Page 85 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Auguste’s thrusts were savage, hard, but with little skill behind them. Belle parried easily, but knew if she did not make an end to this soon, he would wear her down. Panting, she circled, looking for her opening, aware that Sinclair was not able to come to her aid, terrified that he was being choked to death.
The man made a wild slash, coming perilously near to cutting open her face. It took him a moment to recover his balance. In that unguarded instant Belle drove her own weapon home, piercing Auguste’s sword hand. With a cry, he dropped his weapon, clutching at his bloodied hand.
As Belle pressed the tip of her sword in menacing fashion against the paunch of his stomach, Auguste stumbled back from her in wide-eyed terror. Sparing not so much as another glance for Giles, he whirled about and fled the court.
Belle’s own gaze flicked to Sinclair. He appeared to have gone slack beneath the large soldier’s hands, with their brutal crushing grip upon his neck.
Gripping the sword in her sweat-slickened hand, Belle staggered to his aid, but at that moment Sinclair’s hand closed about a rock and dealt a hard blow to his assailant’s temple.
His grip broken, Giles tumbled to one side. Sinclair rallied enough to deliver one more punch. With a low groan Giles sagged back, subsiding into unconsciousness.
Belle’s relief was short-lived as she watched Sinclair also sink down, clutching his throat. Belle bent over him, pushing his hand aside, ripping away his disheveled cravat, loosening his shirt buttons.
“Sinclair?” she whispered, studying his pale, bruised features, the bloody cut on his forehead, one eye all but swollen shut.
Behind them in the house beyond the gate, at last a light appeared, and the sounds of the occupants stirring awake were heard.
“Sinclair!” she called more frantically.
He forced his good eye open to regard her. He could hardly get his breath, but he still managed to give her his roguish grin.
“And you would trade all this for a cottage in Dorsetshire?” he rasped.
“You fool!” she said with a choked sound that was part laugh, part sob. Drawing her arm beneath his shoulders, she struggled to help him to his feet. “Let me get you home, or we may yet end this night in gaol.”
Sinclair sagged backagainst the pillows of Belle’s bed. He emitted a low groan as she dabbed a cool cloth at the cut uponhis brow. He winced as her fingers accidently brushed against the huge swelling below one eye.
“I suppose it could have been worse,” Belle muttered, surveying the damage.
“Much worse. You saved my life tonight, Angel. Where did you ever learn to wield a sword like that?”
“From Jean-Claude’s old sword master. Jean-Claude had not much employment for the man, so I persuaded him to give me lessons to pass the time—” Belle broke off, annoyed with herself for nearly admitting she had oft found life at Egremont a little boring.
“Now, stop talking and hold still,” she snapped. Now that the danger was past, a cold anger took possession of her. Sinclair had jeopardized everything, getting involved in a fight in a brothel like some drunken sailor on shore leave. Why, she wanted to know? What had it all been about?
“As soon as I have attended to this wound, we have a great deal to discuss, Mr. Carrington.”
“Yes, I fear we do.” He sighed, closing his eyes.
Belle drew back, regarding his cut and the bloodied cloth in her hand with some frustration. “I cannot seem to get the blasted thing to stop bleeding.”
“There is some sticking plaster in my room,” Sinclair said. “In the wardrobe.”
“I will go fetch it. You just lie still and don’t move.” She left the room, striding into Sinclair’s adjoining chamber. She pulled a face. As always, it was a mess, perhaps now even worse than usual. When he had returned from the fight, the first thing Sinclair had done was strip off his bloodied cloak and waistcoat, adding them to the heap.
After a lengthy search she found the sticking plaster. But hastening toward the door, she tripped over something andnearly sprawled headlong. As it was, she banged her elbow on Sinclair’s bedpost.
Straightening, she cursed and moved to kick the object that had caused her fall out of the way. Sinclair’s blasted umbrella! Her lips curved into a wry smile as she conjured up a mental image of herself, how ridiculous she must have looked earlier, seeking a swordstick where there was none.
Bending down, she retrieved the umbrella, intending to toss it upon the table with Sinclair’s shaving gear, where it could do no further harm. She noticed the bone handle had been cracked in the fight. When touched, it came off in her hand. Strange, but the interior appeared almost hollow, like a place of concealment. When she tipped it up to examine it, a piece of paper dropped to the floor.
Belle felt a surge of annoyance with Sinclair. She had made it clear that she wanted nothing written down, no matter how clever the place of concealment. What sort of damaging evidence had he felt the need to commit to paper?
She scanned the paper briefly, but frowned. It had nothing to do with their mission. Rather it was some brief notes, a list of all the names of those who worked for Victor Merchant.
A prickling of uneasiness coursed through her. Why would Sinclair have something like this hidden away?
She studied the list more closely. Lazare’s name was scrawled at the end, like a hurried addition. More interesting still, Laurent Coterin and old Feydeau’s names had been crossed off. None of the others bore any special notations except for her own, which had been underlined with a question mark placed beside it.
