Page 43 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Perhaps I should get quill and ink and keep some notes,” Crecy offered.
“No,” Belie said. “I don’t like anything to be put in writing which could wind up as evidence in the wrong hands. Besides it is unnecessary. I have an excellent memory.”
Crecy returned to regarding the crumbs on his empty plate. Did he seem unduly disappointed? Sinclair wondered. Perhaps Marcellus did not have such a keen memory. A damned inconvenience if one were eager to pass the details of this meeting along to Bonaparte.
“Now,” Belle continued. “What other places in Paris does Bonaparte frequent? Where does he go to take his relaxation?”
“Certainly not to my gaming establishment,” Crecy said with a sigh, “or to anyone else’s for that matter.”
“The consul must be given that much credit,” Baptiste added. “He has very few vices.”
“It seems to me you give Bonaparte a little too much credit,” Lazare snapped. “I begin to think you secretly admire the man.”
“Oh, I positively dote upon him. After all, he is the only man in Paris not much taller than I.” Baptiste flashed a wide grin.He was clearly baiting the humorless Lazare and enjoying every moment of it. An angry flush crept up Lazare’s neck.
Sinclair suppressed a smile. He might have enjoyed it, too, if only he could be certain that underneath the jocular manner the little Frenchman was not in earnest with his praises of Napoleon.
With a quelling frown for both Lazare and Baptiste, Belle dragged them ruthlessly back to the topic at hand. “All right. So Monsieur Bonaparte does not care for cards or dice. What does he like?”
Mostly from the observances of Baptiste and Crecy, a sketchy portrait of Napoleon emerged. When Sinclair thought of Bonaparte at all, it was always as a brilliant general whose bold tactics had made him the scourge of most of the other armies in Europe. As he listened, he learned of another side to the man, the hardworking first consul, so absorbed in the business of government, he spared little time for anything else. Except for an occasional visit to the theater, Napoleon made few social outings all but eschewing the fashionable salons and soirees. Most of his entertaining was done at receptions held at the Tuileries. Even at supper parties, he barely permitted himself more than twenty minutes to dine.
After a half hour of such discussion, Belle heaved a sigh, apparently finding the information far from encouraging. Massaging the bridge of her nose as though to rub the weariness from her eyes, she said, “However we decide to proceed, we will still need certain things. A light coach that can travel swiftly, very plain and nondescript.”
“I can supply that,” Crecy volunteered.
“Alas,” Baptiste said. “I have not as yet thought of someone to replace Feydeau as your driver. If it comes down to it, I suppose I can always take on the task myself.”
Lazure broke his unusual stretch of silence to glance mockingly toward Sinclair. “Perhaps Monsieur Carrington knows how to drive a coach. It would give him something more useful to do than sit in a corner and stare at all of us.”
“I am a fair hand with the reins,” Sinclair said, returning Lazare’s stare. “Enough to avoid an accident like the one Feydeau?—”
Sinclair halted. It didn’t take Belle’s sudden intake of breath for him to realize he had just made a serious mistake.
“How did you know about Feydeau’s accident?” she asked. “Baptiste only informed me of it yesterday afternoon.”
The attention of the entire room was suddenly focused on Sinclair. Although he did not betray his consternation by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, he felt his mouth go dry. Belle’s eyes clouded with trouble and not a little suspicion. Baptiste and Crecy merely looked curious, but Lazure’s gaze sparked with malice, an almost predatory gleam.
Sinclair thought quickly, deciding to take a grave risk. “Sorry. I must have forgotten to mention it. Shortly before I met you on the docks at Portsmouth, I received word from Merchant via Quentin Crawley, about the old man’s death, that we needed to look out for a new coachman.”
“It would have been convenient if you had passed the information on to me,” Belle said.
“Between one thing and another, it simply slipped my mind.”
A derisive snort came from Lazare. Belle did not look quite satisfied, but after a lengthy pause, she said, “I suppose it is not that important.”
She turned back to discussing Bonaparte, and the tense moment passed. But Sinclair did not relax. He was going to have to be much more careful. The attention of the others was centered on Belle. Except for Lazare. He continued to regard Sinclair with a smirk and a lift of his brows.
Almost as if he knows, Sinclair thought, then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. There was no reason why Lazare should. Sinclair had been extremely careful to conceal his identity. His recent gaff was simply making him edgy.
With some difficulty he forced his thoughts away from Lazare, trying to concentrate on what Belle was now saying.
“I need to get closer to Bonaparte, observe him for myself. Baptiste, is there any chance that a certain Monsieur and Madame Carrington might be able to attend one of those receptions you mentioned earlier?”
“I anticipated you might ask that,mon ange.” Baptiste’s smile was a trifle smug. “It so happens one of my customers is Madame Josephine Bonaparte. The lady is a husband’s nightmare, a tradesman’s dream. She spends with great liberality. I delivered five new fans to her at the Tuileries only last week.”
What a convenient way that would be of passing along information, Sinclair thought, and without rousing a shade of suspicion.
“Would Madame Bonaparte invite an unknown couple to the palace at her fan maker’s recommendation?” Crecy objected.
