Page 59 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
When she spoke, her voice was calm. “Good evening, Mr. Carrington.”
“Perhaps you should say good morrow. It must be nearly half past two.”
“Is it?” She leaned closer to the window pane, tipping her head back. “It looks nothing like morning to me. But then, the sky always seems to me much darker over Paris. There have been times I would have sworn dawn would never break here again.”
Sinclair frowned at the sight of a tripod table propped near her elbow, bearing a half-empty glass of golden-colored liquid. He wondered if she was drunk. But as he examined the bottle of brandy, he saw that it had hardly been touched.
She stretched back in her chair, curling her bare feet beneath her. “I would invite you to join me, Sinclair,” she said with a weary smile, “but I fear there is not enough. I intend to make myself quite drunk. I have never tried it before. But isn’t that what you gentlemen do to make it through a rough night?”
“From one who has tried that remedy upon occasion, I would advise against it,” he said. “Far from making the morning come quicker, your head will make you regret that it ever came at all.”
She gave a soft laugh. He had never known that laughter could sound so sad. She pushed her glass away and turned backto staring out the window. Although she did not ask him to stay, she did not demand that he leave her, either, Pushing the velvet drapery back farther, Sinclair stood beside her, joining her in her vigil.
The night was dark, the stars like splinters of ice. In the street below, an occasional carriage clattered by even at this late hour. Some drunken stragglers slogged past, their voices raised in bawdy song. Otherwise the Rue St. Honoré remained quiet, the feeble glow from the Argand lanterns not enough to dispel the murky shadows. To Sinclair, it was nothing but an empty street, yet he would have wagered that was not what Belle saw. He glanced down at her.
Completely still she sat. Beneath the soft sweep of her lashes, he fancied he could glimpse the shadings of her past, all the misery of the world seeming centered in those luminescent blue eyes. But he waited patiently, refraining from questions. If Belle wanted, needed to talk, she would.
Just when he began to think her silence would stretch on until dawn, she stirred, saying, “Monsieur Bonaparte was full of plans tonight for improving Paris. He intends to start with the streets. God knows the Rue St. Honoré could use a little improving, at least some paving. It hasn’t changed all that much since?—”
“Since the Revolution?”
She nodded. “I used to spend a lot of my time then just staring out the window. It was safer, you see, to stay indoors, mind one’s own business. Jean-Claude and I had an apartment not far from here, just up the street. I used to be able to watch the tumbrils go by on the way to the guillotine.” Her voice dropped lower. “Sometimes the carts were crammed full of people, whole families, even the children.”
“It must have been pure hell.”
“No, that was the frightening thing. After a while we all grew accustomed to the horrors and simply went on with our lives.”
Did she truly believe that? Maybe the others did, Sinclair thought, but not you, Angel. The torment of those days was yet reflected on her face. The tumbrils might still have been passing below for all the peace there was to be found in Belle’s eyes.
“So you just went on with your everyday life,” Sinclair said, “smuggling people out of Paris.”
She acknowledged his ironic tone with a wry smile. “Yes, Baptiste and I. We got to be quite good at it, but for every one we helped to escape, there were a hundred more we couldn’t save.”
Sinclair knew he should not ask, but the question exploded from him before he could help himself. “And where the hell was Varens when you were risking your life in such a fashion?”
“He had emigrated. We were divorced by then.”
“I see. He took himself off to England and left you in the middle of a revolution.”
“He didn’t leave me anywhere. I chose to stay. He had given me money, provided for me. It was far more than I deserved, considering what I had done.”
Sinclair clenched his jaw, surprised by the depth of contempt he was learning to feel for the most honorable Comte de Egremont, his anger only strengthened by Belle’s steadfast defense of Varens. Sinclair knew that no matter what Belle had done, he would have made sure she was safely out of Paris. Then again, Sinclair was fast realizing, if she had been his wife, he would never have left her in the first place.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “what terrible crime did you commit to precipitate the divorce? Were you unfaithful to him?”
“You should be able to guess. I have already told you that I am the bastard daughter of an actress. I concealed my low birth from Jean-Claude when I married him.”
“And that was his reason for divorcing you! Then he is a bigger fool than I took him for.”
“It was an excellent reason,” Belle said. “Jean-Claude is a gentleman from an ancient and honorable family. Discovering the truth about me was a harsh blow to his pride at a time when he he had already suffered?—”
Sinclair realized some of his skepticism must have showed, for she broke off and cried, “You understand nothing about Jean-Claude. Nothing! So don’t dare to stand there condemning him.”
He was making her angry, but at least it brought a flush of color into her cheeks, the spark back into her eyes.
“I am trying to understand,” he said. “If you would care to enlighten me.”
Belle compressed her lips, retreating deeper beneath her shawl. She had been so glad of Sinclair’s presence when he had first entered the drawing room. It had been such relief to talk to someone at last about her nightmarish memories of the Revolution. Why did he have to speak of Jean-Claude? Sinclair was not even her lover. There was no reason in the world she had to account for her past to him. None.
