Brushing aside a wave of self-pity, Belle asked, "What is your name, young sir?"
She had to wait several seconds until the boy chewed and swallowed, "John-Jack."
"And how old are you, John-Jack?"
The boy proudly held up all the fingers on one hand. Then as though smote by conscience, he looked a little sheepish and tucked under the thumb.
"Four years old," Belle said, feigning amazement. "I am sure that is quite grown up, but still a little young, I think, to be wandering these docks alone."
She made a closer inspection of the boy's attire. Although smudged with dirt, his trousers were woven of the softest fawn cashmere, his close-fitting jacket of crimson velvet studded with brass buttons, his collar of exquisite white lace. Obviously he did not belong to any of the rough dockhands or fisherwomen who sat mending their nets.
"Are you lost, child?" she asked.
John-Jack's small chest puffed out with indignation. "No such stuff. I give Nurse Gummwidge the slip."
This statement provoked another laugh from Sinclair. "The young rascal appears to have a promising future ahead of him in intelligence work, wouldn't you agree, Angel?"
Belle glared up at him. "You should not encourage the child to think such behavior amusing. His poor mother will be quite distracted with worry when she discovers him gone."
"My mama's gone to heaven." The truculent set of John-Jack's chin was betrayed by a quiver. "And now Papa's going, too. On that boat." He pointed toward the Good Lady Nell. "He's going all the way to Fwance. That's fawther away than heaven, I think."
The catch in the child's voice tugged at Belle's heart. But what astonished her was Sinclair's response. His roguish eyes softened with tenderness as he scooped the child up in his arms.
"There now, Master John-Jack. France is not so far away as all that." He turned and directed the child's attention across the rippling green channel waters to the dark mass of land that appeared no more than a shadow on the horizon. "See? You can almost reach out and touch it. Your papa can come sailing home from there before you've even had a chance to miss him."
"Twuly?" Although John-Jack looked skeptical, he wrapped one arm about Sinclair's neck, and he leaned forward to squint. Sinclair soon had the little boy convinced that he very nearly had touched the coastline of France,
Belle could only stare. She knew few men who would have been perceptive enough to recognize the child's fear of losing his father, fewer still who would have troubled to do anything about it. Sinclair looked so natural, so at ease with the boy in his arms, he might well have been parent to a numerous brood of his own. Which he could be, for all she yet knew of Carrington.
Although his background remained a mystery to her, she was discovering more about Sinclair that she liked and desired. She supposed she should be angry with him for stealing the kiss, but how could she, knowing she had been a willing partner in the crime? She was no missish virgin to fool herself into thinking that women were not prey to the same passions as men. It had taken Sinclair Carrington to remind her of that. If circumstances were different, if they were not facing such a dangerous mission . . .
But they were, and in future she had best try harder to keep a clear head and him at arm's length. Both their lives might depend upon it. Even now it was high time one of them remembered the business at hand, that they should be boarding the packet before it sailed without them. Although loath to interrupt Sinclair as he charmed away the last of John-Jack's forlorn expression, she said, "We really must return that child to his family and—"
"Jean-Jacques." A man's voice called in the distance behind her.
"And then-." Belle stumbled over what she had been about to say. The voice called again, its French inflection plucking at her heart like the haunting refrain of an old melody.
Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned slowly, the man's shadow falling across her. He halted at the sight of her, catching his breath, his familiar features becoming white and pinched.
Belle felt as though a hand of iron seized her heart and crushed it. A drumming sounded in her ears. Sinclair, the child, the bustling dockyard blurred, vanishing in a thick haze that left her alone with this man who stood so close she could have reached out and touched his hand.
The grains of Time appeared to have been magically pulled back into the top of the hourglass. She might once more have been standing upon the stone steps of Saint¬Saveur, the noble Comte de Egremont coming to claim his bride.
Except that Time was cruel, a malicious prankster. His waving hair, once so golden brown, was now shot through with silver. Deep furrows bit deep into his brow and alongside his mouth were lines far too harsh for such a gentle face.
