Page 75 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Yes, of course, I do,” she stammered. “A great deal”
Pressing her fingertips fervently against his lips, he said, “Dare I hope that perhaps—” He checked himself with great difficulty. “No, at the moment all I can ask is that you be my friend until after …”
“After what?”
“After my prospects improve.” He stood up abruptly. “I think it best if we walk back now before I am betrayed into saying something most unwise.”
Now thoroughly in control of himself, she could sense him trying to put some distance between them, except for a certain warmth in his eyes.
He had all but declared he had forgiven her, even intimated that his love for her might once more be revived. There had been a time when she would have been contented with much less from him. And here he stood, promising so much more, yet she could feel nothing but alarm.
Jean-Claude had no more notion of how to conduct himself in an intrigue than a babe. He was bound to end in disaster.
But he’s not exactly your responsibility anymore, is he? a surprisingly irritable voice inside her demanded. Haven’t you got enough to contend with? Yes, but she would never forgive herself if she let anything happen to him.
Still, there seemed nothing she could do but fall into step beside him as they wended their way back across the bridge
“Sinclair will be wondering what has become of me,” she remarked.
At the mention of Sinclair a shadow crossed Jean-Claude’s face. “Sinclair,” he repeated, as though the very way she had pronounced his name had dealt Jean-Claude a blow. “The other night at the reception you told me?—”
He stopped himself, stiffening his jaw resolutely. “No, I won’t ask you any more about him. We will pretend he does not exist. He does not matter.”
Belle nearly protested she could pretend no such thing, that indeed Sinclair did matter. But she kept silent, not wishing to shatter the tentative peace between them.
She permitted him to escort her back across the bridge, but back on the quay she saw no sign of Sinclair. Jean-Claude refused to take his leave of her.
“I could scarce leave you here unescorted with no male protector.”
Belle heaved an impatient sigh. Sinclair would have sensed at once her need to be alone, that she was capable of shifting for herself. It seemed to have never occurred to Jean-Claude to inquire after her manner of life during these intervening years. He simply assumed she had continued to live like a lady. He might no longer be a day-dreamer, but he was still as impractical.
The critical thought startled her. She suppressed it and after much firm insistence persuaded him to go. As Jean-Claude tookhis leave of her, she could not forbear making one last attempt to draw him out.
“You worry me. I fear you are in some sort of trouble. I don’t think it was wise for you to return to Paris.”
“If it eases your mind,” he said, “I plan to leave very soon, in a few days’ time.”
“That would be for the best,” she urged. “You should go back home.”
“If only I knew where that was.” He gave her a sad smile and looked deep into her eyes one last time. Then he brushed a hard kiss against her brow. Turning abruptly, he vanished into the crowd thronging the quay.
“Damn!” Belle muttered as she stood staring after him. It was as though the solid ground she had forged for herself all these years had been swept from beneath her feet. She had never had any doubts that she would know what to do if Jean-Claude came back into her life and opened his arms to her.
And now she stood cursing him. It was not that she did not still care for him. Indeed she did, too much. Cared for him and ached for him as well. He needed her now more than ever, although he might not know it himself.
But in the interval there had been Sinclair, a man who at last had broken through the barriers she had constructed around her heart, who had taught her how to live again. She could not delude herself that Sinclair only fulfilled a need of her flesh. Their relationship went much deeper than that. There had been a bond, an understanding between them from the very beginning.
But was that love? It was very different from the feeling she had cherished for Jean-Claude for so long. She rubbed a hand over her throbbing temples.
Only one reality remained crystal clear to her. Jean-Claude was deeply unhappy, more tormented than she had ever seenhim. If only there was something she could do to help him now, something that would at last truly make up for that ancient hurt she had inflicted upon him.
He belonged back at Egremont, with his treasured books, watching his little son romp in those quiet gardens, sheltered once more behind the high walls of the chateau of his ancestors. She could not turn back time for Jean-Claude, but if only she could restore him to his own.
Perhaps she might have accomplished that if she had succeeded with her plot to abduct Napoleon. With the monarchy returned to France, all the dispossessed nobles would likely have their estates returned.
But these were all absurd speculations. With her own carefully laid plans in ruins, she might as well leave Paris herself. She scarce saw much reason to keep her rendezvous with Bonaparte unless perhaps to lay the groundwork for a future plot.
Why did the damned man have to change the site of their engagement to the theater? Belle all but tossed her head with contempt. As if she had ever had much use for French theater. The stage had been so heavily censored since the days of the Revolution, the sentimental and preachy tripe that remained was scarce worth the bother. And she doubted if conditions had improved much under Bonaparte’s strict regime.
