He studied her exposed features, the angry red ebbing from his cheeks. When Belle saw the lust flare in his bloodshot eyes, she struggled to squirm free.
"Easy, m' beauty. Old Jacques's not going to hurt you. Maybe you'd just like to step upstairs and raise a glass with me and my comrades."
Belle kept her voice cool. "Another time, perhaps. I'm in something of a hurry."
The soldier let out a huge guffaw. His arms closed about her waist, his grip tightening. Belle suppressed an urge to claw at his face. Against this huge bear of a man, such distraught tactics would never prevail. She glanced across the room. The old man stared fixedly into his cup, the hostess wringing her hands in her apron. They were no more capable of helping Belle than they had the peasant girl. During the Revolution, most folk had learned to spare themselves by looking the other way when trouble came.
Belle wrenched around, seeking her muff. It had tumbled beside the basket contents near the door. The soldier half-lifted Belle off her feet, pulling her toward the stairs. Above her she could hear the voices of his brutish companions raised in an obscene song. Once the soldier succeeded in carting her up to that room, Belle knew she was lost.
As he moved to heft her up over his shoulder, Belle flung her arms about the soldier's neck. Yanking his head downward, she crushed her mouth against his so hard she thought she would suffocate. The taste of his sour breath made her stomach churn, but she continued the savage embrace until he jerked his head back.
"Damn!" he panted. "You're a right passionate little bitch."
"I'm a widow. It's been a long time since I've had a man. All the young strong ones have gone off for the army."
He slackened his grip and wound an arm about her shoulders. "Come upstairs, then." He chuckled. "I'll show you several strong fellows who just unenlisted."
Deserters. Of course, Belle thought. That explained the furtive attitude of the inn's hostess. Damn Lefranc. Where was the swaggering sergeant when she really needed him?
She had no choice but to deal quietly and efficiently with this drunkard herself. Belle stiffened her frame, hanging back as the soldier attempted to propel her up the first step.
"What's the matter?" she taunted. "Don't you think that you would be man enough for me?"
The deserter flushed beet red. "Show you who’s man enough."
But with a deft movement Belle ducked from beneath his arm.
"Not here," she said, forcing a coy laugh. She could handle the man far better if she could get him outside. Here she ran the risk that he would be missed and joined by his friends at any moment.
Managing to evade his groping hands, Belle darted forward and retrieved her muff. The soldier grunted with frustration and seized her about the waist with a bruising grip.
"Out back," she said. "There's a barn with a hayloft,"
"Let’s get on with it, then." Yanking her with him, he flung open the door and pulled her through it, his breath hot upon her cheek.
After the stifling atmosphere of the inn, Belle welcomed the cool darkness of the yard. Although sickened, Belle pretended to sigh with pleasure when the soldier pressed wet kisses against her neck. As they staggered around the side of the building, his hand pawed at her breasts.
Belle set a slow pace, wriggling her fingers inside the muff toward the pistol, then rejected the notion. The noise would be too great, and she had an aversion to shedding blood unless absolutely necessary. Besides, the stream of moonlight had just revealed to her a much better weapon.
Stacked neatly beside the inn was a cord of wood, one particularly stout log balanced on top of the load. It would serve. This fool's head was not that thick.
But she needed to act quickly before the aroused drunkard tried to take her in the dirt beside the vegetable patch. He already strove to hike up her skirts.
Hiding a grimace of distaste, she braced one hand against his hairy chest to hold him off. "Oh, dear. I seem to have dropped my purse."
"Forget it. Can find it later."
"But I have twenty golden louis inside."
The hand tugging at her gown hesitated. "T-twenty?" He moistened his lips with greed. "Did you say twenty gold pieces?"
"Yes, if you could only get down and help me look—"
"Take your filthy hands off her!" The piping voice rang out.
Both Belle and the deserter turned to stare at the slender figure who had crept up behind them. Phillipe looked absurdly youthful, his face taut with anger, the sword wavering in his hand.
"I said get away from her, you cowardly dog." The boy advanced closer. "Prepare to defend yourself if you are even half a man."
Belle stilled a groan. She tugged at the soldier, attempting to draw him away from Phillipe. "Pay no heed to him. He is just a foolish boy."
But the deserter shook her off with a vicious laugh. He faced Phillipe, drawing his own weapon. The man's mouth widened into a wolfish smile. "Why, you strutting bantam. I'll cut you in two."
Phillipe trembled, but held his ground.
"No!" Belle cried. She attempted to step in between the two men, but the soldier's arm lashed out, knocking her aside. She lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. Before she could roll over, she heard the horrible rasp of steel against steel.
Struggling to a sitting position, she saw the deserter beating back Phillipe's blade. Whatever the Chevalier Coterin had taught his son, it certainly could not have been how to use his sword. Even drunk, the deserter was more than a match for the boy. The man easily slipped past Phillipe's guard and nicked the boy's cheek.
So much for handling this matter quietly, Belle thought. She shoved herself to her feet. Drawing the pistol from its place of concealment in the muff, she cocked it.
"Stop!" she commanded. "Both of you. Put up your swords."
But with one deft movement, the soldier sent Phillipe's weapon flying from his clumsy grasp.
Belle took aim at the soldier. "Hold or I'll shoot."