"Jean-Claude," Belle whispered. Somehow she'd always known she was fated to see him again one day and had imagined what she would do and say. The time had come and her voice failed her. All she could do was scan his gaunt face for some sign that he had at last forgiven her.
He hadn't. His gray eyes no longer filled with dreams, only hurt and disillusionment. Neither Time nor the Revolution had done that to him. The guilt was all hers.
Belle lowered her gaze, no longer able to bear to look at him. When she and Jean-Claude stood silent as though struck from stone, Sinclair shifted restlessly behind her, the boy still in his arms.
Sinclair had watched Belle's eyes widen with recognition, the shock hard followed by the color draining from her cheeks as though she had taken to bleeding inwardly. Never had he thought to see the proud Isabelle look so stricken, so humbled, and the obvious cause of it was this pale stranger with his flinty, accusing eyes.
"Now, who the devil might this Jean-Claude be?" Sinclair did not realize he had muttered the words aloud until John-Jack answered him.
"That's no devil. That's my papa."
When the child squirmed to be free, Sinclair set him down. John-Jack ran over and flung his arms about the man's knees.
"Papa! Papa! This gent'mum's been teaching me how to touch Fwance."
The child's piping voice seemed to break the spell, at least for the stranger if not for Belle. The man she had called Jean-Claude slowly inclined his head toward the boy.
"Jean-Jacques. Where have you been? I have shouted myself hoarse calling you."
“Why, I was wight here all the time, Papa."
"The fault is mine," Sinclair said. "I was amusing the lad, and although I heard your call, I did not make the connection. The child told us his name was John-Jack."
Cold gray eyes shifted toward Sinclair as though recognizing his existence for the first time. "My son has difficulty with his native tongue. Your country seems to have made a proper Englishman of him."
What a world of bitterness lie concealed in those flat tones, Sinclair thought.
"I thank you for looking after Jean-Jacques," Jean-Claude continued. "I am sorry that he should have given you any trouble."
"It was no trouble."
The Frenchman took his son by the hand to lead him away without another word. The movement stirred some life back into Belle.
"Then the boy is yours, monsieur," she said in a small voice, as though she could not comprehend the fact. "You married again?"
"Oui, I did," was the curt reply. "But I am now a widower." As though dragged against his will, Jean-Claude turned back to Belle. Like thin ice cracking, some of his brittle shell seemed to melt.
"It has been a long time, Isabelle," he said softly. "You are still very beautiful."
The color rushed back into Belle's cheeks. "Thank you, Jean-Claude."
She sounded so damn grateful and looked so vulnerable, Sinclair felt a surge of irritation. The way she pronounced the man's name told him all he needed to know about how intimate she and this Jean-Claude once had been. Sinclair experienced a strange sensation, like a giant claw raking across his insides. He surprised himself by stepping closer to Belle and wrapping his arm possessively about her waist.
"It would seem that you and my wife are acquainted, monsi
eur."
He felt Belle stiffen at his words, a spark of anger firing her eyes. Jean-Claude flinched as though Sinclair had dealt him a blow to the face.
"Your—your wife?"
"No—" Belle started to say, trying to pull away from him.
"Just recently wed." Sinclair cut her off, tightening his grip. "Sinclair Carrington's the name. And you are?"
"The Comte de Egremont." Jean-Claude's lips tightened, but he forced a smile. "My congratulations, monsieur, Isabelle." He regained his icy composure. "Pray excuse my rudeness. My son grows restless." He glanced down to where John-Jack wriggled, clearly impatient with all this mysterious adult conversation. "I must see him returned to his bonne."
"No, Jean-Claude. Wait." But Belle's protest came too weak and too late. Scarce giving John-Jack a chance to wave farewell, Jean-Claude tugged his son along the docks. Sinclair was astonished by the degree of vicious satisfaction he felt at the man's retreat, almost as though he had vanquished an enemy.
