Page 23 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
His entire behavior was so blasted illogical. She obviously knew how to take care of herself. She would not have survived as a spy this long if she didn’t. Instead of acting like such a fool, he should be glad she had taken this assignment, for it was surely a sign of her innocence. If she were Bonaparte’s agent, she would hardly consent to kidnap the man.
And yet if Isabelle was the counteragent, would she not more likely go along with the plan, then take steps to thwart it after they arrived in Paris? If that was the case, any agent involved with her in the scheme would be heading for a trap. Sinclair’s hand crept involuntarily to his throat as though he could feel a noose tightening, or more accurately the steely edge of a blade spattering his blood. The French weren’t as tidy about such things as the English.
Sinclair paused in his pacing to stare at Isabelle. Her lovely profile might well have been carved of marble for all it told him. He could not help remembering how upset she had been when Victor had talked of the French king returning, the killing of the revolutionaries.
It could be she just despises violence, Sinclair argued with himself. She’s a sensitive woman. She could merely be—he checked himself in mid-thought, suddenly realizing what he was doing—making excuses, finding reasons why Isabelle Varens could not be Bonaparte’s spy.
It’s because you don’t want it to be her, his mind jeered at him. The woman has seduced you already and you’ve scarce laid a finger on her. Much as he wanted to deny it, he knew hisemotions were already hopelessly entangled. If he had any good sense at all, he would walk away from this, let the army find some other way to ferret out the spy.
But as his gaze settled upon Belle, he exuded a long sigh. What had good sense ever profited a man anyway, except the right to live to a dreary old age?
“I’m in,” Sinclair said brusquely. “Whether Mrs. Varens likes it or not, she has a partner.”
Belle’s head snapped up at his announcement. She looked at him and their eyes met. For long moments it seemed to Sinclair that he and Belle searched each other for a glimpse of the heart each knew how to hide so well. That glimpse, he thought, seemed to elude Belle for the present as well as himself. She was the first to look away.
Sinclair expected that she might choose now to make good on her previous threat, to tell Merchant that she flatly refused to work with Sinclair. Instead, she smoothed out her skirts, saying in a voice of acid sweetness, “Now that it has taken the cautious Mr. Carrington a full five minutes longer than me to make up his mind, perhaps we can get on with the rest of this meeting.”
“Certainly,” Merchant said. He appeared more relaxed than Sinclair had ever seen him, the expression on the Frenchman’s face almost smug. Sinclair supposed it was natural that Victor would feel some satisfaction at their acceptance, but the man did have other agents besides himself and Belle. Why did Merchant seem so pleased that they would be the ones to attempt this dangerous assignment?
Merchant motioned for Sinclair to resume his seat, but Sinclair declined. He felt suddenly too restless to light anywhere, and from his vantage point by the fireplace, perhaps he could maintain a much more impartial study of Isabelle Varens.
Merchant said, “Nothing remains but to settle a few details. First, this mission is to be kept entirely between ourselves. Noone, not even any of our own agents, is to be told of it, except for those necessary to carry out the plot. The fewer who know, the less likely any chance of betrayal.”
Unless the wrong person already knows of it, Sinclair thought, his troubled gaze resting on Belle.
“All necessary funds will be placed at your disposal,” Victor continued. “The actual details of the plot I leave to you. There will be no need for contact with myself until the abduction takes place. Then send a message to alert me of your expected arrival. Use old Feydeau as your courier.”
Sinclair started at the sound of the name, banging up against the fire screen. Obviously Merchant had not yet received word about his own agent. Use old Feydeau? Not likely when the man was dead. Sinclair caught Belle staring at him and carefully composed his features so as not to betray a knowledge he would have difficulty explaining.
While Sinclair straightened the fire screen, Merchant went on. “I won’t be returning to London. My headquarters will be at Mal du Coeur until the abduction is carried out. It is here where you will bring Monsieur Bonaparte.
“I have already sent word to Baptiste to expect our agents’ arrival, telling him it would be most likely to you, Madame Varens. He will find lodgings in Paris for yourself and Monsieur Carrington.” Victor droned on, offering his advice about obtaining passports, their travel arrangements, even the time of their departure.
Belle and I might well be a newly wedded pair about to embark on our bridal trip, Sinclair thought with a sardonic lift of one brow, as commonplace as Merchant made it all seem.
The clock chimed one just as Victor finished with his instructions. Sinclair stared in disbelief at the ticking pendulum. Had it really been only one hour since he had first entered thisroom, one hour in which arrangements had been made to abduct one of the most powerful men in Europe?
The whole affair bore an aura of unreality about it as though they were all merely actors in some farfetched play. Victor ended the meeting as abruptly as he had begun, clearly expecting Sinclair and Belle to take their leave.
As Sinclair moved forward to help Belle rearrange the cloak about her shoulders, he studied her face for any sign that she also was having doubts about what they had undertaken. Her eyes were beclouded, subdued. If she was Bonaparte’s spy, Sinclair would have liked to have thought she harbored regrets at the prospect of betraying her new partner. More than that, he would like to think she was innocent. He had always told Chuff only a fool trusted a woman in any matter of real importance. But, God, how Sinclair wanted to trust this one.
Victor bestirred himself to rise. He unbent enough to offer Sinclair his hand in parting, but stayed the gesture at the sound of a sharp rapping against the salon door.
Merchant’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Damn Crawley. I told him he was no longer needed tonight.”
As the rapping came again, Victor strode over to the salon door and flung it open. But the tall lanky man hovering on the threshold was not Quentin Crawley. The shadows from the hallway made it difficult for Sinclair to see the stranger’s entire face, but from what he glimpsed, he remarked a profile of almost perfect masculine beauty with a strongly sculpted jaw, an aquiline nose, and a broad forehead accented by silky hair swept back, hair so bleached by the sun, it was almost white.
That neither Belle nor Victor was glad to see the newcomer was obvious. But while Merchant merely appeared irritated, Belle had tensed, her features pinched white.
“Belle?” Sinclair whispered in her ear. “Who is it?”
“Lazare,” she hissed back.
The name meant nothing to Sinclair. He watched as Merchant continued to bar the doorway, rebuking the man in a spate of low, urgent French that Sinclair could not quite catch. But Lazare pushed past Victor, stepping farther into the room.
As the candlelight fell full upon Lazare’s face, Sinclair bit back a startled exclamation. The left side of that perfect countenance was a mass of thick red scar tissue as though someone had attempted to scorch a grotesque map on Lazare’s flesh, the burn markings stretching back from his cheek to the stump where his left ear should have been. His hair was shagged in such a way as to flaunt the deformity.
Victor hastened after Lazare, looking agitated. “What are you doing here, Lazare? I told you there was no need for you to attend the meeting tonight.”
