Page 108 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Crawley’s mouth drew down into something approaching a pout. “Well! You can at least furnish me with Mr. Carrington’s present address.”
“I cannot do that, either,” Belle said bleakly. She wished that Crawley would simply go away and leave her in peace. To her relief, a discreet knock sounded on the coffee room door. Grateful for any interruption, Belle moved to answer it.
Mr. Shaw hovered upon the threshold. He slipped her a folded note closed with a blot of sealing wax. “A stable lad just delivered this for you, Mrs. Varens. I thought it might be important, so I brought it to you at once.”
Belle thanked Shaw. As the innkeeper quit the room, she examined her name inked upon the paper. The scrawl was all but illegible and heart-stoppingly familiar. Her pulse raced as she broke open the seal. Unfolding the note, she struggled to read the brief message,
Angel, I meant to say my farewells in person, but I thought it better this way. I know how hard it has been for you with Varens and me both tugging at your heartstrings. I love you too well to put you through any more of this. I realize how much what he can offer means to you. Wishing that you find all that you desire, Sinclair.
Belle sighed mentally blotting out all the other phrases save one:I love you too well.
Becoming aware of the curious stare of Quentin Crawley, she hastily refolded the note.
“Good tidings?” he asked.
“Er, yes. I find I don’t owe my dressmaker as much as I thought.” She slipped the note behind her back with an over-bright smile. “If you will excuse me, Quentin, I find it chilly in here. I will just slip upstairs to fetch my shawl.”
“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 bede 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 openedthe 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 shewould 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.
