Page 16 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“This will be your last contact with headquarters. All further information will be provided to you by our agent in Paris. From this time on, I advise no further communication with your family, especially your father.”
A wry chuckle escaped Sinclair.
Charles was warming his stockinged feet by the fire. But he paused to peer round the side of his chair at Sinclair. “I never knew old Darlington was given to cracking jests.”
“An unintentional one,” Sinclair said. “He tells me not to communicate with Father. Apparently he doesn’t heed the gossip in the officers’ mess or he would know that the general and I have not been communicating for years.”
Charles looked unhappy and cleared his throat. “You know, Sinclair, that if there was any message you wished to send him, I have a few days’ leave coming. I will be seeing Father ….” Charles’s words trailed off and he seemed to be holding his breath, awaiting Sinclair’s reply.
An unendearing image of General Daniel Carr rose to Sinclair’s mind—a ramrod-stiff bearing, steel-gray hair, and cold green eyes. A handsome man despite his advancing years, DanielCarr’s features were so rigid, he might well have been an effigy carved from stone. Sometimes, when glancing into a mirror, Sinclair wondered if he would look like his father in thirty years’ time. The thought scared all hell out of him.
“You can give the general a message for me,” he said. “Tell him I’ve changed my name to Carrington, that he can stop worrying that I will drag the illustrious name of Carr into the gutters.”
Charles heaved a disappointed sigh. “I suppose I cannot blame you for your attitude. Father was completely unfair. He despises intelligence work, yet he never hesitates to use the information spies provide when drawing up battle plans.”
“Spying is a necessary evil,” Sinclair said, imitating his father’s gruff, stentorian tones. “But dirty work, not fit for a gentleman. Let someone else’s son do it!” Sinclair concluded his impersonation by banging his fist upon the desk. Shrugging his shoulders, he forced a laugh. He had given over trying to please his father a long time ago. The old man had been outraged when he discovered Sinclair had traded his cavalry commission to become part of army intelligence. General Carr had used his considerable influence to get the appointment canceled. Sinclair had retaliated by resigning from the army altogether, thus becoming the first Carr male in five generations who would not go to his grave wearing regimentals. He continued to work for the army as a civilian spy and had not spoken to or seen his father since. That had been over five years ago.
Sinclair blocked his father out of his thoughts except for the times such as this, when Charles made a feeble attempt to effect a reconciliation.
“The general is not such a bad old fellow,” Charles ventured. “He has always treated me quite decently.”
Sinclair rocked back in his chair, regarding his guileless younger brother with an amused smile.
“That is because you always do exactly what he wants, Chuff.”
Charles stiffened defensively. “But I like being in the cavalry.”
“I am glad that you do.” Sinclair spared his brother’s feelings, although sorely tempted to point out that Charles would have liked whatever the old man told him to like. Sinclair was fond of his younger brother, but he knew that Charles was weak-willed, easily led just like Sinclair’s mother and two sisters.
“I will admit the general can be a proper martinet when crossed,” Charles continued. “But you’ve always defied him ever since I can remember. I often wondered how you dared.”
“My philosophy has been the same with Father as it is with the rest of the world. You can do what everyone else thinks you should and be miserable. Or you can please yourself and let them all curse you. Then someday when you’re an old man, at least you’re not likely to have regrets about the way you’ve lived your life.”
Charles looked troubled. “And don’t you ever have any regrets, Sinclair?”
It was a strangely perceptive question to come from Chuff, almost too perceptive. Sinclair got abruptly to his feet, dismissing the question with a laugh.
“I’m not an old man yet, even though I know I must seem like a graybeard to you. Ask me your question again twenty years hence.”
He crossed the room, scooped up his brother’s boots, and thrust them at Charles. “Get these back on. I assume you came here by stage. I want to make sure you are on the next one going out before Darlington finds out about this outrageous stunt you and your friend Tobias have pulled.”
Reluctantly Charles took the boots and began to struggle into them. “Aye, I shouldn’t like to land Toby in the suds. He’s a good fellow.”
But obviously not possessed of the secretive nature required for intelligence work, Sinclair thought.
“I expect Darlington will ask Toby if there was any return message,” Charles said.
“Have Toby tell the colonel that when I have anything to report, I will send it through the usual channels.” Sinclair laid pointed emphasis on the last words. “He can also say that I have met the Varens woman.”
Something in Sinclair’s tone of voice must have alerted Charles, for he glanced up sharply, red-faced from his exertion in donning the boots.
“Oho! A woman is it? Up to mischief again, I daresay.”
“My dear Chuff.” Sinclair regarded his brother with wearied patience. “Where do you come by this notion that I carry every female that I meet off to my bed?”
“Because you do. At least, all the pretty ones.”
Sinclair grimaced. Charles would be astonished to learn that over half of the conquests attributed to Sinclair were the result of barracks-room gossip and Sinclair’s own boastful attitude as a youth. Sinclair admitted to a certain amount of flirtation with the ladies, because he had discovered that flirting always kept affairs from drawing too near the heart. Becoming too serious about any relationship was one more set of shackles Sinclair had managed to avoid.
