Page 54 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Sinclair lingeredon the fringes of the laughing crowd surrounding Madame Bonaparte. Although the Creole had smiled upon him, and he was given enough encouragement to wend his way to her side, Sinclair’s heart was not in the task.
He had been aware of the moment when Belle had slipped out of the room, and his gaze had followed her anxiously, knowing how distressed she was, although she sought to conceal it. He had also observed Bonaparte going after her, realizing the implications as did half the room, judging from the smirking faces.
Sinclair found himself prey to a ridiculous range of emotions, jealousy and suspicion as to her motives warring with fear for her safety. With sly glances cast toward him, the role of complacent husband became difficult to play. Despite the fact he would likely make an idiot of himself, the urge to charge after her was strong and only increased as the minutes ticked by and she did not return.
Taking a restless step, Sinclair backed into a young man dogging his heels. Sinclair curtly begged his pardon and started to brush past him.
The man coughed diffidently. “Mr. Carrington?”
“That’s correct.” Although he smiled politely, Sinclair made another attempt to evade the man.
“Warburton’s the name. I am under secretary to the ambassador.”
He looked like one, Sinclair thought. Modestly dressed, with nondescript features, Warburton was the sort of fellow one would forget five minutes after meeting him.
“It was I who arranged for your invitation to the reception,” Warburton said, modestly lowering his eyes.
So this then was the agreeable person Baptiste had bribed. Sinclair swallowed the urge to retort that he hoped Warburton had put the money to good use.
“Most kind of you,” he said, making another effort to slip past the man. But for one so timid-looking, Warburton was persistent.
“I particularly wanted to meet you, Mr. Carrington. You see, we have a mutual friend. Colonel Darlington.”
Sinclair halted, glancing sharply at Warburton. Of a sudden the man appeared not so meek, his eyes knowing.
“Indeed?” Sinclair said in cautious tones. “Myself, I have not heard from the colonel in some time.”
“I have. Quite recently. The colonel is most concerned over the sad state of English coastlines, erosion, that sort of thing, the changing shoreline.” The under secretary flashed a bland smile. “Still, with accurate maps, I suppose one might gain a good idea of the damage to be inflicted.”
“Yes, if such maps were available,” Sinclair said, never taking his eyes from Warburton’s face.
“They seem to be everywhere these days. Some have even turned up here in Paris.” He met Sinclair’s stare without flinching, and in the pause that ensued, Sinclair realized that they understood each other clearly.
“It is very stuffy in here,” Warburton said, still smiling. “Perhaps we could step out through those windows into the garden for a breath of air.”
Sinclair nodded. “I could do with a smoke.”
Nothing more was said until they emerged through the window, the chili of the autumn night striking Sinclair. He welcomed it after the heat of the reception room, even more so for the fact that the brisk temperature kept all the other guests inside. The garden was a mass of rustling shadows except for the dim lighting provided by a suspended Argand lamp. Sinclair moved the glass lantern aside long enough to light his cheroot from the glowing wick. He offered a cigar to Warburton, who refused.
Sinclair inhaled deeply, then said, “Perhaps now you will explain yourself more clearly, Mr. Warburton.”
“I, too, have been commissioned into service by Colonel Darlington.”
“I gathered that or we wouldn’t be talking now. The colonel told me I could expect to find an ally here in Paris.”
“More than one, sir. Another of our agents is also present on these grounds. He works here as a gardener. It was he who discovered that a very accurate accounting of the warships in Portsmouth naval yard has been passed to the enemy, along with some maps drawn of coastline around that area.”
“And this was a recent acquisition?”
“Passed this very afternoon. At a meeting held in the guardhouse.”
“Did this gardener agent see the spy who brought the information?” Sinclair felt his stomach knot. He almost dreaded Warburton’s answer.
“No, the informant was cloaked and hooded, the meeting brief, broken off when the guard was summoned by a courier demanding admittance at the gates. Our man could not draw near enough to hear clearly, nor could he follow the informant without rousing suspicion. We didn’t even know what was passed, except that later our agent had the opportunity to overhear when the material was passed along to the first consul’s secretary.”
“What time did the meeting with this hooded figure take place? Do you have any idea?”
“I know precisely. Quarter past one.”
