Page 101 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Not precisely,” Belle said. “I have a feeling that even Bonaparte cannot be that generous. I think he hoped that I would lead him to the rest of you.”
“A hope we seem to have thwarted for the moment,” Sinclair said cheerfully.
He appeared content to draw her back into his arms, but Belle forestalled the gesture, saying anxiously, “And Jean-Claude?”
Some of the light went out of Sinclair’s eyes. He stiffened. “He is safe in Crecy’s lodgings behind the gaming house, where we are headed now.”
The mention of Jean-Claude drew an element of constraint between them as it always did. Nothing more was said until the cart lumbered into the shadows behind the Palais-Royal.
Baptiste motioned them both to lie low. Then he returned shortly, signaling that all was clear. He moved to help Belle down from the cart, her weight almost too much for the old man’s strength. He said nothing. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he expressed his gladness at her safe return with a fierce hug.
As she and Sinclair slipped up the back stairs normally reserved for the workers at the gaining house, Baptiste returned to attend to the horses and hide the cart. In the parlor of the lodgings, Belle discovered Crecy nervously pacing. Never one to wax sentimental, the urbane Marcellus let out a joyous cry at the sight of her. He pressed exuberant kisses upon both of Belle’s hands.
“I confess, I never believed your rescue would be possible.” Crecy glanced from her to Sinclair. “You are formidable, monsieur. However did you manage it?”
“We will explain all later, Marcellus,” Belle said. “Right now, I must see Jean-Claude. Where is he?”
“In Crecy’s bedchamber,” Sinclair spoke up. Reluctantly he led the way. He gave a fleeting thought to the hellish night he had just spent, worrying, despairing and feverishly plotting some way to rescue Belle. It had seemed like a miracle to see her outside the prison gates, to clasp her once more in his arms. How passionately she had returned his kisses. But almost in the next breath she had asked about Jean-Claude. Sinclair feared it was the way it would always be.
He paused outside the bedchamber door long enough to caution her. “The comte is a little dazed from the events of last night. Shock, I suppose, and he was slightly injured in the escape.”
“Injured?” Her gaze snapped to his. Did he imagine it or was there a faint hint of accusation in her tone?
“I did the best I could,” he said defensively. “I was lucky to get that fool out of the theater alive. He didn’t want to come. I think he wished the mob to overtake him. I had to hit him.”
“I am not blaming you, Sinclair. You risked your life to save him. You cannot begin to imagine my gratitude.”
Her gratitude felt like a knife thrust to his heart. Turning away from her, he shoved the bedchamber door open. Varenswas no longer in bed. He sat in a chair, huddled before the fire, staring into the flames, a vacant shell of a man. Only when he saw Belle did some spark of animation appear in those empty eyes.
“Isabelle. You are safe!”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Thank God.” Jean-Claude started to rise, but his legs were weak. He wobbled and would have fallen if Belle had not caught him, easing him back into the chair.
“Sit still,” she commanded. Jean-Claude’s face was so pale his only color came from the streaks of purple along his jaw where Sinclair had clipped him. “I will fetch you a glass of brandy.
“No.” Jean-Claude caught desperately at her hand. “Do not leave me.Mon Dieu, how I have needed you. Promise you will not go.”
Belle hesitated, glancing back at Sinclair. The rigid set of his countenance could not quite disguise what he was feeling. He probed her with his eyes as though he awaited her answer. Yet Jean-Claude clung to her, all his pride crumbled to dust. How could she simply shake him off?
Casting Sinclair a look that pleaded for his understanding, she murmured to Jean-Claude, “No, I will not leave you.”
Sinclair compressed his lips. Without another word he turned and left the room. Never had Belle felt so torn in two. She wanted to go after him, but Jean-Claude had begun to tremble, shaking so hard as though seized by an ague.
Sighing, she pried herself away long enough to fetch brandy and force it between his chattering teeth. He refused to climb back into bed, so she took a coverlet to him, tucking it about his legs.
His shivering finally stopped and he gratefully caressed back a stray lock of her hair. She must look like a woman whohad been carted to hell and back. But Jean-Claude noticed no signs of her own fatigue and mental distress. He never had, she thought with an unexpected stab of resentment.
Grabbing up the brandy, she sloshed some of it into the glass for herself, downing it in one gulp. That Jean-Claude noticed. He watched her with pained surprise.
This was not the time for accusation, Belle knew, but she could not refrain. “How could you do it, Jean-Claude? How could you permit someone like Lazare to drag you down to such depths, persuade you to attempt something so against everything you have ever believed in?”
“I don’t know.” He gripped his hands tightly together, bowing his head. “It is only that all my life I have ever talked, never acted. I thought with that monster Bonaparte gone, I could restore France, somehow make amends, and Lazare offered me the opportunity. It was only as I stood there upon the stage looking straight into Bonaparte’s eyes that I realized I couldn’t do it.”
Silent tears tracked down Jean-Claude’s cheeks. “I failed, Isabelle. I failed again.” He covered his face with his hands. “I am so ashamed, I can scarce bear to have you look at me. How you must despise me for the coward that I am.”
Belle stared at his bowed head. She almost wished she could despise him when she thought of the disaster that his cooperation with Lazare had brought crashing down upon all of them. Yet even now her heart flooded with pity for this poor, desperate man.
