Page 86 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Her heart gave an uneasy thud. The men’s names who were crossed off were dead, had both met their ends in a fairly violent manner. The lines through the names only added to the sensation that it was as if as if they had been eliminated. Belle ran a hand over her brow. What could it all mean? A dauntingsuspicion occurred to her. She tried to shut it out, but couldn’t quite manage it. A montage of scenes whirled through her brain: Sinclair’s ever-present reluctance about this mission, his joining the society out of nowhere, his reticence about his past, his inexplicable knowledge about Feydeau’s death. Then there was the mysterious man who had approached Sinclair at Bonaparte’s review.
Belle sagged down on Sinclair’s bed, wanting to fight off such disturbing thoughts. They all pointed to one thing, a most clever enemy who had infiltrated their organization with a view to destroying it from within, possibly an agent of Bonaparte himself. But why would any Englishman want to help Napoleon?
The reason most adventurers embarked upon their schemes—money. Sinclair had ever assured her he was an adventurer, no gentleman. And did that mean that Sinclair plotted her destruction as well? No, how could he after what they had shared, after telling her that he loved her?
But how could she be that naive? What better way was there for a spy to gain cooperation and information than through seduction? It was the oldest trap in the world. Until now she had ever been too canny to fall into it.
Yet no lover had ever so been as skillful as Sinclair, the caress of his eyes, that look of soul-deep understanding even more potent than the magic of his body. She had always had such scorn for women who let themselves be used, taken in, wondering how they could be such fools! It seemed she was about to discover how for herself.
She stared at the question mark by her name. Was she then fated to be the next to die? The thought sent a dull lancing of pain through her. She felt so weary of this life, the constant danger, the distrust, the suspicion, so weary of struggling with it. With Sinclair she thought she had escaped much of that for atime, at least having a partner she thoroughly trusted to share it all.
Her one honest relationship, she thought with a bitter sneer. She leaned against the bedpost, feeling suddenly drained. If it was her life he wanted, he could have it.
The thought didn’t last for long. Her survival instincts were too strong, part of her yet clinging to the belief that there had to be another explanation. She must be wrong, jumping to conclusions. But she could take no chances with such a risky mission in the balance and other lives dependent upon her own.
Wearily she trudged back to her room, deciding what she had to do. She needed to know the truth about Sinclair and she needed to know it now, no matter how ruthless the measures it took to gain it.
Sinclair allowed his throbbing head to pillow against the cushions, wincing at the pain shooting through his rib cage when he moved too suddenly. He felt as though he had been dragged on a hurdle, yet he could not afford to pamper his much battered body too much longer. The fact remained that he had allowed Paulette to escape.
What was the wench doing now? Would she make all haste to get her message to Bonaparte, or would she panic and flee? Either way he had to warn Belle. Likely, they might all have to flee Paris tonight.
He heard the door open when Belle returned to the room, but his eyelids felt too weighted to open.
“Angel?” he called.
“I shall be right with you,” she said. He heard her rustling about the chamber, the sound of a drawer sliding open. Sinclair did not relish the upcoming confrontation with Belle when she had believed in his honesty. How would she react to his deceit, the destruction of the plan she seemed to so cherish?
Already he could imagine what she must be thinking at discovering he had slipped off to a brothel. Her silence seemed to send a chill through the room.
“Angel?” he called again. “Did you find the sticking plaster?”
He received no answer. He didn’t know how, but he sensed her standing over him.
He flicked his eyes open.
She appeared no ministering angel this time. With a hard light in those blue eyes, she towered over him, aiming a pistol straight at his heart.
Sixteen
Belle watched Sinclair’s eyes widen in astonishment. Even as his gaze fixed upon the pistol, he registered not so much alarm as confusion, a half-amused uncertainty.
“You don’t seem to have found the sticking plaster, Angel.” But all traces of his amusement vanished as he stared into her eyes.
“No,” she said, “but I did find this.” She held up the list she had found inside his umbrella.
He struggled into a sitting position. “Oh,” he said in a flat voice. The single guilty syllable was as good as a confession. Stark pain ripped through Belle. Until that moment she did not know exactly how much she had been praying for a denial, some logical explanation of the damning evidence against him.
It cost her great effort to keep her grip steady upon the pistol handle. “I want to know what is going on. Who are you, Sinclair Carrington?”
He sighed. “I knew this moment had to come, but I had hoped not like this. I had been waiting for the right time to tell you the complete truth. Believe it or not, tonight I had resolved?—”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Belle said sharply. “No more attempts at evasion, if you please. I want naught but direct answers, and I want them now.”
“And you will have them, but that pistol is not necessary. I can guess, unfortunately, what you must be thinking, and I don’t blame you. But I can explain everything to your satisfaction.” He made a movement as though to rise from the bed.
“No! Stay where you are.” Belle drew in a steadying breath. “We played a game similar to this one time before.” She felt her throat constrict as she recalled that rainy afternoon their romp had nearly ended by making love. Why did it all seem so long ago?
“I feel more at ease with you as you are,” she concluded. “I don’t trust you.”
