. His movements were characterized by a tigerlike grace, which made her think he might be good in a fight, as well as skilled in the bedchamber.

“What does it matter what I think?” she asked Crawley.

By this time their whispered conversation had caught Sinclair’s attention. He regarded them with one dark brow upraised. Quentin straightened with a guilty smile.

“Ah, er—are you ready to proceed, Mr. Carrington?”

By way of reply, Sinclair picked up his glass and rejoined them by the fireside. Belle should have anticipated the man’s next move, but she was too slow.

Sinclair lowered himself upon the bench beside her, sitting so close that his thigh brushed against hers.

“Sorry to crowd you,” he said. “These settles are so narrow.”

“There is a good six inches of space on the other side of you, Mt. Carrington.”

“But there is a loose nail in that comer.” His eyes twinkled. “You would not want me to tear a hole in the seat of my—um—coat.”

Belle compressed her lips, but decided it would be best to ignore him, as much as one could ignore that much masculinity pressed against one’s side. Giving all of her attention to Mr. Crawley, she fidgeted in her seat.

Crawley typically selected the most straight-backed uncomfortable chair he could find. He drew it over to the hearth and sat down, pulling a worn leather-bound ledger from beneath his greatcoat. The title was inked in neat gold letters.

The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Relics.

Belle pulled a face. Crawley and his infernal mania for keeping up the appearance of being involved in legitimate business!

Mr. Crawley cleared his throat. “When you were fetching your brandy, Mr. Carrington, I was just on the point of informing Mrs. Varens that you are to be her partner in her next venture.”

“What!” Belle sat bolt upright. She turned to look at Sinclair. Although his smile was bland, there was no mistaking the devilish gleam in his eyes.

“Out of the question!” she snapped.

When she saw Crawley start to bridle, she hastened to add, “Meaning no insult to Mr. Carrington, but I have always selected my own cohorts.”

“Not this time,” Crawley said. “It is Mr. Merchant’s particular wish that you work with Mr. Carrington.”

“Mr. Merchant must leave the choice to me as he has always done.” Belle expected Sinclair to jump into the middle of this quarrel, but he appeared content to lean back, sipping his brandy. All the same she had the impression he was merely biding his time.

Crawley puffed up his thin chest, the prelude to delivering a lecture. “Mr. Merchant is not likely to tolerate much more of your insubordination, Mrs. Varens. You will find yourself without employment if you continue in this manner.”

“Perhaps I would be glad. I never intended to follow this line of work forever.”

“So you have told me many times, madam. But your retirement may come sooner than you desire if you anger Mr. Merchant. He was not at all pleased with what took place on your last assignment. You must not expect to be paid for the consignment you brought back from France.”

The man’s dry description of the unfortunate Coterin family only added to Belle’s irritation. “I don’t expect so much as a damned shilling.”

“An attitude you can scarce afford,” Crawley said. “You are a lady of expensive tastes?—”

“If my bills worry you so, Quentin, I shall have my dressmaker send the reckoning to you next time.”

“That should give him and Mrs. Crawley something interesting to talk about on a long winter’s eve,” Sinclair drawled.

Despite how annoyed she was, Sinclair’s unexpected comment surprised a laugh from Belle. Crawley went scarlet.

“Mr. Carrington! I have enough difficulty with Mrs. Varens’s unseemly humor as it is. She needs no encouragement from you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Sinclair said.

His intervention had helped Belle to check her rising temper. When she glanced at him, he winked back, and for a brief moment she felt a sense of kinship with him, as though they stood together in conspiracy against the officious Quentin Crawley.

“What’s past is past,” Belle said to Crawley in milder tones. “So what is this next assignment that Merchant believes I need Mr. Carrington’s talents to accomplish?”

“That will be revealed to you by Mr. Merchant himself this evening.”

“Victor Merchant is here in Portsmouth?” Belle asked.

When Crawley nodded, she struggled to absorb this startling information.

Merchant never came down from London. In the three years she had worked for the society, she had rarely met the Frenchman face to face.

Always he had employed Quentin Crawley as his go-between.

What was afoot that required the presence of Merchant himself?

“You and Mr. Carrington will meet with Mr. Merchant at the Maison Mal du Coeur. It is a mansion up the coast from?—”

“I know where it is,” Belle said.