Kitabı oku: «The Courtesan», sayfa 4

Though Jane rose, she didn’t follow. “What if Mrs. Jarvis sends somebody to…to fetch me back?”

Behind the question, Belle sensed the girl’s fear of the infamous Waldo. “I assure you, even if she dispatches her henchman, Watson is fully capable of handling him. He was once the best prize-fighter in England.”

At that, Jane cast herself once again at Belle’s feet. “Oh, my lady, I shall be forever grateful! And my skill with a needle ain’t empty boasting, neither, you’ll see! Show me any style you favor in a magazine or shop window, and I can make you the very thing!”

“I see we shall deal very well together,” Belle replied, smiling as she shepherded Jane from the room.

After turning her new charge over to her housekeeper, Belle returned to pen the note informing Mrs. Jarvis of her employee’s defection. By the time she’d finished crafting that missive, Belle’s satisfaction at liberating Jane had faded.

Though she knew she’d done all she could, she found herself pacing her chamber, the glass of wine she’d sipped while composing her note unable to quell the agitation she’d felt ever since Miss Bellingham had accosted her at the theater.

Also simmering in her veins was the familiar desire to lash out at the world for the outrages it permitted—and particularly at the villains who preyed on innocents.

It was some time before she tired enough to seek her bed.

How fortunate, she thought as she plumped up her pillow, picturing with sardonic anticipation the arrogant, lustful male faces watching—and then challenging—her from the gallery, that tomorrow she had another fencing lesson.

CHAPTER FIVE

AUBREY MUST HAVE suspected Jack might have second thoughts about challenging Belle, for shortly after Jack rose the following morning, he answered a rap on his door to discover his friend standing in the hallway. “Help yourself to some ale,” Jack invited, suppressing a smile.

“Much obliged,” Aubrey said as he seated himself. “Wanted to arrive early and make sure you were prepared.”

“Or to make sure I went through with it?”

“No question about that,” Aubrey responded as he poured a glass. “Gave your word. Just thought I’d escort you over, me being your second of sorts.”

“Not a second—a principal,” Jack retorted wryly. “You being the one who volunteered me.”

“Could have refused if you’d wanted. But what man could resist the opportunity to win a kiss from Belle—especially one who has an excellent chance of succeeding?”

Jack wanted to protest, but honesty kept him silent. It would be gratifying to succeed where other men had failed, but Jack knew that deep down, what he sought most was a taste of the woman who so intrigued and attracted him. He had tossed restlessly most of the night, sleep eluding him as his mind kept conjuring vivid images of taking her in his arms, her mouth yielding, opening under his. In lieu of replying, he took a long draught of ale.

“I tipped the hackney driver to wait,” Aubrey said after draining his mug. “Given your reputation for swordplay, the gallery should be crowded. We must depart immediately if we wish to secure chairs.”

“I would rather stand at the side, where I can observe the lesson without it being obvious.”

“Search out her weaknesses,” Aubrey agreed, “though not being a fencer of your rank, I’ve yet to note any. You’ll not want to miss even the smallest opening that could allow you to win the wager—and perhaps persuade her that further intimacy would be even more enjoyable, eh?”

Jack laughed. “There’s little chance of that. I can’t meet her price, and I doubt my lovemaking skill is sufficient to impress a woman of Belle’s vast experience.”

“Did those French and Spanish ladies not teach you a trick or two?”

Jack shook his head. “Your vivid imagination again, Aubrey. Soldiers spend much more time slogging through dust, mud and rain to bed down on damp ground or in flea-infested hovels than romping with foreign beauties.”

Aubrey picked up Jack’s uniform jacket. “Please, don’t shatter my boyhood illusions. Your coat, sir. If Belle should take a liking to you, promise you’ll not forget the part I had in bringing you together.”

“I’m unlikely ever to forget,” Jack replied dryly as he fastened the jacket and buckled on his sword. He would not, he told himself as they proceeded to the waiting hackney, let his imagination play with the intoxicating notion of luring Belle into more than a simple kiss.

She’s a wanton who would bed any man for a price, his righteous mind protested. But such a wanton! the part of his brain devoted to pleasure replied. Hadn’t she kept Bellingham’s desire aflame for years? His whole body tightened at the notion of the love tricks she must know…He dare not allow himself to imagine those smooth white hands, those plump pink lips performing their magic on him.

