Page 14 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Jealous husbands can be the very devil.” A lopsided smile curved his lips. There was a sensitivity about his mouth which had escaped her notice before. His head bent lower, the heavy lids hooding his eyes, but not enough to mask the fire in those brilliant green depths.
Belle braced her hands against his chest. She said rather breathlessly, “Mr. Carrington, I am becoming more convinced that any partnership between us would be most unwise.”
“Unwise certainly, but it could be very pleasant.”
“I don’t look for pleasure.”
“Maybe that is your problem, Angel.”
“I told you I hate?—”
She was silenced by the warmth of his lips grazing against hers. A quiver of response shot through her. Alarmed by her temptation to succumb to the kiss, Belle drew back her hand and struck Sinclair hard across the face.
Reeling back, Sinclair blinked and pressed a hand to the crimson imprint her fingers had left on his skin. Belle pushed past him, storming toward the door.
As her fingers closed over the brass handle, she drew in a composing breath before she trusted herself to speak. “I shall tell Mr. Merchant he must make other arrangements for this next mission.
“Good-bye, Mr. Carrington,” she added, hoping he detected the note of finality in her voice Without looking back, Belle flung open the coffee room door and hurtled herself across the threshold. Slamming the heavy portal behind her, she did not hear Sinclair echo her parting words.
“Good-bye, Angel,” he said with a rueful smile as he rubbed his stinging flesh. “At least until tonight.”
Three
The rain had turned to a fine mist by the time Sinclair wended his way toward the house where he had rented lodgings—a two-story stucco building with black roof tiles glazed to withstand the buffets of winds blowing off the sea. He walked slowly, in no hurry to return to his empty rooms, especially when he saw the figure lurking beneath the narrow portico of the front door. It appeared to be a man of medium height, the collar of his coat pulled up to his ears, obscuring his face.
Sinclair hooked his umbrella over his arm and approached with deliberate casualness. Pausing a few yards down the street, he pretended to grope in the pocket of his boxcoat for his room key while he stole a glance at the bedraggled figure.
As he studied the blond curls plastered to ruddy cheeks, the wet cloak clinging to a familiar stocky frame, Sinclair swore, the tension between his shoulder blades relaxing. In civilian dress, soaked to the skin, the man looked not in the least like Lieutenant Charles Carr of the Ninth Cavalry, but very much like Chuff, Sinclair’s nuisance of a younger brother, his junior by eight years.
Sinclair covered the distance between them in four great strides. “Chuff! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Charles said in a disgruntled voice.
“At the age of three and twenty I’d think you would at least have the sense to get in out of the rain. Why are you here in Portsmouth? I told you not—” Sinclair broke off his tirade when Charles erupted into a fit of sneezing.
Sinclair gave vent to an exasperated sigh. “Well, don’t continue to stand there. Get inside. If you caught your death on my doorstep, the entire family would be sure to blame me.”
Sinclair opened the front door. Motioning Charles to follow, Sinclair led the way up a narrow stair to the second floor. Unlocking the first door at the head of the steps, he shoved it open and impatiently pulled the shivering Charles past him.
“Damnation!” Charles said, coming to a dead halt on the threshold. Sinclair pushed him the rest of the way inside, closing the door after them.
Charles’s mouth hung open in dismay at the sight of the small floral-papered chamber that served as both sitting room and study to Sinclair. A battered oak desk was littered with papers spilling over onto the floor. Remains of last night’s supper were stacked on a tray in front of the brick fireplace. One could scarce take a step without treading upon boots, stockings, and sundry other articles of clothing strewn over the carpet. A door stood ajar, revealing that the bedchamber beyond was in little better state.
Charles shook his head. “How can you live this way, Sinclair? If any of Merchant’s people decided to ransack your rooms, you’d never know it.”
“It is a little difficult to pose as a spy with a valet and chambermaid in tow.” Impervious to his brother’s horror, Sinclair added his cloak, hat, and umbrella to the heap upon thedesk. “Besides, Merchant’s people have no reason to search my room. They have all accepted me as one of them.”
Or almost all, Sinclair amended to himself as he thought of golden silk-spun hair, a face so delicate, so fine-boned, it could have been sculpted from ivory, eyes that flashed blue fire. Isabelle Varens might detest her nickname, but if only she knew exactly how like an avenging angel she had appeared when she struck him. Wincing at the memory, Sinclair touched his cheek. It would not surprise him if he sported a bruise. For such a fragile-looking lady, she could land a man quite a facer:
Sinclair turned, forcing his attention back to his brother. “Take off that wet coat, Chuff,” he said. “And I’ll get the fire going again. I think you might find a bottle of indifferent port behind that stack of books in the corner.”
“That’s quite all right.” Charles sniffed. “I am sure I would never be able to locate a clean glass as well.”
Sinclair stepped past him to stir up the embers of the fire he had built that morning. Tossing on a few more logs and using the bellows, he soon had a blaze crackling. By that time Charles had peeled off his cloak and arranged it carefully over a wall peg whose existence Sinclair had never noticed before. Sinclair shoved his dressing gown and a copy of last week’s London Times off a faded wing-backed chair and invited Charles to sit down.
“I’d offer you a change of clothes, but spies don’t appear to eat as well as cavalry officers.” Sinclair patted Charles’s stomach straining beneath his waistcoat.
Charles self-consciously splayed his fingers across his slight paunch. “That will all disappear once I see some action again. Plague take this peace treaty. It won’t hold for long, I tell you that. Not that our side will start anything, but old Boney will never rest quiet. Ambitious fellow, that Napoleon. Bound to stir up something.”
