Page 9 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“You killed that man,” he whispered. “You shot him down and never looked back.”
“If I am not mistaken, isn’t that what you intended to do?”
“I fought him honorably, in a sword fight—but to use a pistol like that! It wasn’t fair.”
“What was I supposed to do? Let him butcher you? If you had stayed with the carriage as I ordered, the killing would not have been necessary.”
“I came to look for you because you had been gone so long. Then I saw that man dragging you away. I only wanted to defend your virtue.”
“What makes you think I have any virtue to defend? I went with him of my own choice.”
Phillipe flinched as though she had struck him. His lips moved, but no sound came. The look in his eyes was stricken as he shrank away from her.
Her words had been brutal, borne out of her own rage and self-reproach. But Belle refused to take them back. At least she had put an end to Phillipe’s idiotic adoration of her. It was better for him this way.
Yet for the remainder of the journey, each time she saw his unhappy face, she wondered. Gazing at him was like looking into a mirror, watching her own youthful illusions shatter all over again.
Two
Rain drummed against the latticed panes of the window, the sky beyond a depressing shade of gray. Belle could not recall having seen the sun for the entire fortnight since she had landed in Portsmouth, and sat cooling her heels, waiting for some contact from Victor Merchant.
She felt grateful for the well-tended fire in the coffee room at Neptune’s Trident. The flames hissed softly, casting a glow on the chamber’s dark mahogany paneling and the gleaming row of copperware arranged on the chimney shelf. The blazing logs dispelled much of the damp chill that seemed to linger forever in the air of a seaside town. The brandy didn’t hurt either.
Raising her crystal glass, Belle sipped at the golden liquid, then stretched, arching her spine like a restless cat. Gone were the black silks and heavy veil of the Widow Gordon. She had become Mrs. Varens again, in a fashionable muslin gown and close-fitting spencer of dark blue, her blond curls flowing down from a chignon at the crown of her head. A young waiter, the chamber’s only other occupant, bustled about, quietly clearing away the remains of her luncheon, a boiled round of beef, pudding and parsnips, custard, tarts, jellies, and a bit of cheese.
She had come a long way from the Golden Sun. Then why did she keep thinking about the wretched place and what had happened there? Thirteen days ago she had parted from the Coterins at Portsmouth’s quay. She never expected to cross paths with any of them again. Phillipe was young. Hopefully within the month he would meet some pretty English girl and forget his painful disillusionment with Belle.
As for herself … Belle frowned, tapping her fingers against her glass. It might take her a little longer to forget. She kept seeing Phillips’s shocked face, hearing him whisper, You killed that man. You shot him down and never looked back.
Maybe the reason she kept recalling those words was that the action had shocked her as well. She had seen too much of death during the Revolution, in its many violent guises. Had she become so calloused by it all that the taking of a life affected her so little? The thought frightened her. She took another gulp of the brandy, but felt no warmth from the fiery liquid.
“Is there anything else you could wish for, Mrs. Varens?”
Belle glanced up to find that the host of the inn had stepped into the coffee room. The waiter exited, taking away the tray of dishes.
A tall man of distinguished bearing, Mr. Shaw beamed at her over the rims of his spectacles.
“No, nothing except a bit of sun, perhaps?” Belle nodded toward the rain-glazed windows.
“I’ll see what can be arranged,” Shaw said. “The Neptune’s Trident always strives to please its longtime patrons.”
The slamming of a door echoed from the taproom beyond, announcing some new arrivals. Mr. Shaw consulted his pocket watch.
“Too early for the stage to have arrived,” he said. “Perhaps it is someone traveling post, unless it turns out to be one of your, er—friends, Mrs. Varens. Please excuse me.”
Giving her his smartest bow, Mr. Shaw hustled off to see. Belle permitted herself a wry smile. Behind those spectacles, the host’s keen eyes missed little. Although he had never said anything, Belle had the feeling Mr. Shaw had long ago guessed what her occupation was, but the landlord was discreet and it made her comings and goings that much easier.
Lingering over her brandy, Belle watched with idle interest as Mr. Shaw returned with the latest guests—a formidable matron and another harassed-looking woman, obviously either a maid or a companion. Shivering, they divested themselves of dripping cloaks and prepared to draw near the coffee room fire. But as soon as the matron caught sight of Belle, her mouth pursed into a moue of disapproval.
Belle had no difficulty reading the woman’s mind. How shocking! A woman dining alone in the public room of an inn. Obviously a creature of questionable morals. The haughty dame turned to Mr. Shaw, demanding to be shown immediately to a private parlor.
“Of course, madam,” Shaw said. “Step this way, please.” He waited until the woman’s back was turned before he grimaced and cast an apologetic glance at Belle before escorting the two women from the room.
But Belle was accustomed to being snubbed by the so-called ‘ladies’ of this world. She did have a fellow agent who frequently acted as her maid, but Paulette was above stairs, applying a roast onion to her earache. Why should Belle have dined closeted in her room or have dragged the poor woman out of bed simply to feign respectability for some old harridan like that?
Snatching up her glass, she stalked over to the high backed bench by the fire and plunked down upon it. Heat warmed her cheeks, but she was honest enough to admit it was not caused by the fire. So she did still mind the snubs, even after all these years. What a fool she was!
Belle set her glass down upon the bench. She had no more sense than that eleven-year-old girl who had hovered outside her mother’s dressing chamber at the Drury Lane Theatre, Staring deep into the leaping red-gold flames, Belle could almost envision the scrawny child she had been, peeking around the theater curtains at the galleries so far above her. How those tiers of boxes had dazzled her eyes with the ladies bedecked in an array of silks and gemstones, their gentlemen no less magnificent, so dashing, so attentive.