Enough, he brought his thoughts up sternly. Let lust rule his head and, talented fencer that she was, she’d insure he didn’t win so much as one kiss.

As they approached the hackney, Edmund Darnley walked up. “Thought I’d come lend my support.”

“Come along,” Aubrey said. “But if Jack does succeed in winning Belle, he’s promised me the first introduction.”

“Winning Belle?” Edmund echoed with a puzzled look.

“Just Aubrey leaping to unsupported conclusions, as usual,” Jack replied. “There’s no question of anything but a kiss—which, I may add, I’ve yet to win.”

“Then let us take our places so you have maximum time in which to determine how to do so,” Aubrey said.

The three friends piled into the coach. A short time later, they entered the fencing room to find it, as Aubrey had predicted, already crowded. Jack nodded to Montclare and several others, while Rupert gave Jack a glacial glance as he passed to take up a place along the left wall.

A short time later, master and pupil walked in. Belle, dressed again in breeches and shirt, her golden hair pulled tightly back, ignored the assembly, focusing instead on inspecting her sword and testing its balance.

Releasing the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or vexed that this time he hadn’t drawn to himself that compelling, focus-shattering gaze. Though she did not deign to look at him, he was acutely aware of her every movement.

He mustn’t, he reminded himself, become distracted by the shapely derriere hugged by her doeskin breeches as she bent to adjust her foil or the arresting curves outlined beneath the shirt as she raised her arm, lest he be trounced as ignominiously as Wexley.

And Lord help him, he wanted that kiss.

That kiss and more.

Alarmed by the insidious observation that sprang, as powerful as it was unwanted, from somewhere deep within him, Jack turned his attention to the fencing master.

After a brisk review of stance and positioning, master and pupil assumed their places. During the lesson, Belle displayed the same quickness of foot and ingenuity of movement Jack had noted in her previous bout with Armaldi.

She maneuvered the foil as if it were a natural extension of her arm, her hands light and quick, her stance well balanced and her intense concentration evident in the swift countering moves with which she met each of Armaldi’s advances. Though this time she did not disarm him, the match concluded with neither scoring a decisive advantage.

“Buono, mia bella,” Armaldi said. “You fence again?”

“Perhaps not,” Belle said. “I am a bit winded today.”

Already stepping toward the fencing floor, Jack halted, surprised by the refusal. Quelling a ridiculously keen sense of disappointment, he had to compress his lips to keep from adding his objection to the shouts of protest.

“But you must accept a challenge,” Ansley cried, dropping on one knee before her. “You gave your word!”

“Besides, someone particular has pledged to meet you today.” Jack heard Aubrey’s voice and sighed. “A soldier and veteran of Waterloo. Surely you won’t deny this heroic defender of England a chance to win a victory far sweeter than the one he wrested from the brutal fields of battle?”

Belle’s gaze swept the room and found Jack. For a long moment those intense blue eyes focused on his, sending a wave of shivers over his skin.

“You,” she said at last.

Jack bowed. “Captain Jack Carrington, ma’am, at your service. And perhaps later, if you are skillful enough, at your mercy.”

Her lips twitched at that, but in the next moment a man from the gallery strode forward, stripped to his shirtsleeves and obviously intending his own challenge.

As Jack watched the other man approach, the unexpected and disturbingly intense conviction seized him that the chance to fence with her, best her—kiss her—belonged to him and him alone. He had to squelch a strong, primal desire to draw his sword and repel any other contenders.

The other man frowned at Jack. “’Tis not fair for Belle to be challenged by a military man, a professional!” he protested to Armaldi.

“Do you imply ’tis impossible she could match him, Waterfield?” Aubrey shot back. “That’s presumptuous as well as ungentlemanly!”

While Waterfield sputtered that he’d not meant to disparage Belle’s skill, Lord Rupert raised his voice above the clamor of disputing opinions. “Mr. Waterfield speaks the truth, Captain. You have, by your friend’s admission, fought recently and in deadly earnest. To challenge Lady Belle, who fences upon occasion and for sport, would be to take unfair advantage of the terms of Ansley’s wager. I must ask you to decline.”

“You only wish him to step down because you fear he might actually win,” Aubrey inserted hotly.

