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 the desk. "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."
"You need not try to convince me,
Chuff. I am not arguing with you." Sinclair brushed the knees of
his breeches clear of the dust that had clung when he had knelt to
start the fire. "It would be more to the point, little brother, if
you would tell me what you are doing here."
"Colonel Darlington sent a message for
you."
Sinclair stiffened at the mention of
the British officer highly placed in army intelligence.
"The courier chosen was Tobias Reed, an
old friend of mine.” Charles flushed guiltily, unable to meet
Sinclair's stern gaze. "So I persuaded Toby to let me bring the
message instead."
Sinclair scowled. "You could get both
yourself and your friend in deep trouble. This was not the wisest
course of action, Chuff."
"Wise be damned! II had to see you
again before you disappear to parts unknown." He glanced up,
coaxing, "Come now, Sinclair. You can't be angry with
me."
With that pleading look on his face,
Charles reminded Sinclair of nothing so much as a wistful puppy.
Would his brother never mature?
"Hand over the message," Sinclair said
wearily.
Charles brightened. Reaching inside his
waistcoat, he drew forth a sealed, slightly damp square of
parchment. "You're to burn it after you read it."
"No!" Sinclair arched his brows in mock
astonishment. "I thought I was supposed to publish it in the
Times."
Charles made a face and tossed the
letter at him. "Sorry. I forgot you're not exactly a greenhorn at
all of this."
Sinclair caught the letter and broke
the wax seal. The message was in code, of
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 the desk. "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."
"You need not try to convince me,
Chuff. I am not arguing with you." Sinclair brushed the knees of
his breeches clear of the dust that had clung when he had knelt to
start the fire. "It would be more to the point, little brother, if
you would tell me what you are doing here."
"Colonel Darlington sent a message for
you."
Sinclair stiffened at the mention of
the British officer highly placed in army intelligence.
"The courier chosen was Tobias Reed, an
old friend of mine.” Charles flushed guiltily, unable to meet
Sinclair's stern gaze. "So I persuaded Toby to let me bring the
message instead."
Sinclair scowled. "You could get both
yourself and your friend in deep trouble. This was not the wisest
course of action, Chuff."
"Wise be damned! II had to see you
again before you disappear to parts unknown." He glanced up,
coaxing, "Come now, Sinclair. You can't be angry with
me."
With that pleading look on his face,
Charles reminded Sinclair of nothing so much as a wistful puppy.
Would his brother never mature?
"Hand over the message," Sinclair said
wearily.
Charles brightened. Reaching inside his
waistcoat, he drew forth a sealed, slightly damp square of
parchment. "You're to burn it after you read it."
"No!" Sinclair arched his brows in mock
astonishment. "I thought I was supposed to publish it in the
Times."
Charles made a face and tossed the
letter at him. "Sorry. I forgot you're not exactly a greenhorn at
all of this."
Sinclair caught the letter and broke
the wax seal. The message was in code, of
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