Page 89 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Most of Belle’s time had been wasted listening to Madame Margot bemoaning the recent events. “One of our best chambers ruined by fire,” the elderly dame had wailed, “to say nothing of the brutes we had tromping through here, wild-eyed Englishmen, loutish soldiers, scarred rogues?—”
“Oui, Madame,” Belle said soothingly, making her escape from these vapid outpourings as soon as she could. The visit to the brothel having proved useless, she made her way to Crecy’s. At least she could alert him to the danger and solicit some of his servants to join in the search.
The morning had considerably advanced by the time she made her way back to the apartment. Gray and overcast, the day was an accurate reflection of her spirits. Dragging herself downto the apartment’s tiny kitchen, she brewed a cup of tea while she attempted to decide what to do next.
She had just sagged down at the wooden table when a footfall alerted her to Sinclair’s return.
“Belle?” he called.
“In here,” she replied wearily.
He appeared shortly in the doorway, looking as exhausted as she, a stubble of beard rimming his jaw, a heavy circle under his one eye, the other now darkened to a shade of purple. At least the swelling had gone down. His dark hair spilled over his brow, concealing the cut on his forehead. When he collapsed down on the chair opposite her, the instinct to reach across and reach for his hand was strong. With great difficulty, she hardened herself against the impulse.
“Any luck?” she asked, although his downcast expression gave her the answer.
He shook his head. “Neither Warburton nor the other agent has seen any trace of her. Not that she couldn’t have somehow slipped past them and already be inside the Tuileries. But they promise to keep as close a watch as they can and intercept her if they see her.”
Sighing, Belle stared into her teacup, but she made no move to taste the bitter brew, merely warming her hands upon the steaming china. After long thought she said, “I doubt if Paulette made it to the Tuileries. If she had, we would likely have soldiers thundering at our door by now.”
“Then where do you think she has gone? Does she have other friends in Paris?”
“I have no idea. It should be rather obvious I didn’t know the woman that well. But Crecy’s men are searching the vicinity of the Palais-Royal. I told Marcellus to do nothing more until he hears from me.”
Sinclair nodded. He shifted upon the chair as though seeking a more comfortable position. Belle did not miss the way he flinched, one hand going surreptitiously toward his ribs. Despite her lingering anger with him, she could not help feeling a stab of remorse and empathy. He had taken the devil of a beating last night with no chance to rest and recover.
Silently she pushed her cup of tea across the table to him. He flashed a grateful look, but said, “No, thank you, Angel, I am not that close to death’s door as to be drinking that.”
“I’d offer you something stronger, but there’s not much here. Thinking that we would be gone, I told Paulette to clear most everything out.”
The mention of the woman’s name brought them back to the problem.
“So what do we do now?” Sinclair asked. “I gather you learned nothing of any use at Madame Margot’s?”
“Only that she will never let an Englishman cross her threshold again,” Belle said, forcing down a swallow of the tea. “Nor any soldiers or men with?—”
She broke off, startled by the recollection of some of the elderly woman’s meanderings. Had her mind simply been too numb at the time to take heed, or was she reading too much significance into a certain fact now?
“Men with scars,” Belle mused aloud.
“What was that?” Sinclair asked.
“Madame Margot. She said something about a man with a scar lurking in her parlor.”
Some of Sinclair’s fatigue appeared to be forgotten. “Lazare?” he asked eagerly.
“Lazare is certainly not the only man with a scar to be found in Paris, yet he did leave the meeting shortly after you did.” Belle frowned. “But it makes no sense. Why would Lazare be there?I cannot believe he had anything to do with Paulette’s business. He hates Bonaparte far too much to have had a hand in that.”
“That may be true, but I have had my suspicions of Lazare all along,” Sinclair said. “I never mentioned it last night, but I am almost certain those two who attacked me were the same men who nearly ran me down in the street. I think they were paid to do so.”
“By Lazare?”
“I don’t know, but I would wager my last farthing that he knows more about what went on in that brothel last night than anyone else does.”
Belle shoved to her feet, her resolution returning. “Then perhaps it is time he shared that information with us.”
Sinclair also stood, a steely look of anticipation in his eyes. “I shall be only too happy to flush the rat down from his garret for questioning.”
Belle scowled, moving to intercept his retreat from the kitchen. The last thing she wished for was any more brawling. But Sinclair seemed to bear no more sense than most men in that regard.