Rupert ignored him, his gaze fixed on Jack. “Lady Belle, unusual though she be, is still but a woman. Though she has achieved a remarkable level of proficiency, it is hardly possible for one of her sex to acquire the strength and skill necessary to best an accomplished gentleman.”

Belle had been looking into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the argument around her, but at that, she snapped her gaze back. “You think me so paltry an opponent, my lord? ’Tis time, then, that I faced someone of unquestioned skill. Captain, I accept your challenge.”

Exclamations erupted from around the gallery, some protesting against Belle meeting a soldier, some calling for the match to begin. His pulse having leapt in anticipation as soon as Belle accepted the challenge, Jack ignored them all, striding instead to an exuberant Aubrey, who stripped off his jacket and handed him his sword.

Lord Rupert followed, still arguing as Jack readied himself, until at last Armaldi waved his arms and stamped his feet to command the group to silence.

“The lady has spoken,” he pronounced. “So be it.”

After attempting without success to stare down Armaldi, Lord Rupert at last reluctantly took his seat. “We shall have a reckoning over this,” he muttered to Jack.

Every nerve tightened by excitement and the tantalizing prospect of victory, Jack did not reply.

A moment later, he bowed again to Belle. “As eager as these gentlemen are to watch, so am I to test your skill.”

Lady Belle fixed him with a look whose icy coldness surprised him. “I daresay you are. En guarde, Captain!”

SO CARRINGTON’S FIRST name was Jack, Belle thought as she slowly circled him, looking for the opportunity to strike. She’d spotted him immediately, watching her, disturbing her concentration during her lesson as he’d disturbed her during the play last night.

Good that he had challenged her. In her current angry, restless mood, she welcomed the opportunity to strike out with the full fury that raged within her, a fury she always held in check when fencing with Armaldi.

So he wanted to “test her skill”? She could just imagine what sort of expertise he wanted to plumb.

She’d show him the edge of her blade, drive him back…Better yet, she decided, she’d feign the amateur and lure him to a humiliating defeat. Then he would leave her in peace and she could put him and his unsettling effect on her out of mind for good.

But though she tried to play on the disdain she suspected he harbored for her skill, attempted with weak and clumsy thrusts to make him commit to a lunge that would allow her to deliver a blow that knocked him off balance and perhaps off his feet, he refused to comply.

With a dawning respect for his perspicacity, Belle discarded that tactic and reverted to fencing him properly. Within a very few minutes, she began to wonder wryly whether she’d truly wanted this demanding a challenge.

Unlike her opponents thus far, Carrington was a fencer who truly knew the art, handling his blade with more finesse than anyone she’d yet faced, save Armaldi himself.

To have survived the slaughter of Waterloo, he must possess skill as well as luck. But she’d not expected a cavalryman, accustomed to brute slashing with a heavy saber, to be a master of subtle moves and shrewd strategy.

Just then he paused, and seizing that chance, Belle lunged. Their blades caught, forcing Armaldi to step in and untangle them.

Belle went immediately on the offensive again. Though the captain fell back, he never allowed her another opening. Seeming content to counter her moves with only an occasional strike back, he simply did not make any mistakes she could use to deliver the decisive hit.

Back and forth across the floor they continued. Belle’s hands grew sweaty, her breathing labored. Already tired by her lesson, she knew she was flagging. She would have to redouble her efforts before the captain could turn her growing fatigue to his advantage.

Breaking away to gather her breath, Belle caught sight of the gallery. Men stood beside their chairs, waving their fists and shouting, their eyes feverish, their faces distorted by an excitement very much like lust.

The captain paused also, watching her with those bold dark eyes, a slight smile on his face. Aside from the sheen of sweat on his face, he appeared not at all fatigued. Not at all challenged.

The humiliating, infuriating suspicion swept through Belle that the captain was not truly engaging her at all. No, he was merely playing with her, checking her moves to keep from being pricked, but not using his full abilities.

Once again, a man was toying with her—while other men watched and cheered him on.

Frustration, fatigue and anger ignited into a fireball of fury that, intensified by remembered shame and pain, blazed out of control. Her eyes narrowed, her head and body felt suddenly light and her breast filled with a single, murderous desire for vengeance.

On the fencer now taunting her. On all of them.

Teeth clenched in a snarl, she attacked.

