Page 10 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“I’m not going to be like you, Mama,” she had vowed, “prancing down here on the stage to be gaped at and scorned. I’m going to be up there, one of them, a real lady.”
What a foolish child’s dream—to think that she could ever be a lady of quality, admired, respected and loved.
“But I did almost realize that dream, didn’t I, Jean-Claude?” Belle murmured. These days the most she hoped for was to one day retire from this uncertain life, purchase a small cottage, perhaps in Derbyshire. There, with her past buried, she could at least end her days in the role of the respectable widow. Playacting, Belle thought wearily, forever playacting, just like Mama after all. She took another sip of the brandy. It tasted strangely bitter as poorly brewed beer.
Outside, the rain continued to beat a melancholy tattoo against the windows. Belle heard the flurry of another arrival in the taproom. More ladies, perhaps, to be horrified at finding a ‘loose’ woman frequenting Neptune’s Trident?
Mr. Shaw had left the coffee room door ajar upon his last exit. Belle faced the opening, her chin thrust upward. But she relaxed her attitude of belligerence as she glimpsed a gentleman attempting to shake the rainwater from his greatcoat. When a waiter offered to help him out of the wet garment, he declined.
“I shan’t be staying that long. When Mr. Carrington comes in from the stableyard, say that I await him in the coffee room.”
Belle had no difficulty recognizing the reedy voice of Victor Merchant’s messenger.
“Quentin Crawley,” she said softly to herself. “It’s more than time. You’ve only kept me waiting for two weeks!”
The wiry little man pushed open the coffee room door and bustled inside. He espied Belle by the fireside.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens,” he said, doffing his hat and mopping at some rain droplets which clung to his balding forehead. Tufts of sandy hair sticking out from behind his ears gave Crawley the appearance of being perpetually startled.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley.” Belle leaned back against the bench and saluted him with her brandy glass. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”
“Unlikely, Mrs. Varens. Very unlikely.” Crawley grimaced his version of a smile. He moved as though to warm his hands at the fire, but drew up short. His head shifted as he examined the coffee room and then frowned.
“This will never do for our meeting. We must have a private parlor.”
Belle sighed. Quentin Crawley always treated the most perfunctory transactions between them as though they stood in danger of discovery from Bonaparte’s agents lurking under every hearth rug.
“The private parlor is already engaged,” Belle said. “We can manage well enough here.”
“Entirely too public,” Crawley fussed. “If we were seen together by someone I know, how would I ever explain the purpose of our rendezvous?”
Belle infused a sultry quality into her voice. “Why, Quentin, you could always say that I was soliciting your company for a night’s entertainment.”
Crawley colored to the roots of his hair. It was so easy to make him turn red, the temptation was irresistible. He eyed her sternly.
“Mrs. Varens! You have a sense of levity that is frequently unsuited to the serious nature of our work and furthermore?—”
Belle had heard this lecture so often, she felt relieved when a sound from the taproom distracted Crawley. He whipped around. “Ah, that must be Mr. Carrington arriving.”
“Who the devil is Mr. Carrington?”
But Crawley didn’t answer her, having gone to thrust his head out the coffee room door and call, “In here, sir. In here.”
Beyond Crawley’s shoulder Belle saw a tall man garbed in a caped boxcoat and a high-crowned hat. She could discern nothing of his face as he bent over, struggling to close his umbrella.
French, perhaps? Belle wondered. Not likely with a surname like Carrington. And yet few Englishmen were practical enough to carry an article, however useful, that would earn them the contempt of their peers as being effeminate.
With a final spray of droplets, the man snapped the umbrella shut. He followed Mr. Crawley into the coffee room, presenting Belle with her first full view of the stranger’s profile. She stared as the tall man whipped off his hat, raking his fingers through a mass of damp coal-dark hair.
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 ogledby 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.