Belle wrenched herself away from Sinclair. He half expected her to go running after the Frenchman. She took a few hesitant steps and stopped, rounding on Sinclair. Her face was taut with fury.
"How dare you tell him that! How dare you refer to me as your wife!"
"I thought we had agreed on that, Angel."
"But you needn't have introduced me that way to—to—"
"To Jean-Claude?" Sinclair filled in. "Why? What difference does it make?"
Her lips parted to make a furious retort and then clamped shut. The fire in her eyes slowly died to be replaced by emptiness. "No difference, I suppose. None at all."
Wrapping her arms about herself, she walked to the end of the pier and stared unseeing at the channel. She looked weary, a woman defeated. Sinclair had an urge to go to her, pull her into his arms, but his mind reeled with confusion over his own feelings.
What the devil had gotten into him just now? He had been acting like a jealous lover. Which was absurd because he had never made love to Isabelle Varens. What had they shared? A kiss. Never mind that it had been a kiss unlike any other that he had ever known, that the ridiculous thought had flashed through his mind that in Belle he had found something he had been searching for all his life.
So this is what it felt like to make an idiot of oneself over a woman. Chuff, if only you could see your rakehell brother now, he thought with a groan.
Completely cool in his past relations with women, Sinclair was not sure how to cope with this new unsettling experience. Did one apologize for behaving like a jealous fool or simply let the matter drop? Belle seemed too lost in her own unhappy thoughts to take any interest in what he might have to say.
But he discovered he was wrong. She was aware of both him and his silence, for she remarked bitterly, "Well, Mr. Carrington? You are always so curious. I had expected by now to be barraged with questions about my relationship to the Comte de Egremont."
"I am not sure this time, Angel, that l want to know—"
"He was my husband."
For a moment Sinclair was too stunned to say anything. Then he blurted out, "Your husband! I thought he was dead."
“To me, he is, but it is a living death. In France they call it divorce."
Sinclair thought himself past the age of being shocked by anything, but he could not quite manage to conceal his dismay.
"Divorce?”
"Another of the Revolution's civilizing improvements, Mr. Carrington." She essayed a careless laugh, which stuck in her throat. "It does not require an act of Parliament to dissolve a marriage in Paris, only a few pen strokes on a piece of parchment, a mutual agreement to make an end."
How mutual had that agreement been in Belle's case? Sinclair wondered. One look at the misery brimming in her eyes answered his question. As he groped for his pocket handkerchief, he damned Jean-Claude Varens for a fool.
Usually adept at turning aside the flood of feminine tears he so disliked, for once Sinclair could not think of anything witty or consoling to say. He handed Belle the handkerchief in a gesture of silent sympathy.
She stared at the soft linen blankly at first, then her eyes widened with comprehension. "Oh, I see. You thought I was going to cry. No fear of that. I have forgotten how." She returned the handkerchief to him with a self-mocking smile. "A pity, isn't it? Weeping, when done prettily, can be such a useful accomplishment for a woman."
The way she sought to conceal her pain moved Sinclair far more than any tears would have done. He reached for her, but she shrank from his touch.
"If you do not object, Sinclair, I believe I will go on board now."
"Belle-“
"I always spend the crossing alone in the cabin, but I will join you when we disembark."
She backed away from him, so clearly rejecting his comfort. Sinclair allowed his arm to drop helplessly to his side. She spun on her heel and fled along the dock toward the gangplank.
Sinclair stared after her, crumpling the handkerchief in his fist, struck by the irony of the situation. All his life he had striven to avoid weeping females, yet he would have given much to cradle Belle in his arms and let her sob out her grief against his chest. But all he could do was stand there and let her go.
Never sure how she managed it, Belle hurried blindly aboard the Good Lady Nell. The ship's planking seemed to rock beneath her feet. When she located her cabin, she stumbled across the threshold. The chamber was narrow and dark but for the light filtering from one small lantern, giving her the queasy sensation of being swallowed whole into the maw of some mammoth sea beast.
