Page 91 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“This may not even be Lazare’s room,” she started to say, then stopped as she recognized Lazare’s trunk shoved against one chipped plaster wall, the familiar battered portmanteau held closed with a length of thick rope.
The room showed signs of recent habitation. Two dusty glasses along with a bottle drained to the dregs stood propped on an upended crate. The fireplace held a thick coating of ashes.
Sinclair’s interest fixed itself upon the trunk. Striding forward, he struggled to remove the rope and began to paw through the contents. It appeared to be nothing more than Lazare’s clothing.
“What do you expect to find?” Belle demanded.
“I don’t exactly know.”
She watched him for a moment, beginning to feel that this was all but another waste of time. Noting another door, she said, “Well, I suppose I can at least see what is in there.”
“Just be careful, Angel,” Sinclair replied.
As she slipped through the door, Sinclair tapped the lid of the trunk. It had a strangely hollow sound. Using his pocket knife, he began to pick at the wood. It splintered easily, revealing a compartment behind.
Excitedly, he slipped his hand inside and drew out a packet of papers. Straightening, he carried them over to one of theapartment’s narrow windows, taking advantage of what meager light filtered past the filthy panes.
The first document appeared to be some sort of communication Lazare had been in the process of writing to Merchant.
“When you read this, you will know your orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of Carrington. Tonight will see the finish of the rest of it. Isabelle Varens …”
As Sinclair scanned down the rest of the page, he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.
“Angel, I found something you had better look at right now. Belle?”
From within the next room Belle groped through the near darkness of what she guessed to be a bedchamber. The heavy curtains had been pulled so tightly closed as to render the room but a mass of shadows.
Banging into the end of the iron bedstead Belle moved carefully toward the window. The curtains smelled of mildew and damp. When she flung them back, a flood of dim gray light entered the room. Turning, she prepared to better examine her surroundings, her gaze focusing upon the bed.
She let out a strangled gasp. A woman lay upon the bare mattress, her dark curls tumbled over the pillow. She fixed Belle with a vacant glassy-eyed stare, a bright slash of red about her neck.
But it was not Paulette’s familiar red ribbon. It was blood.
Dimly Belle was aware of Sinclair calling her name from the other room but she could not seem to avert her gaze from Paulette. The French woman’s features were frozen in a waxen image of horror. Involuntarily Belle’s hand crept to her own throat.
Steeling herself, she stepped closer. There was no doubt that Paulette was dead. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear.
Lazare’s signature, Belle thought grimly. Staring down at the woman who would have betrayed them all, Belle supposed she should have felt a righteous satisfaction. But after her initial horror, she experienced nothing but pity. Poor foolish, greedy Paulette.
Sinclair’s voice came more insistently. “Belle? Are you all right in there?”
She slowly pulled the sheet over Paulette’s face. Then she turned to rejoin Sinclair.
He stood just inside the door, frowning as he perused a document in his hand. He did not see the shadow that stealthily slipped into the room, creeping up behind him.
“Sinclair?” Belle cried. “Look out. Behind you!”
Her warning cry came too late. Sinclair turned, but not in time to escape the full force of Lazare’s cudgel crashing down on his head.
Seventeen
Belle rushed across the room, flinging herself in Sinclair’s path to prevent him from falling headlong and smashing against the hard edge of the window ledge. The papers he had been clutching in his hands fluttered to the ground.
The weight of his inert form crashed against her, dragging her with him to the floor. His head lolled back against her shoulder, his features so white, so still, a terrible fear slashed through Belle. She had seen men killed outright by such a blow as Lazare had dealt Sinclair.
Struggling, she eased herself from beneath Sinclair’s unconscious form, lowering him as gently as she could.
“Sinclair?” she breathed. She was aware that Lazare towered over her. Cursing, he kicked aside the papers that Sinclair had been reading. Belle ignored him, concern for her own safety forgotten. With trembling fingers, she explored the base of Sinclair’s throat. As she felt the faint but steady threading of his pulse, relief coursed through her.
