Page 80 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Isn’t he yet in the back room?” Giles asked.
Lazare swore. “You fools.”
He had set the pair of them to keep an eye out, watch for a chance to get Carrington alone if possible, otherwise waylay him en route to the carriage later. Now Carrington had presented them with the perfect opportunity, and they had lost it.
There might yet be a chance. Carrington could not risk being gone from the meeting for too long, so he could not have gone far.
“Come on,” he growled at Giles and Auguste. Lazare had taken great pains not to arouse suspicion in Belle by sharing a part in Carrington’s demise. But now he could see he must take a hand in the affair himself.
His umbrella hookedover his arm, Sinclair moved at a hurried pace, accustoming his eyes to the darkness beneath the Palais’s first-floor colonnade. The lamps from the gardens cast but dim illumination here, the darkened shop windows only serving to add to the sense of isolation.
Other shadows moved about beneath the colonnades, a pair of lovers entwined in a hot embrace, a beady-eyed fellow who studied Sinclair as though to gauge the location of his purse. Butsomething in Sinclair’s stance made him think better of it, and he slunk away.
Sinclair located No. 32, the last door at the far end of the Palais, the placard in the curtained window proclaiming it as a seamstress’s establishment. His shoulders took on a disheartened slump as he feared he had but come on a fool’s chase.
Still a light glowed beyond the filmy curtains along with the chatter of voices. Strange that such a shop should still be open this time of night.
When Sinclair knocked at the door, a feminine voice bade him enter. He stepped cautiously inside. He had not much experience of seamstresses’ shops, but he wagered that most did not look like this. The sitting room wore an aura of tawdry luxury, all crimson velvet and gilt, the cloying scent of perfume heavy in the air. Gold curtains framed an arch which led to some other mysterious area beyond.
Draped upon a settee were two ladies of dubious virtue, a redhead and a blonde. If they did possess any talent for sewing, Sinclair doubted they were expending much of it upon their own scanty attire.
An elderly woman bustled forward to greet Sinclair, her rouged cheek puffed out with a smile. “Good evening, m’sieur. How may we serve you?”
Sinclair swept off his hat. “Bonsoir, madame. I—er- am looking to have some alterations done.”
His words sent the young women upon the settee off into a fit of giggles. One called out, “On your breeches perchance, m’sieur?”
The elderly dame silenced them with a dignified glare.
“M’sieur must understand. We do not serve any gentleman who walks in off the streets. All our callers come here by recommendation.”
Sinclair decided to take a great chance, watching the woman carefully for her reaction. “Lazare sent me.”
Her puzzlement appeared genuine. “Lazare? I have never heard of this Lazare.” She glanced toward the two girls as though soliciting their help.
The blonde one cooed, “I am sure it is all right, madame. I think I have heard Paulette talk of a Lazare.”
“Paulette?” The name sent a jolt through Sinclair.
“Oui.” The girl nodded to a point behind Sinclair.”There she is. Ask her yourself.”
Sinclair spun about to face the woman who entered the room beneath the velvet-draped arch. Although the saffron gown was not her usual attire, the red ribbon about her neck, the soft brown curls were all too familiar to Sinclair.
“Madame, I need you to—” Paulette Beauvais choked off in midsentence. As her eyes locked with Sinclair’s, the shock of recognition for her appeared as great as his own.
“M-monsieur Carrington.” Her dismay paled into a look of fear. She turned and vanished beneath the arch. Sinclair bolted after her.
“Stop, m’sieur!” the elderly woman cried. “You cannot thus barge in upon us.” She followed after Sinclair, squawking like a frenzied chicken.
Sinclair pursued Paulette down a corridor of doors. She whipped inside the last of these, but not quickly enough to slam the door behind her. Sinclair put his shoulder to the flimsy pine barrier as Paulette struggled to keep him out.
“I will send for the police,” the old woman behind Sinclair was still blustering.
But Paulette seemed to realize the futility of the struggle. As her initial panic subsided, she released the door, allowing Sinclair to enter. “Bien, Margot. Calm yourself,” she said to the old woman. “I do seem to know this gentleman after all.”
Although the madame looked far from satisfied, she was persuaded to retreat. She did so, casting dire warnings at Sinclair to behave himself. “We tolerate no roughness here, m’sieur.”
When she had gone, Sinclair closed the door behind him, facing Paulette across the small bedchamber, the glow of an oil lamp giving the walls a rose-colored cast. The chief feature of the room was its bed, the canopy caught above it giving the impression of some exotic Egyptian tent. Paulette hovered near it, twisting the fringe. Obviously nervous, she strove to hide the fact behind a brazen smile.