The man didn't seem to hear her. Like a beast, crazed by the scent of a kill, the soldier drew back his sword. Phillipe flung up his hands, bracing himself.
Belle fired. The report of the pistol was deafening, the shot reverberating through the still night air. The soldier wavered, his sword arm yet upraised. He blinked, staring down at the flow of crimson splashing down his chest. Then the man staggered, collapsing into a heap at Phillipe's feet.
Belle froze, but only for an instant. She ran to Phillipe's side and caught him by the sleeve. "Back to the coach. Hurry!"
But Phillipe didn't move. His face white, he stared at the fallen soldier, then at the smoking pistol in her hand.
The shutters of a window above them banged open. Another soldier thrust his head out, his blue coat outlined by the light shining behind him.
"Qu'est que c'est ca? Jacques? Is that you?"
"Come on!" Belle wrenched Phillipe, nearly setting him off balance. He snapped out of his trancelike state.
Both of them tore off running and stumbling through the dark. The distance back to the stableyard seemed endless. Belle's heart hammered, her lungs aching by the time she drew within sight of the carriage. She cried out with relief to see the new team hitched in the traces, Feydeau pacing in a fit of impatience.
"Where the devil—" the old man started to growl.
"Get us out of here," Belle gasped.
Although Feydeau glared, he moved quickly to obey. Belle all but shoved Phillipe into the carriage. She scrambled up after him, slamming the door shut just as the coach lurched forward.
As the vehicle swayed into movement, Belle reached for the pouch stuffed in the corner of the seat.
"What—what—" Madame Coterin started to wail.
"Be quiet!" Belle drew forth some powder and shot, struggling to reload in the semidarkness of the jouncing coach. Between Madame's praying and Sophie's whimpers, Belle strained to hear the outcry of pursuit.
When the pistol was loaded, she scooted to the coach window and peered out. The v
illage of Lillefleur had receded into darkness, the night quiet except for the rattle of the berline. No tocscin rang from the church steeple to alert the countryside, no gallop of mounted riders took up the chase,
The minutes ticked by, marked by the rumble of wheels putting distance between them and the posting station. Holding a handkerchief to his injured cheek, Phillipe also glanced out.
"Why is no one coming after us?"
"Probably because the people of Lillefleur know how to tend their own business better than I do," Belle muttered. As for the deserter's comrades, likely they had been too drunk.
Belle's fear gave way to anger at herself for taking such a stupid risk by leaving the coach in the first place, and anger at the guileless young man seated opposite her. The moonlight accented Phillipe's pale face as he regarded her gravely.
"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.
CHAPTER 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 himself had stepped into the coffee mom as the waiter exited, bearing off 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.
"I'm not going to be like you, Mama," she had vowed, "prancing down here on the stage to be gaped at and scorned. I'm going to be up there, one of them, a real lady."
What a foolish child's dream—to think that she could ever be a lady of quality, admired, respected and loved.
"But I did almost realize that dream, didn't I, Jean-Claude?" Belle murmured. These days the most she hoped for was to one day retire from this uncertain life, purchase a small cottage, perhaps in Derbyshire. There, with her past buried, she could at least end her days in the role of the respectable widow. Playacting, Belle thought wearily, forever playacting, just like Mama after all. She took another sip of the brandy. It tasted strangely bitter as poorly brewed beer.
Outside, the rain continued to beat a melancholy tattoo against the windows. Belle heard the flurry of another arr
ival in the taproom. More ladies, perhaps, to be horrified at finding a ‘loose’ woman frequenting Neptune's Trident?
Mr. Shaw had left the coffee room door ajar upon his last exit. Belle faced the opening, her chin thrust upward. But she relaxed her attitude of belligerence as she glimpsed a gentleman attempting to shake the rainwater from his greatcoat. When a waiter offered to help him out of the wet garment, he declined.
"I shan't be staying that long. When Mr. Carrington comes in from the stableyard, say that I await him in the coffee room."
Belle had no difficulty recognizing the reedy voice of Victor Merchant's messenger.
"Quentin Crawley," she said softly to herself. "It's more than time. You've only kept me waiting for two weeks!"
The wiry little man pushed open the coffee room door and bustled inside. He espied Belle by the fireside.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens," he said, doffing his hat and mopping at some rain droplets which clung to his balding forehead. Tufts of sandy hair sticking out from behind his ears gave Crawley the appearance of being perpetually startled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley." Belle leaned back against the bench and saluted him with her brandy glass. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."
"Unlikely, Mrs. Varens. Very unlikely." Crawley grimaced his version of a smile. He moved as though to warm his hands at the fire, but drew up short. His head shifted as he examined the coffee room and then frowned.
"This will never do for our meeting. We must have a private parlor."
Belle sighed. Quentin Crawley always treated the most perfunctory transactions between them as though they stood in danger of discovery from Bonaparte's agents lurking under every hearth rug.
"The private parlor is already engaged," Belle said. "We can manage well enough here."
"Entirely too public," Crawley fussed. "If we were seen together by someone I know, how would I ever explain the purpose of our rendezvous?"
Belle infused a sultry quality into her voice. "Why, Quentin, you could always say that I was soliciting your company for a night's entertainment."