PAUSING HIMSELF as Lady Belle paused for a respite, Jack assessed his opponent. She was amazingly good, and he’d been hard-pressed to protect himself without resorting to the dragoon’s killing slash that might have injured her, despite the protective bit of cork attached to their foils.

But not having the stamina he had developed after years of performing this deadly game, she was tiring. A few more turns about the room, he judged, and her arms would weaken, her steps start to falter. Then, he would wait for an opportunity to disarm her…and win that kiss.

His whole body stirring at the notion, he smiled slightly. And then suddenly she sprang at him.

Whipping up his blade to protect his face, he was forced to concentrate all his energies on defending himself as, in a frenzy of thrusts and parries, she drove him hard.

Even as sweat began dripping from his face and soaking his gloves, he wondered what had happened. Between one instant and the next, this match had ceased to be a test of skill. He’d fought in enough battles to recognize in the ferocity of Lady Belle’s attack the blood lust of an adversary bent not on simple victory—but on murder.

As he parried one furious slash, the momentum of her lunge carried the deflected blade to the floor, embedding the tip into the wood. With a growl, Belle yanked the blade free—leaving behind the cork protector.

He should call the match to a halt, he thought as she drove him into a corner and tried to pin him. But before he could bring himself to end this curious, exhilarating contest, he gazed down into her eyes.

And encountered a look of such complete, blind hatred that it shocked him to the soul. Unable to imagine what he could possibly have done to have inspired so venomous an expression, for an instant he stood motionless.

In the next instant, he saw light dancing off a flash of blade, felt a blow to the chest followed by a searing, white-hot pain. As he looked down in bemusement, blood began seeping from a hole beneath his left shoulder.

For a long moment, he watched the pulsating flow while the voices from the gallery faded to a hum. His head grew light, his limbs clumsy. Dimly he noted the sword falling from his nerveless fingers.

As the room flickered and dissolved into black, he realized that he wasn’t going to win that kiss after all.

CHAPTER SIX

DEAR LORD in heaven, she’d just killed her soldier.

Her fury washed away with the flow of blood trickling down Jack Carrington’s chest, Belle dropped her foil and tried to brace him as he swayed. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, taking her to the floor with him.

She scrambled out from under him to rip open his shirt. “Someone get a physician,” she cried, dimly aware of a chaos of shouts, overturned chairs and running feet.

Hands shaking with dread, she ripped the cuffs off her shirt and clamped them over the neat hole she had punched into Jack Carrington’s chest. Willing away the nausea brought on by fatigue and the scent of blood, she leaned her full weight against him.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and marred her view of Carrington’s face, now drained of all color. “Hold on, Captain!” she urged. “You didn’t survive Waterloo to die on a fencing-room floor.”

A hand closed over hers and she glanced up, startled.

“Edmund Darnley, Lady Belle—a friend of Jack’s. If you will allow me to hold the pads in place? I’ve several stone more than you to bear against them.”

“But I must do something,” she cried, needing some distraction from the horror that had just transpired.

Darnley’s lips curved into a grim smile. “I’d say you’ve done quite enough. But if you can find something to put under his head, ’twill ease his breathing, I think.”

Reluctantly Belle ceded him her place and scurried to grab a cushion from one of the overturned chairs. Dropping on her knees beside Darnley, she wedged the pillow under the captain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Darnley.

The captain’s friend gave her a short nod.

Then another gentleman—blond, exquisitely dressed, a bit stout, whom Belle recognized as one of the crowd that usually attended her lessons—knelt beside them.

“Aubrey Ludlowe, ma’am. How does he, Edmund?”

“Jack’s a tough old trooper. Is a doctor on the way?” Despite the calm words, Darnley looked grim and his gaze remained riveted on the still, white-faced figure whose chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly under his palms.

“Armaldi dispatched his assistant to fetch him,” Ludlowe said. “Damned if I want to see my best friend stick his spoon in the wall right in front of me when he’s scarce returned from battle!” Ludlowe inhaled abruptly, his eyes widening. “Besides, should he…not recover, Lady Belle might be forced to flee to the continent!”

“Unless she had the protection of someone very well connected,” Darnley agreed and then frowned. “Is Rupert still here?”

“The whole crowd is milling about.”

“If you wish to be useful, ma’am,” Darnley said to Belle, “escort Lord Rupert out. I fear he’d snuff Jack in a heartbeat if he thought it would give him an advantage.”

