Page 44 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Of course not, imbecile,” Baptiste said. “But visiting the palace gives me access to many other people, people who handle the invitations, people who understand an honest bribe.”
“And how soon could you secure us such an invitation?” Belle asked.
“Would tonight be too soon?” Baptiste produced a square of gilt-edged vellum from his pocket. He handed it to Belle. She slit the seal with her fingernail. Even Lazare craned his neck with curiosity as she examined the paper’s contents. Her lips parted in a brilliant smile.
“You are as much a wizard as ever, Baptiste.”
Belle crossed the room to Sinclair. “Well, Mr. Carrington, I trust you brought along your finest evening attire. It would appear we are going to the palace.”
With a forced smile, Sinclair accepted the invitation she handed to him. He could not get over the ease with which such a thing had been obtained. A little too easy perhaps? He was beset by a feeling that from this moment on, he had best walk with great care. Like traversing a field set with hidden snares, one misstep could bring him to disaster.
Still musing over the invitation, Sinclair did not notice the meeting was breaking up until the other men rose to take their leave.
“But stay one moment more, gentlemen,” Baptiste said. He bustled out of the drawing room only to return bearing a tray laden with a flagon of wine and glasses. “Tonight we take the first step in our perilous venture. I think it only right we drink a toast to its success.”
Crecy smacked his lips in approval of the suggestion as Baptiste poured out the wine. Belle regarded him with amused indulgence. Only Lazare appeared inclined to refuse, but he finally accepted a glass with his customary bad grace.
“Monsieur Carrington?” Baptiste beckoned Sinclair to join them.
The five of them stood before the hearth in a solemn circle, raising their glasses. The wine sparkled blood-red in the firelight’s glow.
“To our success, gentlemen,” Belle said.
“May we all come through unscathed,” Crecy added, “safe from the embrace of Madame Guillotine.”
“If we fail, we need not worry about that, my friend,” the irrepressible Baptiste called out. “The people of Paris would tear us to pieces long ere we reached the scaffolding.”
On this grim note they clinked glasses and drank. As Sinclair sipped his wine, he studied the others—one of whom he was certain was not sincere. One who had toasted, smiled, and drank was secretly planning to betray them all.
The toast finished, they all returned their glasses to the tray. It disturbed Sinclair to note that Belle’s glass alone remained nearly full. She had barely tasted the wine.
She stood by Sinclair’s side as the other men gathered up their hats and cloaks. Crecy was the last to exit, bowing himself out, expressing his thanks for their gracious hospitality.
Sinclair had to suppress an urge to erupt into laughter. Crecy’s words spun the most ludicrous illusion as though he and Belle were indeed an ordinary married couple, on an ordinary afternoon, bidding their callers farewell.
Yet one glance at the chair vacated by Lazare abruptly ended any illusion and equally any desire to laugh. Lazare had left his rope behind. It was fashioned into a perfect noose.
Nine
With the others gone, a silence settled over the drawing room, the rain beating out a monotonous rhythm against the window. Belle glanced out at the slate-colored sky. Not a hint of the sun. The rain was likely to continue all day—typical Paris weather as she remembered it, the city forever washed in gray.
Watching the rivulets trickle down the panes of glass, she reviewed the morning’s events. The meeting had gone well enough, she judged. She had maintained a reasonable amount of control over Lazare, as much as anyone could. But she was glad he had no share in what was to take place tonight.
At last she would meet Bonaparte face to face—the plot would begin to take form. From this night on, there could be no turning back from the course she would set into motion. A shiver—part fear, part anticipation—coursed through her.
But first there was the interminable dreariness of the afternoon to be gotten through. She was not the sort of woman to spend an entire day preparing herself for an evening’s event.Time enough to worry about her appearance whenever Paulette returned.
Her chief concern for now was what to do in the hours stretching until then, hours to be spent in the apartment, alone with Sinclair.
Although she had her back to him, she remained conscious of his presence. She knew he sprawled in the chair where Lazare had sat. As soon as the men had gone, Sinclair had made himself comfortable, stripping off his frock coat and cravat. Even without looking at him, Belle retained a clear picture, Sinclair’s image imprinted upon her mind, the way his dark head rested against the back of the chair, the cast of his rakehell features for once solemn and thoughtful.
He was so quiet. Too quiet for Sinclair. What was he thinking? She had no idea. Sometimes she wondered if she ever truly knew what went on in his head. It occurred to her more forcibly than ever how little she knew of her partner.
Belle frowned as her thoughts shifted back to Sinclair’s disturbing remark about Feydeau. Sinclair’s explanation had been plausible enough, and yet it had startled her, his betraying knowledge that she found unaccountable.
Over the years, Belle had acquired an instinct for detecting when a man was being less than honest. When she had asked Sinclair about Feydeau, she could have sworn Sinclair was lying to her. And all those questions about Paulette this morning. Sometimes Sinclair seemed far more bent upon seeking information about the society than about Napoleon. But why?
Vague suspicions drifted through Belle’s mind as intangible as wisps of smoke. She shook her head as though to clear it. Perhaps once more she was building a case upon trifles. That was the difficulty sometimes. Being suspicious, not trusting, had become second nature to her. It had saved her life upon morethan one occasion. But life on the edge as Sinclair described it could be a wearisome affair.
