Page 19 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“I would be happy to give you a reason.” He was standing too close again. Even the scent of him was thoroughly masculine, a combination of the salt sea breeze, tobacco, and musk. Belle was far too much of a woman not to feel a stirring of desire as he reached for her. A protest formed on her lips, but it was unnecessary. Sinclair stopped himself, although he lowered his aims with obvious reluctance. Belle was conscious of a feeling of disappointment.
“No,” he said, “I told myself I would behave tonight. How else can I hope to convince you to change your mind about working with me? If I promised you, upon my honor, that I would act like a gentleman, that there would be no repetition of what happened at the inn?—”
“Can I trust your promises, Mr. Carrington?”
“No, very likely you can’t.” He smiled.
Her own lips quivered in response. He was a complete rogue, but she liked him in spite of the fact, liked him perhaps too much for her peace of mind.
“You should reconsider anyway,” he continued to urge. “We would make a perfect team. We have so much in common.”
Belle shot him a look of incredulity.
“Obviously we both like to keep free of any entanglements. We both have chosen to thumb our noses at respectable society, to conduct ourselves as we please. We both like living just a little on the edge.”
“No, Mr. Carrington. You may have chosen such a life. Mine was forced upon me. One day I still intend to?—”
“Shh!”
Belle broke off as Sinclair held up one finger to his lips. “I thought I heard something.”
Both of them lapsed into silence and stood tensed, listening. At first Belle detected nothing but the breeze rustling therosebushes. Then she heard it, too, the sound of a twig crackling underfoot.
“On the path. Over there,” Sinclair whispered. He pressed close to her side, and the two of them strained to peer through the darkness of the garden. The glimmer of moonlight was enough to outline a short figure all cloaked in black, stealthily making its way in an exaggerated zigzag pattern as though eluding some imaginary pursuer through the hedges.
When a rabbit flashed across the figure’s path, a familiar voice let out a frightened croak. “Dear me!”
Belle sensed Sinclair relaxing even as she did so herself. “Quentin Crawley,” they both murmured in the same breath. Their eyes met and they broke into simultaneous laughter.
“You see?” Sinclair said. “We have at least one thing in common. We both possess a most unseemly sense of humor.” Sinclair so precisely imitated Quentin’s peevish tones that Belle erupted into fresh laughter.
She felt Sinclair’s gaze upon her face, warm, admiring. “Ah, that’s much better. You should laugh more often. I shall make it a point to see that you do, Angel.”
Belle checked her mirth at once. Now was the time to tell Sinclair firmly that he would not make a point of doing anything. They definitely would not be working together.
Instead she heard herself saying, “Mr. Carrington, if I give you leave to use my first name, will you please stop calling me by that detestable nickname?”
The moonlight glinted off his mischievous smile. “We have already established that my promises are most unreliable, Isabelle.”
“Belle. I am usually called Belle.”
“So you are,” he said. Even through the night shadows, his eyes seemed to pierce her, the green lights becoming intent.
Belle’s pulse raced. She felt relieved when Quentin Crawley slunk into the garden.
“Why, Quentin,” she said. “I do believe you are two minutes late.”
Crawley hushed her in a loud, stagy whisper. He would permit no greetings, frantically motioning them both to silence.
Sinclair bent down and murmured in Belle’s ear, “Bonaparte is hiding in the shrubberies, don’t you know?”
Belle muffled a laugh behind her hand. She didn’t need the light spilling from the lantern to know that Crawley was glaring at both of them. Picking up the lantern, he gestured for Belle and Sinclair to follow him.
As they made their way toward the back of the house, Sinclair managed to link his arm through hers, somehow infusing even that courtly gesture with warmth.
Quentin led the way into the house through a pair of tall French doors. As they crossed the threshold, Belle pulled free of Sinclair, gazing about her. They were in some sort of parlor, as near as she could tell. Quentin was quick to draw the heavy velvet drapes and would only light one small candle.
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Crawley—” Belle started to complain.