The truth of Darnley’s words made her shudder, but the last person she wished to entice was the persistent baron. “They should all go,” she countered. “The captain needs air and the doctor will need space to work. Armaldi!” she called. “Clear the room, please!”

The wiry Italian nodded. “Subito, Bella. Signore!” Clapping his hands to draw their attention, he waved the crowd toward the door. “You also, my lord Rupert,” he added when that gentleman looked as if he meant to linger.

“I will await the lady, who should be escorted from this distressing scene as soon as possible,” Rupert said.

“I’m not leaving until the captain has been treated,” Belle replied.

“Ah, he arrives, il dottore!” Armaldi cried.

“The doctor had a colleague visiting, a military physician, Major Thompson,” the fencing master’s assistant called to them as he entered. “Thought it might be best to bring him.”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Thompson, we’ll be glad of your experience!” Ludlowe said, relief in his voice.

After having to push his way past several groups of bystanders, the doctor ordered, “Out with you all, now!” Setting down his bag, he knelt beside the captain while Darnley described the injury and Armaldi shepherded out the remaining lingerers. Even Rupert, with a disdainful glance at the physician, walked toward the door. “I shall wait outside to escort you home, Lady Belle.”

“I may be here some time,” Belle warned.

“Nonetheless, I shall wait,” he said, and to her vast relief, finally exited. When she returned her attention to the captain, the doctor had begun examining the wound.

“Why don’t you go change, ma’am?” Darnley asked, glancing at her. “I’m sure you’ll want to…freshen up.”

Only then, following his gaze, did Belle notice the blood spattering her breeches and shirtfront, soaking the ragged edges of her torn sleeves.

Carrington’s blood. Blood, welling still around the doctor’s probing fingers, from a wound her carelessness had caused. A wound that might yet cost Carrington his life.

Despite a sudden dizziness that made her faint, she shook her head. “I can’t leave. Not until we know…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Remain if you wish, ma’am,” the doctor said, “but no attack of the vapors, if you please! There’s a frightful lot of blood, but his pulse is steady. If he’d severed an artery, he’d have bled to death already. Much will depend on how seriously the lung is affected.”

With that not-so-comforting assessment, the doctor continued probing. And so Belle remained in her gore-spattered garments, gaze fixed on the captain’s too-pale face, trying to form a prayer for his recovery out of the tumult of anxious thoughts tumbling about in her head.

She had almost killed a man. Whatever had possessed her to attack him so? The protector must have become dislodged from her blade. She should have noticed it, would have noticed, had she not been in such a rage.

Remembering the ferocity of that anger chilled her. For years she’d felt herself the victim of another’s unfeeling, heedless action. It dismayed her to find within herself a similar strain of thoughtless single-mindedness.

Her mind recoiled from the possibility that Carrington might die. The captain would recover. He must.

His probing apparently complete, the doctor sprinkled a powder over the wound, drew a roll of cotton from his bag and began binding up the wound.

Though she knew the doctor could make no promises, Belle couldn’t prevent herself asking, “Will he recover?”

“Though the lungs appear intact, he will have some difficulty breathing, and I can’t tell yet whether the blade touched anything vital. Of course, there’s always the danger from fever, but he will do for the present.”

The captain wasn’t going to die—yet. Belle almost sagged in relief. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured.

“I’ve bound up the shoulder to keep it immobile. I trust you have lodgings nearby? You’ll need to move him carefully to avoid disturbing the wound. Don’t worry if he takes a while coming to himself. I’ll leave you some laudanum, but on no account administer any until you are sure he is clearheaded. Watch for fever, and if the lungs were damaged, a pleurisy might settle in.”

Belle must have paled, for the doctor patted her hand. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear. Your husband appears to be a strong fellow, and from the looks of that scar on his shoulder, has weathered worse. Send a servant to fetch me in Curzon Street and I’ll check him again this afternoon.”

Belle opened her mouth to deny the relationship, then closed it. There seemed no reason to correct the doctor’s misapprehension and make this incident more embarrassing for the captain than it was already bound to be.

“Thank you very much, Doctor,” she said instead.

