Page 66 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Out for a walk, to make a purchase, I don’t know,” Belle said. “Since I am not in truth his wife, I don’t keep him on that tight of a leash.”
A hint of irritation crept into Belle’s voice, although she determined to ignore Lazare and whatever he was attempting to insinuate about Sinclair. The Frenchman had a penchant for making mischief. It seemed as necessary to him as breathing.
“Very much the man of mystery, our Monsieur Carrington,” Lazare continued to muse, rubbing the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. “Have you ever found that strange, Isabelle? I have. After all, we all know a little something of one another, yet we know next to nothing about him.”
Although Belle kept her features impassive, she tensed. How like Lazare to hit upon the one fact that did yet disturb her about Sinclair. As intimate as she and Sinclair had become, his background did remain closed to her. When he took her in his arms, touched her heart with that look of soul-deep understanding, she could tell herself she knew Sinclair well enough. That his reluctance to discuss his own past did not matter and yet …
“Merchant considered Sinclair suitable enough to employ him,” Belle snapped at Lazare. “That is sufficient for me,”
“Is it? Formoi, I am afraid not. I have never placed that much faith in Merchant’s judgment. Now, this Carrington—” Lazare wagged the tip of his knife at her. “He never seems to show that much enthusiasm for the little project that has brought us all to Paris.”
“I don’t ask for enthusiasm, just efficiency.”
Once more she had to admit to herself that Lazare spoke true. At all their meetings Sinclair remained silent, never putting forth any suggestions, though Belle was certain his mind equaled her own when it came to weaving plots. Sinclair had been reluctant from the first, yet he had undertaken the mission. His lack of enthusiasm signified nothing. All the same, Belle wished that Lazare would take himself off. His voice was beginning to affect her like the rasp of a file on an iron bar.
She glanced once more up the street, annoyed to feel her foot begin to tap out a rhythm of nervous impatience.
“Maybe Carrington has lost his nerve,” Lazare said softly. “Maybe he has simply gone off and does not intend to come back.”
“I hardly think so.” She spun about to glare at Lazare. “Do you have nothing better to do than stand here jawing at me?”
Lazare ignored her tirade. His teeth glinted as he continued inexorably, “Maybe you will find yourself a widow again. Maybe I will have to take over Carrington’s role
“That will not be necessary, Lazare.”
The sound of that familiar resonant voice flooded Belle with a welcome sense of relief. She caught a glimpse of Lazare’s stunned expression before she turned to face Sinclair.
“Sinclair, where have you …” Her words trailed off in dismay as she took in Sinclair’s appearance, his hair wildly disheveled, dirt smudging his cheek, the capes of his garrick torn and smattered with mud, the curly-brimmed beaver hat he gripped in his fist smashed beyond recognition.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“I went out to find a tobacconist,” Sinclair said, “when I was nearly run down by two soldiers on horseback.”
While Belle exclaimed, taking Sinclair’s arm to assure herself he had not been hurt, she thought she heard Lazare mutter a low curse. But when she glanced his way, his head was ducked down as he slid his knife back into its sheath.
“You should be more careful where you walk, Carrington,” Lazare grunted.
“I was being careful enough. Those two had to have been blind not to see me.”
Lazare shrugged. “Ah, well, you know these soldiers. They think they own the streets of Paris. A pity they ruined your pretty coat, but it could have been your head.”
So saying, Lazare turned and lurched back into the building. Sinclair stared hard after him. “Now, why do I get the feeling that our good friend Lazare is disappointed it was not my head?”
“Never mind him,” Belle said, making a brisk attempt to brush some of the dirt from Sinclair’s sleeve. Although relieved to have him returned unharmed, her mind was already racing ahead. “I am glad to see you back safe.”
“Are you, Angel?” Sinclair glanced down at her, his look becoming warm.
“Certainly. Have you entirely forgotten about the review?”
“Ah, yes, Bonaparte. And to think I imagined your joy to see me was entirely for my own sake.”
Although Sinclair spoke in his usual jesting fashion, she thought she detected a flash of hurt in his eyes. She would have liked to reassure him in a most intimate manner, but Baptiste joined them just then and she had no choice but to urge Sinclair upstairs to quickly change his coat.
The sunlight floodedthe Place du Carrousel, glinting off the bayonets as the troops marched into place for the review, their colorful regimental flags snapping in the breeze.
Flanked on either side by Sinclair and Baptiste, Belle unfurled her parasol to shield her face. Baptiste’s height placed him at a disadvantage when some taller gentlemen moved in front of him, but he craned his neck, leaning to one side straining eagerly for a view as the soldiers maneuvered into position. Belle noted with some amusement that his enthusiasm was little different from the small boys who stood at the vanguard of the crowd gathered outside the gates, pressing their faces against the bars.
Sinclair, however, observed the entire proceedings with folded arms, a half-frowning expression upon his face. Bellesupposed that one could not expect an Englishman to be much diverted by a display of French military might.
