Page 78 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“We could scarce take another pass at him, either,” Auguste added. “Not in broad daylight.”
“Well, it is dark enough now,” Lazare said.
“Oui.” Auguste fingered the ends of his mustache and slapped his sword in a swaggering manner. “This time we will see how well Monsieur Carrington can dodge a blade.”
“I care not how you do it.” Lazare eyed him coldly. “But sunrise tomorrow must find Carrington quite dead.”
Marcellus Crecy’sgaming den was located upon the second-floor arcade of the Palais-Royal. The discreet looking door opened onto a vast chamber glittering with light. Large gilt mirrors reflected back the fashionable men and women of Paris gathered about tables, lost in the pursuit of roulette, vingt-et-un, and other card games.
Sinclair blinked, taking a moment to adjust his eyes after the darkness outside. By the time he moved to help Belle off with her cloak, a servant had intercepted him in the task. The fellow’s powdered wig and maroon-colored livery with gold buttons would have done justice to a ducal household.
Crecy, who ambled forward to greet them, might well have been the duke, his girth elegantly garbed in a silk coat and knee breeches, his leonine mass of silvery hair swept back from his broad forehead.
“Ah, Madame and Monsieur Carrington.” Marcellus’s round face creased into a bland smile. “So good of you to grace my establishment.”
While Belle offered her hand to be kissed, Sinclair could only manage a curt nod. He had not much more capacity for keeping up this pretense. Today had already proved enough of a strain. His hope that the others in the society would dissuade Belle from pursuing her reckless plan had proved unavailing. To a man, they had all approved her idea. The day had been spent in another frenetic round of preparation. Tonight would see the confirmation of the plot’s final details.
Crecy leaned forward conspiratorially. “You could not have chosen a better night. The most discreet game of euchre is being played in a private room in the back. Perhaps it would be more to your taste than this crowd.”
Belle’s low reply gave nothing away. “Thank you, monsieur. You are the perfect host.”
With a graceful bow, Marcellus led the way.
I’ve got to put a stop to this thing soon, Sinclair thought desperately, as he had more than once these past hours. Yet how he was to do so without revealing to all of them his true identity and purpose, Sinclair did not know.
For the moment all he could do was to keep step with Belle, trailing after Crecy. Marcellus appeared very much the master of his establishment, pausing here and there to greet some of his clientele, to deliver a sharp rebuke to a footman not leaping swiftly enough to attend the guests’ wants, thereby allowing them to wander too far from the tables with money still in their pockets. Fortunes seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, swept away beneath the croupier’s nimble rakes.
Despite the seriousness of their purpose in coming there tonight, Marcellus was not too preoccupied to display to Sinclair the amenities of his house.
When they passed by a curtained alcove, he gestured proudly toward it. “In there I have what I call the refuge of the wounded, Monsieur Carrington. Those gentlemen who ruin themselves at the tables have access to a private balcony, a selection of pistols, also ink and paper for any farewell message.”
“How excessively civil of you,” Sinclair said dryly. Crecy did not seem at all perturbed by this hint of his disapproval.
“Ah, well, we French have always been more sophisticated about such things than you English.”
“God preserve me from such sophistication,” Sinclair muttered. He stole a glance at Belle to see what she made of Crecy’s accommodation, but she had paid little heed. He did not know where her thoughts were, but he judged from her distant expression that she was miles away.
With Jean-Claude, he wondered, then forced the painful supposition aside. He and Belle had made a pact after rising from her bed last night. They would discuss neither the Comtede Egremont or the future until their mission was resolved. Nor would they seek to touch or embrace.
Sinclair found both agreements hard to keep, and he wondered if Belle was feeling the same. She continually avoided meeting his eyes.
Sinclair’s attention was drawn back to Crecy as he held open another door, indicating they should precede him into his private study. The dark paneled room was as solemn and businesslike as the gaming salon was full of light and frivolity.
Lazare and Baptiste were already there waiting. A dour silence pervaded the chamber and was little dispelled even when Crecy rang for extra candles. A waiter appeared bearing a silver tray laden with tempting morsels, oysters, cold tongue, grilled partridges, cream cheese a la rose. But the delicacies went untouched, even Crecy bearing little appetite.
This meeting tonight differed from any thus far, Sinclair thought as they gathered about Crecy’s mahogany-topped desk. No repartee, no squabbling, only their faces taut with purpose as they all focused their attention on Belle. She unfolded a diagram of the theater that Crecy had sketched that very afternoon.
Her plan was familiar to all of them by this time, but she took them through the details of it one last time as though determined to dispose of any last-minute objections.
“To begin with,” she said, “Marcellus will see to it that Monsieur Georges does not reach the theater tomorrow night.”
Crecy nodded. “That will not be difficult. Many of the actors frequent my establishment. Georges is heavily in my debt. He will not like it, but I can coerce him into taking ill so that my unknown nephew from the provinces can make his debut.”
“And that unknown nephew will be one of Crecy’s footmen,” Belle added.
“Will he be able to learn his lines that fast?” Baptiste asked.
“If I know the people of Paris,” Belle said, “the poor man will never have to open his mouth. Once they see he is not their favorite leading actor, they will begin pelting him and hissing him off the stage.”