Hauling himself to his feet, Thompson laughed and shook his head. “Pricked in a fencing match! You’d think he would have gotten his fill of that in Belgium. Doubtless he’ll soon recover and go haring off on some other fool stunt, causing you to doubt your joy at his deliverance. I shall see you this afternoon, ma’am.”

With Ludlowe and Darnley echoing Belle’s thanks, the doctor departed. “Signore Armaldi, have you anything that can be fashioned into a litter?” Belle asked.

“Sì, mia Bella, I go prepare it,” the fencing master said. Gathering his assistant, he walked out, leaving Belle alone with the injured captain and his friends.

“Where should he be conveyed?” she asked them.

Darnley and Ludlowe exchanged glances. “I’m afraid that’s a bit of a problem, ma’am,” Darnley replied. “Jack just arrived back in England and is staying in borrowed rooms. His family is still at their country home, and at present, he hasn’t even a valet to attend him.”

“I suppose my valet could undertake Jack’s care,” Ludlowe said, “though he has no experience in a sickroom.”

“I’ve nothing better to offer,” Darnley said with a frown. “My mother would gladly take up the task, but she, too, is not yet in London. I suppose we could ask the physician to recommend a competent nurse, but…”

Both men stared at her. A panicky foreboding added to the mix of fear, regret and worry churning in her gut.

Though she would be more than willing to pay for the services of a competent nurse, it would be unconscionable to send the captain back with only a hired stranger to watch over him. ’Twould be best for his own family to supervise his care. But in the absence of his relations, his friends clearly expected her to volunteer for the task.

“I…I have some sickroom experience,” she admitted. “However, I am sure that his family, who will be most distressed to learn of his injuries, would be even more upset to find he was being tended by one of my…reputation.”

“They’d be more upset to find he’d died from lack of care,” Darnley said bluntly.

It isn’t fair, she thought despairingly, torn by guilt and anxiety. Not now, when she could at last begin searching for something that might lay to rest the torments of the past and offer her peace—or absolution. She’d rather introduce a viper into her house than invite the disturbing captain to reside within her walls.

At present, though, his ability to disturb her would be limited. Besides, she could not escape the fact that, having been the cause of his injury, she must do whatever she could to assist in his recovery. Though she dreaded what she must say next, she knew there was no alternative.

“Transport him to my house. I shall manage the captain’s care until the doctor declares him well enough to be moved to a more…suitable location.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Darnley said quietly. “I know how great an imposition this will be, and if there were any other practical alternative, I should embrace it. You will be doing Captain Carrington a very great kindness.”

“I sincerely doubt, when they hear of it, that the ladies of his family will agree,” Belle replied grimly.

To her surprise, Darnley smiled. “His mother, Lady Anne, is a fair and reasonable lady who will feel only appreciation for the kind woman who assisted her son.”

Even the infamous Lady Belle? Belle shook her head. “Let us hope the captain’s sojourn in my care will be brief enough to escape general notice.”

Darnley made no reply, but Belle knew, as his friends must also, that such a hope was vain. The titillating news that Lady Belle had wounded a soldier in a fencing match would by midday have become the ton’s latest on-dit. The information concerning that soldier’s current location probably wouldn’t remain secret much longer.

Captain Carrington would just have to deal with the problem later, Belle thought with a sigh. One could only hope that his mother had the strength of mind Lord Darnley claimed—and that he didn’t have a fiancée waiting somewhere with a tendency to be missish.

Grimacing at the sticky residue of blood on her hands, Belle wiped them on her ruined trousers. “Gentlemen, with your leave, I will go make myself presentable. Ask Armaldi’s staff to have my coach made ready. I’ll return shortly to help you transport Captain Carrington. Thank you again for your prompt assistance.”

Darnley and Ludlowe bowed. “Jack is one of my oldest friends. I would do anything for him,” Darnley affirmed.

Including never forgiving someone who’d done him an injury, Belle thought as she walked out.

Pensively Belle paced back to the small room Armaldi allotted her as a dressing chamber, thankful that an errand had prevented Mae from accompanying her this morning. As she rang for a maid to assist her, another sigh escaped as she considered what her excitable companion would have to say once she learned of this morning’s work.

A few moments later, suitably dressed and outwardly composed, Belle returned to help Armaldi and the captain’s friends carefully convey his still-unconscious body into Belle’s waiting carriage. Settling herself beside him, she ordered the coachman to drive them slowly home.