But she welcomed even the creaking confines of the ship's cabin as a haven. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes as though that action could somehow also shut out the tormenting thoughts chasing through her mind.
Jean-Claude . . . Had she only dreamed what had happened upon the pier, or after so many empty years had he actually walked back into her life again? No, she would have never imagined that sort of a meeting, that they would draw so close and never touch, strangers and yet not strangers, that he would appear to her and so swiftly vanish without a word of farewell. Not even her nightmares had ever been that cruel.
"Ah, chérie, there you are at last," Paulette Beauvais's cheery greeting jangled Belle's nerves.
Belle opened her eyes, her vision assaulted by the too-bright yellow of Paulette's low-cut gown, the garishness of the frock accented by the thin red ribbon she habitually wore tied about her neck and the blowsy disorder of her short brown curls.
Paulette stood over an open trunk, shaking out a somber gown of black wool. Her dark eyes twinkled. "I thought it time I changed into my guise of your oh so proper maidservant before—"
Paulette's stream of chatter halted as she peered at Belle. The scrutiny emphasized the elfin slant of the Frenchwoman's eyes.
"Qu'est que c'est, chérie? You look as though you have seen the ghost."
Paulette's remark hit so near the truth that Belle suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.
Paulette frowned, "Is it Lazare who has upset you? I saw him come aboard. The varien!. I will fling him into the sea if he—"
"No. It is nothing to do with Lazare." Belle moved away from the door. She sank down upon the cabin's hard cot. "It is only that-that you know how I feel about ships."
All solicitude, Paulette bustled to her side. "Ma pauvre. How stupid of me to forget." She pressed her thin hand to Belle's brow. "You anticipate the mal de mer. Never fret. Paulette will take care of you as soon as I change my frock."
Belle removed Paulette's hand from her forehead. Go away, Paulette, she thought wearily, wishing the vivacious Frenchwoman would sense her need to be alone.
Oblivious to Belle's mood, Paulette hummed a little tune and shrugged her short, wiry frame out of the yellow gown. Even to be rid of Paulette's unwanted presence, Belle could not bring herself to reveal any portion of the real cause of her distress. Despite having worked with Paulette for over a year, Bell
e had never been able to confide in her anything of importance. Useful enough for the role she played, Paulette seemed too flighty to ever be trusted in any great matters.
While Belle wished her elsewhere, Paulette slipped into the black dress, bubbling on about the amusement she had found amongst the handsome sailors in Portsmouth's Royal Navy Yard.
"All the same, I shall be glad to return to my Paris. That is the best place on earth to find love."
Or to lose it, Belle thought sadly. Her gaze roved toward the bare wooden beams of the ceiling as she strained to hear sounds coming from the deck above. The boy, Jean-Jacques, had said something about his father returning to France on this same ship. Could Jean-Claude even now be that close to her? Napoleon had granted amnesty to the émigrés from the Revolution. She had noticed that Jean-Claude had resumed the use of his title. Did he intend to resume his old life at Merevale as well?
Not that any of that was her concern. Belle lowered her head, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. No matter what Jean-Claude's plans, there was no place in them for her. She thought she had learned to live with that fact years ago. Then why did seeing him again hit her so hard?
Perhaps it had been the look in his eyes, still so shattered and unforgiving of the deception she had practiced upon him long ago. Perhaps it was the knowledge that until he pardoned her, she would never be able to forgive herself.
"Here, chérie. Drink this."
Belle blinked, becoming aware that Paulette stood over her, offering her a glass half-filled with a muddy-colored liquid. Her curls secured beneath a mob cap, her lithe frame attired in sober black, Paulette had effected an amazing transformation into that of a proper, middle-aged lady's maid.
Belle eyed the glass with suspicion. "What is it?"
"Laudanam, ma chére. It will put you to sleep. Then you will not feel the ship's rockings."
Belle's lip curled with distaste. But with all those phantoms that lurked in the darker corners of her mind, waiting to be set free, Belle had found sleep more often a curse than a blessing.