Page 25 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Ah, but I did not quite trust your ability to persuade Isabelle into accepting me.” Lazare strutted into the center of the room, his gaze continuing to rove over the chamber’s aristocratic trappings. The elegance of Madame Dumont’s salon inspired in him nothing more than a desire to see it all destroyed.
Dimly he became aware that Merchant was speaking to him, but the fool was addressing his deaf side. Lazare snapped his head around.
“You nearly ruined everything by arriving so unexpectedly,” Victor was complaining. “You must take greater care. If Madame Varens should guess the real part you are to play in her mission?—”
“She won’t,” Lazare interrupted. “Until it is far too late.” He lightly touched the thickened flesh of his scar. And then, by God, she’ll wish that she had, he thought.
Aloud, he said, “And that silent dark-haired fellow. Is he going to be working with us?”
“Carrington. Yes, he is.” Merchant scowled. “Only his name is not Carrington. He is a spy planted among us by the British army, the eldest son of General Daniel Carr.”
“How did you ever manage to discover that?” Lazare made no effort to hide his scorn. He had a low opinion of Merchant’s powers of deduction.
“Quite by accident,” Victor said. “I recognized him. Sinclair bears a powerful resemblance to his father. I met the general once when he attended a ball at the house of Lord Elliot. He rebuked me for my manner of looking after his horse.”
Dull red surged into Merchant’s cheeks as he spoke of this old humiliation. Lazare suppressed an urge to laugh aloud. Hehad always enjoyed the tale of how Merchant, once the proud Chevalier de Nerac, had arrived in England so destitute, he had been forced to take a job as a groom for a while. It was probably the only honest toil the damnedaristohad ever done in his life.
“When I noticed the resemblance,” Victor continued, “I did some detailed checking on Carrington, found out that his tale of being a soldier of fortune was untrue. He was a soldier, all right, Captain Daniel Sinclair Carr with his own cavalry regiment. Although no longer in the army, he still works for British intelligence.”
Victor’s cold eyes locked with Lazare’s “I very much dislike being spied upon, Lazare. Especially by an Englishman.”
“So do I,” Lazare agreed softly. In the pause that followed, they reached a silent understanding.
“And Isabelle?” Lazare asked.
“Madame Varens poses a different problem. She has never followed my orders to the letter, and has grown more insolent each time. And the exploits of the Avenging Angel are becoming too well known. I foresee a time when she will no longer be of much use to me.”
“A very distant time?” Lazare’s pulse throbbed with anticipation as he awaited Merchant’s answer.
“No. What I am trying to tell you is that on this mission, both Carrington and Isabelle Varens are quite expendable.”
Lazare’s lips snaked back into a smile. “Thank you, monsieur. That is all that I have been waiting to hear.”
Six
Dawn broke over the channel, the pearly-white light strewing the water with diamond-like sparkles. The waves lapped against the dockside, gently rocking the Good Lady Nell. Thick ropes creaked as the packet boat tugged against the moorings, as though the ship itself were eager for the journey to begin.
Even at this early hour the sailors had long been awake, scrambling about amongst the riggings, readying the single-masted ship to catch the tide. The mail for the continent had already been stowed on board as one lone passenger made his way up the gangplank. His face muffled in the depths of a woolen scarf, his flowing white-blond hair all but hidden beneath a red Phrygian cap, Etienne Lazare attracted little notice or comment from any of the busy seamen.
Sheltered from the stiff sea breeze, standing near a silk warehouse, Sinclair and Belle watched Lazare’s progress to the ship.
Sinclair stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. Brief as his acquaintance with Lazare was, the mere sight of the Frenchman inspired Sinclair to ball his hands into fists.
“Lazare appears to be taking no chances of being left behind,” he grumbled.
“Perhaps if we are fortunate enough, he will fall overboard.” Although Belle’s voice was light, Sinclair did not miss a certain tightening of her mouth. Her face was shadowed beneath the brim of her straw bonnet as she studied the distant form of Lazare
“Why, Angel?” Sinclair demanded. “You clearly despise the man, so why did you agree to let him come?” It was a question he had been seeking an answer for ever since her initial outburst that night outside Mal du Coeur when she had blurted out that she had been the one to shoot off Lazare’s ear and scar his face.
But Belle had refused to discuss the incident any further. For the past ten days they had seen little of each other, both too busy preparing for the journey to France for Sinclair to pursue the matter. But now that Lazare had crossed their path again, Sinclair felt he had to have some answers.
As always, Belle evaded the question. “Lazare has his uses,” she said. “No one knows the streets of Paris better than he does, not even Baptiste.”
Sinclair stepped in front of her, partly to shield her from the brisk wind that was causing her to belt her pelisse more snugly about her and partly to force her to look at him.
“That won’t do,” he said. “I think it is time you were a little more forthcoming with me about our friend Lazare.”
“The quarrel between Lazare and me is personal. I told you before, it doesn’t concern you, Mr. Carrington.”
