Page 65 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Why, Baptiste! You looktrés beau.”
He blushed at her compliment, the red spreading from the tip of his nose across his leathery cheeks. He shrugged. “It is nothing, only thehabillementI wear to mass.”
“But it is not Sunday. What is the occasion?”
“Did not Monsieur Carrington inform you?” Baptiste regarded her in rather anxious fashion. “You see, I was telling him but yesterday afternoon that I had never taken the time to attend any of Bonaparte’s reviews. They are acclaimed as quite the spectacle. And if our plan succeeds, this could well be the last, so …” He trailed off, staring humbly down at the brim of his hat.
“So Monsieur Carrington suggested you accompany us?” Belle asked with a smile.
“If you have no objections,mon ange.”
“Of course I do not object. But where is Sinclair? Have you not seen him this morning?”
When Baptiste answered in the negative, she frowned, the first stirrings of unease beginning to niggle at her.
“Are you sure he is not yet upstairs?” Baptiste asked. “Perhaps he lingers in the bath.”
Belle shook her head. “No, he has definitely gone out. Both his cloak and umbrella are missing.” She had noted some time ago, that rain or shine, Sinclair rarely stirred without his umbrella, an unusual affectation for an Englishman. She could only suppose that he carried it for protection, likely having a swordstick concealed in the handle as many gentlemen were wont to do.
“Do not look so worried,mon ange,” Baptiste said. “I am sure he will return in good time. I wish to check the shop once more to make certain the doors are secured, then I will meet you out front to search for him if you wish.”
Belle agreed absently. Moving away, she had already decided to check the apartment herself one more time in the event that Sinclair had returned while she talked with Baptiste.
As she started up the outer stairs, she was relieved to hear a footfall on the landing above her that seemed to pause just outside the apartment door.
“Sinclair?” she called out eagerly.
“I fear not,” a silky French voice drawled.
She heard the scrape of a boot as a tall masculine form emerged from the shadows above.
“Oh. Larare,” Belle said in flat tones of disappointment. She froze in mid-step. He continued to saunter down the stairs, taking each one with a slow deliberation, those cool blue eyes of his fixing her like ice picks.
Belle experienced a strong urge to retreat, although she could not have said why. These past days Lazare had kept to his pledge of not giving her any trouble. Aside from his usual brand of insolence, he seemed to acknowledge her position as leader, carrying out whatever commands she gave in his own grudging fashion.
Yet she still did not relish the prospect of atete-a-tetewith him, something she had managed to avoid thus far.
His lips thinned to a sneer. “What,ma chéreIsabelle? Never tell me you have misplaced the estimable Monsieur Carrington?”
“No,” she said coldly, not about to display any of her anxiety before Lazare’s sarcastic gaze. “Sinclair has simply gone out. When I heard you on the stair, I hoped it was him returning. We do have the review to attend this morning.”
“Ah, yes, one of Bonaparte’s infamous military displays. It would be a thousand pities if Monsieur Carrington did not return in time.”
Belle did not like the smile that accompanied Lazare’s words. He seemed to be taking a kind of sly amusement from the situation.
In no humor to be baited by the Frenchman’s blunt wit, she said nothing more, but turned and made a dignified exit, to stand outside, observing the morning bustle of pedestrians and carriages thronging the Rue St. Honoré, peering anxiously for some sign of Sinclair.
To her annoyance, Lazare followed her. He lounged in the open doorway, paring the dirt from beneath his nails with his knife. The sunlight accented the angel-white tint of his hair and flushed his scar a shade of dull angry red.
“Monsieur Carrington, he has a habit of wandering off, does he not?” Lazare asked as though making idle conversation.
“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” Belle said.
“It is just that I have noticed each day he has an errand that takes him somewhere,n’est pas?”
Belle had not given the matter much consideration. At other times she had been much too occupied herself to keep track of the length of Sinclair’s brief absences. But now that she thought about it, she supposed that Lazare was right.
“Now, where do you imagine he goes?” Lazare purred.
