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“Good. Then I will expect you both to be there at midnight. Take the path up from the sea and enter by way of the garden door. A lantern will be left burning for you. Please be prompt.” Crawley rose to his feet and began looking for his hat.

Sinclair stood up in more leisurely fashion, but Belle remained as she was.

The Maison Mal du Coeur, she thought with a frown.

It was a Georgian manor house owned by one Madame Dumont, a wealthy French émigré.

The locals often gossiped about her. An elderly lady, believed to be crippled, she was scarcely ever seen.

A meeting to be held in the home of this recluse, at midnight, Victor Merchant coming all the way from London …

These unusual developments left Belle feeling uneasy.

“At least give us some hint of what Merchant has in mind,” she called as Crawley made for the door.

“You know I cannot do that, Mrs. Varens. You must wait until tonight.”

Belle persisted with her demand for information, but Quentin Crawley shook his head. Bidding her and Sinclair farewell, he slipped out the coffee room door.

“Damn that man!” Belle’s fingers tightened on her glass. “Why must he always be so mysterious? Forever playing at being a spy!”

“Don’t be too hard upon Quentin,” Sinclair said. “Only consider. Most of the time he works as a parish clerk, with a wife and eight little ones to support. His meetings with you are likely his only excitement.”

“Good God! Does Quentin really have eight children?” Belle asked, momentarily diverted. To her, Crawley had been nothing more than the annoying little man who had scuttled in and out of her life for the past three years. Strange that Sinclair already knew so much more about Quentin.

With Mr. Crawley gone, Belle expected Sinclair also to take his leave.

Yet although Sinclair had courteously risen to his feet to see Crawley off, he showed no sign of going anywhere.

Belle was half-tempted to ask Sinclair what he thought about the forthcoming assignation with Merchant, but his mind appeared to be on other things.

He was studying her again, and from the glint in his eyes, Belle didn’t think he was assessing her competency as a fellow spy.

Well, she had dealt with overbold rakes before. As he walked toward her, Belle scooted over, spreading out her skins upon the bench, making it impossible for him to resume his place by her side.

“It seems there is nothing more to be done until tonight,” she said pointedly. “You need not feel obliged to stay on my account.”

Sinclair’s lips quivered as though he suppressed an amused smile. “But I have not finished my brandy yet.”

He retrieved his glass from where he had set it down by the bench, then straightened.

Belle wondered if it was not worse having him tower over her in this fashion.

The firelight brought out a bluish sheen in his dark hair and cast one side of his face into intriguing shadow.

Belle had an absurd thought. If the devil had assumed the guise of mortal man for the purpose of seducing innocent maids, he would likely have taken on the form of Sinclair Carrington. But then—she was no longer an innocent.

“The rain seems to have almost ceased,” she said. “You’d best finish your brandy and go before it starts to pour again.”

“My dear Mrs. Varens.” Sinclair feigned a wounded expression. “Anyone would think you were trying to be rid of me.” He took a step back and rested one arm along the fireplace mantel. Somehow the nonchalant pose suited him.

“Shall I propose a toast?” he asked. “To our becoming much better acquainted?”

Belle regarded him in stony silence, making no effort to raise her glass.

“At least you will drink with me to the success of our assignment,” he coaxed, “whatever it may be, and to the restoration of good King Louis.”

Belle set down her glass with a sharp click. It seemed suddenly important that Sinclair Carrington should hold no illusions about her. “I could not care less about ‘good’ King Louis. Whatever I do, I do for the money.”

Sinclair tossed down the rest of his brandy. He rested his empty glass atop the mantelpiece. “That’s a practical enough reason. But what does Mr. Varens think of your dangerous occupation?”

His unfortunate question brought an image of Jean-Claude to her mind with painful clarity. She drove it back into the recesses of her memory.

“I no longer have to consider Mr. Varens’s opinions,” she said.

“I’m sorry.” His voice gentled. Most people uttered that commonplace, but Sinclair sounded as though he really meant it.

He regarded her with a compassion that brought a unexpected lump to her throat.

Like everyone else, Sinclair obviously assumed that her husband had died, and Belle could not bring herself to correct him.

“Have you been widowed a long time?” he asked.

“Mr. Carrington! You’d best understand one thing. You were engaged to pry into Napoleon Bonaparte’s affairs, not mine.”

She pushed herself to her feet, but was startled to feel a tug on her gown. Gazing behind her in disbelief, she saw a fold of the soft muslin caught upon a nail. She tugged ruthlessly to free herself and the delicate fabric gave way, setting her off balance.

She staggered into Sinclair, and his arms folded about her, helping her regain her footing.

“I did warn you about that nail, Angel.”

“I detest that nickname. I forbid you to use it. Now, let go of me.”

If anything, his arms tightened, drawing her closer. “Forgive me.” He continued to use that gentle tone which so unnerved her. “I didn’t mean to distress you with my question. It was a clumsy attempt to discover if you were married.”

“What has that got to say to anything?” she asked.

She should have struggled to break away from him, not continue to bandy words within the circle of his embrace.

But it had been a long time since any man had held her so tenderly.

Sinclair’s touch roused in her bittersweet desires which she had all but forgotten.

“Jealous husbands can be the very devil.” A lopsided smile curved his lips. There was a sensitivity about his mouth which had escaped her notice before. His head bent lower, the heavy lids hooding his eyes, but not enough to mask the fire in those brilliant green depths.

Belle braced her hands against his chest. She said rather breathlessly, “Mr. Carrington, I am becoming more convinced that any partnership between us would be most unwise.”

“Unwise certainly, but it could be very pleasant.”

“I don’t look for pleasure.”

“Maybe that is your problem, Angel.”

“I told you I hate?—”

She was silenced by the warmth of his lips grazing against hers. A quiver of response shot through her. Alarmed by her temptation to succumb to the kiss, Belle drew back her hand and struck Sinclair hard across the face.

Reeling back, Sinclair blinked and pressed a hand to the crimson imprint her fingers had left on his skin. Belle pushed past him, storming toward the door.

As her fingers closed over the brass handle, she drew in a composing breath before she trusted herself to speak. “I shall tell Mr. Merchant he must make other arrangements for this next mission.

“Good-bye, Mr. Carrington,” she added, hoping he detected the note of finality in her voice Without looking back, Belle flung open the coffee room door and hurtled herself across the threshold. Slamming the heavy portal behind her, she did not hear Sinclair echo her parting words.

“Good-bye, Angel,” he said with a rueful smile as he rubbed his stinging flesh. “At least until tonight.”