Page 20 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Keep your voice down, Mrs. Varens,” Crawley said. “The servants here are all abed. Madame Dumont has been good enough to let us use her home for this meeting, but she expects no disturbances.”
“Who exactly is this Madame Dumont who is so gracious with her hospitality?” Sinclair asked.
“That does not concern us, Mr. Carrington.” Crawley made an elaborate show of arranging an armchair near the candle’s glow. Belle recognized the piece of furniture at once as being valuable, a painted fauteuil with fragile carved legs, the upholstery done in a floral silk pattern.
When Crawley had done fussing with the chair, he said, “Make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Merchant will be here in a few minutes.”
As soon as Crawley disappeared into the shadows beyond the salon door, Belle gave vent to an impatient oath. She snatched up the taper and proceeded to light a silver branched candelabrum she found on a tulipwood parquetry table. From there she stretched up to light the candles in all the wall sconces.
Sinclair said nothing, but watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, apparently as amused by her defiance as he had been by Quentin’s furtiveness. Belle did not care. She was in no humor for any of Quentin’s game playing.
The chamber now ablaze with light, Belle took full stock of her surroundings. This Madame Dumont had not fled France so much as brought it with her. The chamber appeared much like dozens of elegant salons she had visited as Jean-Claude’s bride.
The high walls had been left tastefully plain to provide an unobtrusive background for the elaborate gilt furnishings, the patterned Savonnerie carpet. All but forgetting Sinclair’s presence, Belle began to stroll about the room, examining each object with wonder—the pendulum clock with its face set in Roman numerals, the torchere holding a vase of fading roses, the painted ecran that screened the fireplace.
Above the mantel hung a three-quarter-length portrait of the late king, Louis XVI. He looked somehow ill at ease in his robes, but the artist had captured Louis’s aura of gentle patience, the expression that Belle remembered so well from when the monarch had been trundled forth to meet his death upon the guillotine.
She averted her eyes, not wanting to explore that memory any further. To the left of the fireplace stood a console table, its polished surface laden with small treasures. Thanks to Jean-Claude’s tutelage, Belle could identify most of them—a Sevresfigurine of Cupid and Psyche; a snuff box, likely Vincennes, the enamel lid decorated with a scene from Italian comedy; a pastille burner of glazed white porcelain from the workshops of Saint-Cloud.
Belle touched this last with reverent fingers. She and Jean-Claude had had one nearly like it in their rooms in Paris. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over her. Although scarce suited to Jean-Claude’s station in life, Belle had loved that tiny cramped apartment. Of course, by the time Jean-Claude had come to Paris as a delegate to the revolutionary convention, they had no longer been the Comte and Comtesse de Egremont. Just plain Citizen and Citizeness Varens, having prudently dropped the de from their name. It had not been wise to flaunt aristocratic origins before the volatile Parisian mobs.
But Belle had preferred it that way. She had never been comfortable being the comtesse, tiptoeing through the vast cold rooms of Jean-Claude’s château, the portraits of his dour ancestors seeming to glower at her with disapproval. She had always imagined that those noble forebears peering out of their gilt frames had guessed her secret long before Jean-Claude, that they knew she had no right to be within the halls of Egremont, polluting that hallowed ground with her commoner’s blood, she, the illegitimate daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury Lane.
Lost in her memories, Belle did not notice that Sinclair had also begun to stroll about, examining the salon, but from a far different perspective. He had not her eyes for French antiques orobjets d’art, but he recognized the trappings of wealth when he saw them. Apparently this Madame Dumont had fled France with her pockets better lined than most emigres. It was therefore possible, then, that she and not Napoleon could be the source of Victor Merchant’s unexplained funds. A wealthy royalistpatroness would certainly make Merchant a less likely candidate to be Bonaparte’s spy.
But what of Isabelle Varens? Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, lingering by the console table, one finger tracing the pattern of the white porcelain. Her eyes almost luminous, she seemed to have retreated to some world of her own dreamings. A not entirely happy world, to judge from her expression. Her features were shadowed with grief, the set of her mouth soft and vulnerable.
