Page 67 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“You do not seem to be much impressed, Mr. Carrington,” she murmured to him in a low voice.
“This is not the way I would choose to spend such a fine morning, watching a parcel of saber rattling.”
She arched one brow. “We are a little surly today, are we not?”
“What do you expect, recollecting that the entire purpose of this expedition is to escort my wife here to flirt with another man. I am acting out the part of the jealous husband.”
“And you do it so well, sir,” she teased, “though I doubt you have much to fear from Monsieur Bonaparte this morning. He will be fully occupied.”
Sinclair smiled, but said nothing. He made greater effort to appear more himself, but the truth was, he was worried. He had accomplished little these past five days, for all his subtle questioning, attempting to delve deeper into the backgrounds of Baptiste and Crecy, trying to keep a close watch upon Lazare.
Sinclair felt that Lazare almost mocked him with the correctness of his behavior. On the surface Lazare appeared to be working as industriously to achieve the abduction as any of them, and yet something in the Frenchman’s manner left Sinclair continually uneasy. His mistrust of Lazare had grown to the point of superstition, where he had all but fancied the miscreant had had something to do with his own near accident this morning.
That, Sinclair reluctantly conceded, had to be absurd. If there was anyone Lazare wished to harm, it was not himself. It was Belle whom Sinclair frequently caught the fellow watching like an adder about to devour its prey, waiting, always patiently waiting. But for what? That was the question that tormented Sinclair.
“Mr. Carrington?”
Lost in his own thoughts, Sinclair scarce heard the voice speaking his name above the blare of the military band. “Good morrow, Mr. Carrington.”
Sinclair felt a nudge against his arm. Glancing around, he discovered that George Warburton had edged his way through the crowd and now stood at Sinclair’s side.
The man bore his usual phlegmatic expression as he studied the distant figures of the soldiers lining up in columns. Never averting his gaze, he continued to address Sinclair. “Such a fine spectacle, don’t you agree, Mr. Carrington? But I find the noise a little excessive.”
With one of his bland smiles Warburton beckoned slightly with his head for Sinclair to follow him. Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, but she appeared too absorbed by the spectacle to notice his defection.
Edging cautiously away, Sinclair trailed Warburton at a distance. But he thought the ground could have opened to swallow him and no one in the crowd would have paid any heed. At that moment Bonaparte had arrived upon the scene, and all eyes were trained upon him.
The first consul rode down the ranks astride a white horse, wearing a black beaver hat and gray greatcoat, surrounded by the more dazzling uniforms of his staff. The throng of spectators appeared mesmerized.
Sinclair and Warburton drew back further into the gardens of the Tuileries. Standing beneath the stark, sprawling branches of a poplar tree, they feigned an avid interest in the troop inspection taking place.
“So, Mr. Carrington,” Warburton said, “how goes your tour of Paris? Rewarding, I trust?”
“Not so much as I would have hoped, Mr. Warburton.”
“That is most disappointing.”
“I am all but convinced I know the identity of the—er, gentleman we both seek. But proving it! He is quite a slippery devil.”
“I suppose I don’t have to remind you, Carrington. You are running out of time. According to the message you sent me the other day, Merchant’s society plans to make its move in—in what?”
“Two days’ time,” Sinclair said through gritted teeth. “And you are sure that no word of the plot has reached the Tuileries?”
“As sure as I can be. Oh, we did think our informant had returned to the guardhouse yesterday, but it turned out to be only a wench, come for a lover’s tryst. Besides”—one of his rare smiles touched Warburton’s lips—”if the plot were discovered, I imagine you and your group would know of it before I did.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Sinclair said grimly.
There seemed no more to discuss, and he was prepared to move on, but Warburton asked almost desperately, “And you have learned nothing more, Mr. Carrington? Nothing whatsoever?”
Sinclair hesitated. The one new bit of information he had uncovered appeared to him so vague as to be not worth mentioning. However, when Warburton persisted, he said, “Well, I have questioned the porter at our lodgings. Someone has been seen leaving our building and returning late at night. It was too dark for the porter to remark who the person was beneath the hood of the cloak, but the fellow was familiar with the driver of the cabriolet. I tracked him down just yesterday, but all the cabman could do was give me the address he had delivered his passenger to, somewhere in the vicinity of the Palais¬Royal.”
“Then that is something surely,” Warburton said eagerly. “Have you checked this address?”
“No, not yet.”
Sinclair stiffened defensively at Warburton’s incredulous look. “I am supposed to have nothing on my mind, Warburton, other than participating in a certain plot. It is a little difficult for me to get off by myself during the day.”
“What about your nights, man? What are you up to then?”
