Page 103 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Don’t remind me,” Sinclair said through gritted teeth. Blast the man. Could he not stop these heroic speeches and go away before Sinclair hit him again? “I could not care less whether you live or die. If I helped you for any reason, it was because of a little boy named John-Jack, whom I took great pains to convince that his Papa would come home. I don’t like lying to children.”
Jean-Claude looked rather humbled by the mention of his son.
“As to any other motive—” Sinclair broke off, seeing no reason why he had to confess that he had also done it for Belle, that he could not bear to see that haunting look of unhappiness return to her eyes, even if it meant surrendering her to Jean-Claude.
“Whatever your motives,” Jean-Claude persisted, “I could not rest easily until I discharged my debt of gratitude.” As though it cost him great effort, Jean-Claude extended his hand toward Sinclair.
Sinclair supposed he should be equally magnanimous and take it. But was it not enough he had rescued the man likely to take Belle away from him? He was damned if he could endure being thanked for it into the bargain!
“Go to the devil, Varens,” he said. Ignoring the comte’s outstretched hand, Sinclair strode from the room.
Nineteen
Moonlight spilled down upon the crossroads, its silvery light silhouetting the coach and four halted where the paths met. Belle alighted from the carriage’s interior, her breath coming in a cloud of steam. Crossing her arms over her breast, she burrowed her hands beneath the cape of her garrick. Her masculine attire with its layering of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches afforded her more protection from the chill than any of her gowns, yet she still felt the sting of the cold. The damp whisperings of autumn hung in the air tonight, the promise of winter not far behind.
All about her the Rouvray Forest loomed, acres of woodland, thick with trees, the rustling leaves like sinister voices on the night wind. Belle had never liked the place, with its legends of highwaymen, robbers, and dark ancient deeds. Not far from the carriage stood the Croix Catelan, a weatherworn and mutilated pyramid, a memorial to the poet Arnauld de Catelan, who had been savagely murdered on this spot centuries ago. A dying oak hovered nearby, its gnarled branches like skeletal fingers stretched out in a plea for mercy, the soughing of the trees a whisper of despair.
Belle shivered. This rendezvous point was bad enough in the daytime. The thick underbrush afforded far too many places for concealment, leaving one always with the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. But this was where she and Baptiste had always met over the course of the years when involved in a mission together, it being the farthest he would venture from Paris, the closest she would come.
Glancing about her, she saw that both Baptiste and Sinclair had leaped down from the coach and gone round to the horses’ heads. Baptiste stood soothing the restive leader while Sinclair talked to him. Sinclair fell silent as she approached, her steps made a little awkward by the unaccustomed stiffness of the Hessian boots she wore.
“No sign of Crecy’s men?” she asked.
Sinclair backed up to consult his pocket watch by the light of one of the carriage lanterns. “It is too early yet.”
“We arrived in good time,” Baptiste said, stroking the leader’s nose. “We came through the barrier much more easily than I had expected. The customs officer did not even ask to search the coach. It was much more difficult during the Revolution, I promise you.”
Baptiste smiled at Belle. “I daresay it was all because of you, Monsieur Gordon. You make such a fierce-looking gentleman.”
Belle pulled a wry face at him, whipping off her tricorne hat and wig. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders.
She glanced at Sinclair, half-expecting some teasing remark from him as well. He remained unusually quiet even as he had ever since leaving Paris.
“Has Monsieur le Comte survived his uncomfortable journey?” Baptiste asked.
“He is a little stiff,” Belle said. The place of concealment beneath the false seat had been cramped quarters. Jean-Claude had been most grateful to be released from it. Bruised from thejolts of the road, he had at last dozed off in a corner of the carriage.
Belle sensed a tension in Sinclair as soon as Jean¬Claude’s name was introduced. He paced off down the road, the gravel road crunching beneath his boots, and pretended to be scanning the horizon for some sign of approaching riders.
Belle sighed. She had had no chance to speak to Sinclair alone since leaving Crecy’s apartment. She had slept as one dead for the better part of the afternoon, only awakening to be told it was time to make ready for their escape.
She trailed after Sinclair. She knew he was aware of her presence, although he did not look round at her. As she stepped in place beside him, she observed with dismay the unyielding set to his shoulders. He was deliberately attempting to hold her at a distance because of Jean-Claude.
She wanted to beg Sinclair to understand why she had had to go to Jean-Claude this afternoon, but she feared that was unnecessary. Sinclair did understand, and it engendered a kind of sad resignation in him.
“It is a clear night,” she remarked at last. She stamped her feet in an effort to set the blood circulating through her numbed toes. She cursed the awkwardness of her tongue. Even at the worst of their troubled times together, she and Sinclair had never had difficulty finding words.
He seemed to share her problem. After a pause he replied, “I trust Crecy’s men will be able to find us.”
“You need not worry about that. All of us are most familiar with this rendezvous. Baptiste and I held our meetings here after I left Paris. Our partings have always taken place on the edge of this forest.”
Silence lapsed between them again, the air unbearably quiet but for the Rouvray with all its mysterious night sounds, somenocturnal creature scurrying through underbrush, the hoot of an owl, the crackling of some twigs.
“We will be back in England after two days,” Belle ventured. “I suppose you will have to make haste to London to report to your superiors.”
“I shall first pay a call on Victor Merchant,” Sinclair said grimly.
“And I would only be too pleased to accompany you.”