Once more she roused in him that inexplicable urge to enfold her in his arms, pull her out of that dark, cold world with his embrace. He took a step toward her and then checked himself. He had vowed to himself on the way here tonight that he would maintain an objective attitude toward Isabelle, keep his desires under more rigid control. That vow had almost gone straight out the window with his first sight of her slipping into the garden. Sinclair was not often given to flights of fancy, but with a halo of moonlight rimming her fine gold hair, her pearly-hued skin almost translucent, she had indeed seemed like some angel sent to earth to dazzle the eyes of mortal man. Except that beneath her cloak, he had caught glimpses of the tantalizing swell of her breasts, the full curve of her hips, reminding him that she was very much a woman, vibrant and alive. It had been damned hard to apologize to the lady for kissing her when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and make a more thorough job of it. And for a brief moment he had thought she was equally as willing.
Ruefully Sinclair raked his hands through his hair. Such thoughts as these could scarcely be construed as objective. He tried again, this time stalking toward the long windows, deliberately putting the length of the room between himself and Isabelle. Lost in her own musings, she seemed oblivious to his movements, continuing to caress the china.
Fact one, Sinclair told himself, the lady apparently had a taste for the finer things, a very expensive taste. Fact two, she had told him herself this afternoon that she was only involved in all this for the money. With an attitude like that, she might not be particular where her funds came from, Victor Merchant or Bonaparte.
And yet- Sinclair frowned. That theory didn’t agree with what Crawley had told him earlier. On the way to the inn Sinclair had had to listen to a long diatribe concerning how Isabelle Varens had abandoned her mission to rescue the penniless family of a fellow agent recently caught and executed. That didn’t seem like the action of a mercenary woman.
There was only one way to learn the truth, and that was to continue to work with her, get to know her better. Remembering how skilled she was at closing herself off, it didn’t promise to be an easy task. Yet it could be an all too pleasant one. In spite of himself, his thoughts focused once more on her lips, so soft and yielding, the way her gown clung?—
Damn! He was doing it again. Sinclair swore at the familiar stirring in his loins. What he needed was a good blast of cool air to bring him to his senses. Moving toward the velvet draperies to undo the last of Crawley’s careful arrangements, Sinclair stopped when he heard the door click open. He turned to face the threshold at the same time Belle snapped out of her reverie and also glanced in that direction.
A stocky middle-aged man garbed simply in drab breeches and frock coat strode into the salon and closed the door behind him. Victor Merchant’s collar was fashioned of black velvet, a sign of perpetual mourning for his executed king.
Sinclair felt no more impressed by the man’s appearance than he had been on the occasion of their previous meeting in London when Sinclair had been accepted as a member of Merchant’s society. There was a coldness in Merchant’sdemeanor, a stiffness in his carriage that reminded Sinclair too much of his own father, although the Frenchman lacked the handsomeness that distinguished General Daniel Carr. Merchant was thick-necked, his complexion pasty white, and his right eye was fractionally higher than his left, giving him the impression of being dull-witted. Yet Sinclair had already surmised this was far from the case. Behind that unprepossessing exterior lurked a most calculating intelligence.
“Good evening, Monsieur Carrington. Madame Varens,” Merchant said in his usual laconic tones.
“Good evening.” Sinclair stepped forward offering his hand. Merchant ignored it, moving past him. Rather nonplussed, Sinclair lowered his arm, but Belle did not look in the least surprised by Merchant’s rudeness. She must have expected it, for Sinclair noted she made no move to greet Merchant herself, but merely watched in wary silence as Victor selected his seat.
He chose that fancy painted affair that Crawley had fussed with earlier. Lowering himself into the fragile gilt armchair, Merchant sat ramrod stiff.
“Be seated,” he commanded Sinclair and Belle, adding “please” as almost a reluctant afterthought.
Her head arched high, Belle arranged herself gracefully opposite Merchant upon a gilt-trimmed banquette. Although Sinclair settled in beside her, he could not have imagined anything more uncomfortable than this hard-cushioned bench without arms or back.
Silence settled over the room, unbroken except for the ticking of the pendulum clock. Sinclair sensed that Merchant maintained this rigid quiet on purpose, as though trying to make them nervous. His demeanor reminded Sinclair of the times he had been called in to face the headmaster at Eton after one of his pranks and had been kept waiting on tenterhooks to see if he would be sent down. Gradually, however, Sinclair realizedMerchant’s tactics were aimed at Belle rather than himself. It was she at whom Merchant stared. She seemed unperturbed by his scrutiny except for a certain belligerent tilt to her chin.
“It was good of you to wait upon me at this hour,” Merchant said at last.
“You sent Crawley to tell us our presence was commanded here tonight,” Belle said, a hint of mockery in her voice. “Don’t I always make haste to carry out your orders?”
