Page 77 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Oh, hell.” He expelled his breath in an explosive sigh. Prying her fingers from the knob, he eased the door closed. He gaveher a rueful smile. “We have really gotten our parts down well, Angel. We are even starting to sound married.”
His remark choked a reluctant laugh from her. When he held out his arms, she cast herself into them. He strained close, burying his face against her hair.
“I told you once that I did not mind about Varens, but he is not just a memory anymore, is he? And I am very much afraid—” Sinclair drew in a deep breath and then took the plunge. “I have fallen in love with you.”
“Oh, Sinclair.” She gazed up at him, earnestly scanning face. “I wish that I could tell you how I feel, but I am so confused. Nothing is clear to me anymore.”
Her arms tightened about his neck, and she rested her head wearily against his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Angel. You don’t have to try to say anything. We agreed from the beginning, no promises, no forevers. But no matter how things turn out between us—” Sinclair felt his jaw tighten as he pleaded, “Don’t go back to Varens. He’s bad for you, Belle. You don’t belong in his artificial world of dreams. You are too strong, too real for that.”
“I am not planning to go off with anyone,” she said. “He has not even asked me. But there was some truth to what you said earlier. I would like to see him regain his estates, at least some part of what he has lost. But that is not my only reason for wanting to go ahead with the plan against Bonaparte.”
“Forget Bonaparte. Forget Varens,” Sinclair groaned. He forced her face up to his. “For this one last night, just be mine.”
He crushed her mouth beneath his in a kiss that was hard and long, only breaking off to continue the feverish caress along the soft white column of her throat. He felt Belle stiffen with surprise, resistance at first of this fierce onslaught, only to give way with a burst of passion that matched his own.
They clung, kissed, tumbled to the bed, and embraced in a manner that was little short of desperate. The tenderness, the playful skill that had always graced their previous couplings was gone. Sinclair bore but one determination. If he could drive Jean-Claude from Belle’s heart with the ferocity of his loving, he would do it. And she responded eagerly, her own desire as savage as though equally determined to forget.
Yet when they at last lay spent in each other’s arms, they experienced none of the usual glow of satisfaction. Belle drew away from him, and they rested side by side, without touching. And when their eyes met, it was clear that Jean-Claude was yet very much with them. Nothing had been resolved.
Fourteen
By day the Palais-Royal appeared nearly the same as it had for the generations when it had been owned by the D’Orleans family. The gardens were a place of great charm with rows of lime trees and broad expanses of lawn. The quadrangle structure itself stretched upward in a series of galleries, connected on the ground floor by a colonnade done in the neoclassic style. But the palace that had once sheltered the household of a duke with claim to royal blood was now broken into a series of small businesses and apartments.
In the bright sunshine it was a whirl of activity, one of the favorite shopping spots of Paris with its collection of restaurateurs, confectioners, florists, milliners, hair-dressers, watchmakers.
But by night the gardens rustled with shadows, the shops were all shuttered, and the denizens of the upper floors stirred to life, the Palais becoming a hive of the most respectable vice to be found in Paris. The galleries boasted a seemingly endless array of gambling salons, to say nothing of the discreet apartments of those women known as thefemmes du monde, their daring low-cut gowns replacing those demure muslin of the ladies who had strolled about shopping in the afternoon. These bold creatureslay claim to the gardens, lingering in the shadows of the colonnades along with the cutpurses and scores of other rogues.
One such pert dame, what youthful attractions she possessed buried beneath a layer of rouge, eyed with speculation two strapping soldiers lounging near one of the colonnades.
The older of the two, a fellow with a pointed chin, appeared more interested in swilling from a bottle of gin. But the younger, crudely handsome with a fine set of bristling mustaches, offered the wench every sign of encouragement.
When she tried to approach, the weasel-faced one glared at her. “Off with you, slut. Go peddle your wares elsewhere.”
“Ah, you are hard and cruel, m’sieur,” she started to whine, but when he menaced her with upraised fist, she cursed him, melting back into the night.
“You didn’t have to drive her off, Giles,” the youth protested. “I could have used a bit of diversion.”
“We are here for business, Auguste, not diversion.” Giles took another gulp from his bottle. “Lazare is already wroth with us.”
Auguste snorted. “You may fear the displeasure of Monsieur Scar Face, but I promise you that I— oof!” He broke off with a grunt when his older brother poked his stomach in warning fashion.
A figure stalked toward them, draped in a black cowl and cape like some sinister monk of the Inquisition, a man seeming spawned of the night shadows. Moonlight rendered the wisps of Lazare’s hair ghost-white, his handsome scarred face like some grotesque mask depicting good and evil.
For all his bravado, young Auguste went pale, and Giles’s hand, yet clutching his bottle, was seen to tremble. Lazare’s mouth thinned to a smile. They feared him, both the brothers Marboeuf, despite their bluster to the contrary. Their courage was about as real as the false uniforms they wore upon their backs, a clever device they had long ago adopted to avoid beingpressed into the army. If any officer ever questioned them or examined their regimentals too closely, the Marboeufs were quick to take to their heels.
But against an unarmed opponent in the dark, Lazare thought cynically, the two bore courage enough. After ascertaining they were sufficiently cowed by his stare, Lazare said, “You are on time for once, citizens. You show great wisdom.”
“Been waiting for nigh half an hour,” Giles ventured to grumble. “Damned chilly tonight.” He lifted his bottle to his lips for another swallow.
Lazare’s hand shot out, knocking the bottle from Giles’s grasp. The glass shattered against the colonnade. But in a night already disrupted by raucous laughter, the shameless squeals of the lightskirts pursuing their trade, the splintering sound went unremarked.
Giles glowered at Lazare, but he dared not comment, merely rubbing the back of his hand across his lips.
“I want you sober,” Lazare hissed. “There will be no mistakes such as you made yesterday morn.”
“We done our best,” Giles whined. “Who’d of thought the Englishman could move so fast? I never did see the likes of how he fair dived from beneath the hooves of my horse.”
