Page 40 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
As he watched her bend to retrieve his breeches, all but caressing the fabric, he felt his flesh crawl. Thrusting the bed-curtain back, he gripped the sheet about himself and boomed out, “What the devil do you think you are doing in here?”
She straightened with a tiny gasp, clasping her hands to her ample bosom. “Monsieur Carrington! How you startled me. I thought you still asleep.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I brought you up some hot water for shaving and started to tidy some of your things. Since you have no valet?—”
“I manage quite well without one. You might have seen fit to knock, mademoiselle.”
“But I did, monsieur. You must not have heard me.” She lowered her lashes demurely but not before Sinclair sensed her hot gaze rake over him. He felt at a distinct disadvantage. It was difficult to appear indignant reclining on a bed, garbed only in a sheet. With a low curse he stretched down to scoop up his dressing robe. Retreating behind the bed-curtains, he struggled into the garment, tying the sash with a hard tug.
When he emerged, he discovered Mistress Beauvais had nonchalantly gone on with her task of cleaning up, moving toward his cloak draped over a chair and his umbrella. Sinclair leaped out of bed and started toward her, his bare feet padding across the thick rosette-patterned carpet. He reached her side in time to snatch the umbrella from her grasp and toss it upon a gilt-edged dressing table. It was unlikely that anyone could detect the secret compartment in the handle that housed his papers, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Merci bien, mademoiselle,” he said. “If I require anything else, I will ring.”
She used the opportunity of his nearness to sidle up against him. “I could help you with your shaving,” she purred. “I have helped many gentlemen before.”
“I would never trust any woman with a razor.”
She flung back her head, giving a throaty laugh. “Monsieur is so droll.” Making no attempt to hide the hunger in her gaze, she brushed her hips against his. “Monsieur wears no nightshirt? Even in October our nights in Paris can be cold. You will catch your death.”
“I’ll be sure to build a large fire,” he said.
She ran her hand up the folds of his wine-colored robe, her fingertips grazing the exposed vee of his chest. “I am very good at starting fires.”
“I’ll wager you are.” He arrested the movement of her hand, thrusting it back at her. “But you won’t be starting any here.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits, her full lips pursing into a pout. Sinclair took her by the elbow, preparing to steer her out the door if necessary, when he halted, dismayed to hear Belle’s voice calling from the adjoining chamber.
“Paulette! Where have you got to? Paulette?”
Though not guilty of anything, Sinclair could not explain the impulse that caused him to frown at Paulette and indicate with a jerk of his head that she should take her leave as silently as possible.
Her teeth parted in a malicious smile. “Oui, ma chère ami!” she shouted. “I am in here.”
Sinclair bit back an urge to curse her. The door between his chamber and Belle’s swung open.
“Paulette? What on earth are you doing in—” Belle broke off. Clad only in her nightgown and dressing robe, her blond hair spilling about her shoulders, she drew up short on the threshold. She stared first at Paulette, her gaze then traveling questioningly toward Sinclair.
To his annoyance, he felt the red creep up his neck, and he tugged self-consciously at his robe, adjusting it more tightly over the bared expanse of his chest.
As Belle’s initial shock faded, she arched one brow. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Carrington. I would not have barged in upon you, but hearing Paulette in here, I assumed you must have already gone below. I did not realize you had er—pressed her into your service.”
“I was just telling Miss Beauvais that her services were not required,” Sinclair snapped.
Unperturbed by the embarrassment she had caused, Paulette sauntered to the door. She cast a wicked look back over her shoulder. “Another time, perhaps, monsieur.”
Sinclair glared at her, but the woman had already slipped past Belle into the other room. Belle also made a movement to vanish, but Sinclair shot forward, catching the side of the door to prevent her doing so.
“Belle, I know how that must have looked, but?—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Mr. Carrington.” Her voice was maddeningly cool. “1 am not your wife. Remember?”
“All the same, I don’t want you having the impression that I was trying to seduce that French strumpet.”
Belle’s lip quivered. She tried to look away, but she could no longer hide the gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Alas, I know my Paulette very well. Though I always thought her tastes ran more to English sailors, I could tell when I entered that she was, shall we say—rendering you somewhat uncomfortable.”
Sinclair folded his arms across his chest. “To put it mildly. I am not accustomed to having my virtue assaulted.”
