Page 107 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Sinclair drew near to where she stood alone, staring over the deck rail, fingering an ivory-handled fan, spreading out the leaves of silk. Sinclair needed no identification of the delicate strokes to recognize Baptiste’s handiwork. The old man had depicted none of the usual classical motifs so popular with the ladies. Like a lover capturing the essence of his mistress upon canvas, Baptiste had painted a scene of the banks of Paris, the silver-green waters of the Seine reflecting back the soaring towers of Notre Dame, the arches of the Pont Neuf, the ducks skimming the surface. Gazing at the fan, Sinclair was flooded with the memory of the smell of the reeds, the lapping of the river waters, the laughter of the crowds thronging the bridge.
Belle closed the fan. She surprised him by glancing up with a tremulous smile. “I was just thinking about Baptiste, all those times he and I arranged those fake funerals, smuggling people out of Paris in coffins. It was rather ironic that in the end, we had to spirit him back in. Baptiste would have found that rather amusing, don’t you think?”
Her voice broke unexpectedly on the last word. Her eyes filled, and slowly, the tears tracked down her cheeks. Sinclair said nothing, merely held out his arms. She cast herself into them, burying her face against his shoulder.
Several dayslater Belle descended the stairs of the Neptune’s Trident. Mr. Shaw passed her with his usual beaming smile, his eyes twinkling over the rims of his glasses.
“The fire is banked high in the coffee room,” the inn’s host said. “Your brandy has been laid out, and the luncheon is ready to be served.”
“Thank you.” Belle returned Shaw’s smile. Strange, she reflected, but she had never thought that returning to this familiar old inn would feel in some odd way like coming home.
Shaw added with a discreet cough, “Your gentleman friend is already waiting.”
Belle’s heart skipped a beat. Sinclair. She had not seen him since they had left the ship. He had been very gentle as he handed her into the carriage. He had affairs to attend to, he said, but he would call upon her soon—a promise he had not kept. And she had not even known the address of his current lodgings to find him.
Sweeping eagerly into the coffee room, she said, “At last, Mr. Carrington. For once I hoped you might have been more punct?—”
The playful greeting died upon her lips. It was not Sinclair’s tall form silhouetted by the fireside, but the reed-thin frame of Quentin Crawley, warming his hands at the blaze, the tufts of his sandy hair standing on end.
“Oh, Quentin,” she said in a voice flat with disappointment.
He spun about, greeting her with his prim expression.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens. Welcome back to England. You are well, I trust?”
Belle closed the door, in no mood for Crawley’s punctiliousness or for making the pretense of a social call.
“Never mind all that,” she snapped. “Where is Victor Merchant? I rode out to Mal du Coeur yesterday. The butler told me Merchant had gone. I want to know where he is hiding.”
“Mr. Merchant is not hiding anywhere. He was arrested.”
“Arrested!” Belle exclaimed.
“All arranged by Mr. Carrington. He is a spy for the British army, though I expect you know that.” Quentin frowned reprovingly as though he suspected her of deliberately keeping secrets from him. “Carrington had Mr. Merchant charged with plotting the murder of a British agent. Mr. Merchant was taken off by a guard of soldiers, though I have a feeling he was glad to go by the time Mr. Carrington had done with him.” Crawley gave an expressive shiver.
Annoyance and chagrin swept through Belle. So Sinclair had gotten to Merchant first. He might have included her in the capture, for she surely had greater complaint against Victor than he. But she supposed it mattered little as long as the traitor had been apprehended.
“I am glad Merchant has been arrested,” she said, moving to pour herself a glass of brandy. “Though it is most unfortunate for you, Quentin. No more spying. You will have to be content with life as a parish clerk.”
“Not at all.” Excitement rippled across Crawley’s bland features. He puffed up his chest with pride. “You see, Mrs. Varens, funding for our society never did come from Merchant. Madame Dumont is in truth our director. A great lady. She never was too pleased with Merchant, but she desires that our work be continued.” Quentin’s eyes dropped modestly down. “She has named me as Merchant’s successor.”
“Congratulations,” Belle said dryly, saluting him with her glass. “This calls for a toast.” She poured him out some brandy, biting back a smile. She never thought Crawley would accept it, but to her astonishment he did, sipping cautiously at the amber-colored liquid as though it were some foul-tasting medicine.
“I do not delude myself but what I have undertaken a difficult task,” Quentin said after Belle had toasted him. “We have lost so many good agents, but I trust I may still depend upon you.”
“Not a chance,” Belle said, setting down her glass with a sharp click. “I am through with the society.”
“My dear Mrs. Varens! I understand that your confidence in our organization has been a little bruised. But you cannot believe I would ever serve you such a trick as Merchant did.”
“Of course not, Quentin. But I told you all along I would quit one day. I have had enough.”
Crawley’s indulgent smile was patent with disbelief. “I will not be gainsaid so easily. I also hope to recruit Mr. Carrington as well.”
“Sinclair? He works for the British army.”
“I can pay him much better,” Crawley said confidently. “And offer him far more intriguing assignments. When you hear what I have next in mind?—”
“I don’t want to hear.” Belle snapped.
