Page 87 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Right,” he said, leaning back. There was no bitterness or anger in his voice, only a deep sorrow. He half-closed his eyes. “Where would you like me to begin?”
“You can start by telling me, Mr. Carrington—if that is your real name—exactly who you are working for, for I have a strong notion it is not Victor Merchant.”
“My name?” he said wearily. “My name is Daniel Anthony Sinclair Carr. I am a spy for the British army.”
Sinclair continued, telling his story from the beginning when he had first infiltrated Merchant’s organization until the happenings of this evening, catching Paulette and then becoming involved in the brothel fight. Belle did not interrupt, even to interject a question.
When he had finished, he studied her face for her reaction. The hand holding the pistol had relaxed, although a certain amount of skepticism remained in her eyes.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked. He had been prepared for many things, but not that she would still doubt him after he had told her the truth.
“I am not sure. The fact still remains that two of the agents marked through on this list met with violent ends.”
“I marked them off as suspects when I learned of their deaths. You said the man Coterin was a fool, more than likely the sort who would be shot in a botched escape attempt. And as for Feydeau, as illogical as it sounds, you must accept the fact that for once the man did not control his drinking. People all have breaking points, times when they do the unexpected.”
“And the question mark by my name?”
“I made the mark absentmindedly when I was—” He broke off, realization flashing through him. “You thought I had arranged the death of those two men and you were to be next!” Sinclair’s hurt was tempered with a sorrowful understanding. They led similar lives, he and Belle. He knew too well the suspicion, the caution that kept one alive.
He explained patiently, “The question mark meant that, considering your cleverness and daring, I was paying you the compliment of believing you my most likely suspect.”
“Merci, monsieur,” she said bitterly. “That sheds entire new light upon your assiduousness in my bedchamber.”
“No! Belle, damn it!” As he lurched forward, all his battered muscles seemed to stiffen in protest. Tired of the awkwardness of his situation, he said, “I am getting up now. If you intend to fire, go ahead.”
Not sparing her another glance, he forced himself to his feet. With a show of deliberate nonchalance, he limped over to examine his face in the mirror. His temple had stopped bleeding, but with his eye nearly swollen shut, the bruises discoloring his jaw, he looked like a prizefighter down for the count.
When he turned back to Belle, she had laid the pistol on the dressing table and sagged down upon a stool before the hearth with her arms wrapped about herself. She reminded him of the way he had found her that night down by the window, lookingso alone, so lost. He wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms, but he knew he couldn’t. Likely he would never be able to do so again.
He approached as close as he dared, saying in a gentle voice, “I won’t have you believing that I bedded you in order to get you to betray yourself, to give information. This assignment has been pure hell for me. I have wanted you from the first with my blasted conscience getting in the way.”
“How inconvenient for you.”
“I never made love to you until I was certain you were not the spy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth then? When were you planning to do so? On the way to the theater? Oh, by the bye, Angel, one of your members is a Napoleonic agent, so tonight you are likely leading your people into a trap.”
“I was planning to tell you this evening, would have told you days ago except?—”
“Except for what?”
Except that he had been afraid of losing her. No, how could he tell her that? How did one lose what one had truly never had? He started to rake his hand through his hair and winced when he grazed his wound. “Even though I was certain you were not the spy, you have told me more than once you have no strong interests on either side. What loyalties you have belong to individual people. If I had ferreted out the spy and it turned out to be someone like Baptiste …” He let the suggestion speak for itself.
“Baptiste, of course,” she murmured. “All that time I thought you were being kind to my old friend, spending so much time with him, you were merely seeking information.”
“No! And yes,” Sinclair admitted reluctantly. “I have grown to like and respect Baptiste, as much as I have grown to hate this assignment. But I don’t know if I could have behavedany differently. Too much was at stake, too many lives at risk because of the information Paulette was passing, the lives of British soldiers, even my own brother.”
Sinclair’s voice trailed off as he searched Belle’s eyes for some sign that she understood. But with a sinking heart all he noted were the lines of her face becoming more rigid, all her old barriers being slammed into place.
“What I find most unforgivable,” she said at last, “is the way you let me rattle on and on about honesty, about how there was no pretense or deceit between us.”
“God, Belle, you don’t know how much I wished that had been true. I was wrong to let you go on believing in me, but it seemed like the one edge that I had over your memories of Jean-Claude—the freedom from pretense, that you and I are so much alike. We share the same world while?—”
He was interrupted by her expression of blazing scorn. “Still trying to deceive me, Mr. Carr? It won’t serve. You see, I take great pains to keep myself current with the world. Not only do I read the military dispatches in the paper, but the society columns as well.
“That stiff-necked old martinet you described as your father, he is General Daniel Carr, is he not?”
“You have heard of him?”
