Page 90 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
She need not have worried, however, about the upcoming confrontation. Lazare was not in his garret apartment. The porter furnished the information that Lazare had not returned last night.
“People have a nasty habit of disappearing in this city,” Sinclair grumbled. Belle did not have the energy to set off on another wild chase, so she persuaded Sinclair to wait awhile for Lazare’s return.
In the meantime, it occurred to her she had yet to warn Baptiste what had transpired. Again, she met with frustration. She had forgotten that after Baptiste closed up shop the night before, he had told her he meant to spend the day with an old friend.
She knew well what he meant by that. Likely Baptiste was out strolling the streets of his Paris, visiting all his old haunts as though this might be the final time. Belle prayed that it was not. Since she had no way of tracing him, she had to content herself with slipping a carefully worded note under his door, warning him not to go to the theater that night.
Then she returned upstairs to keep her vigil with Sinclair. By early afternoon their nerves were stretched wire taut.
“I can’t believe Lazare won’t be back,” Belle said. “It would not be like him to abandon the plot. He despises Bonaparte too much.”
“Well, I am going mad, simply waiting here,” Sinclair said, fairly pacing a hole in the drawing room carpet. Indeed, this inaction was making Belle nigh insane herself.
“Is there nowhere you can think of that we could find the blasted rogue?” Sinclair asked.
Belle rubbed her temples in an effort at memory. “Well, I do know Lazare does not usually stay here above the fan shop when he comes to Paris. He once mentioned other lodgings.”
Sinclair tensed “It would not happen to be above a chocolate shop, would it?”
“Yes, I think he did say something about a confectioner’s, but why?—”
“Because I have an idea where it is, if I can only find the shop again.” Sinclair tugged at her hand, dragging her after him.
It took some doing to locate the shop, but from bits and pieces of what Sinclair remembered, Belle managed to guess at the address. They retraced the route he had taken the day he had followed Lazare, arriving at last to the narrow street with its tumbledown buildings.
“This is it,” Sinclair said, glancing up at the rusted signpost.
“It appears to be closed.” Belle tried the door and peered through the grimy window into the empty shop.
“That should prove no problem.” Sinclair gave a furtive glance about him. The street was nearly empty of pedestrians, those who did pass by looking far too occupied with their own affairs to pay much heed. “Have you got a hairpin?”
Although Belle was astonished by the request, she groped beneath her poke-front bonnet and produced the requested article.
“Stand in front of me to cover my movements,” Sinclair said. Belle did as he asked. In a matter of minutes he had picked the lock.
“Is that something you learned at Eton, Mr. Carrington?” she could not refrain from asking.
“Good lord, no. The only thing of practical value I learned there was how to wield a cricket bat.” He grinned at her and she could not help giving him a half-smile. It was the closest to their usual banter as they had come since his grim confession.
Even that slight relieving of tension seemed to help as they crept cautiously into the shop.
“I hope we are not caught,” Belle murmured. “I would find it rather ironic to end my career being charged with stealing sweetmeats.”
“Believe me, Angel,” he whispered back, closing the door behind them, “no one would steal this shop’s wares. Vilest marchpane I have ever tasted.”
Sinclair indicated a curtained doorway behind the counter. “I believe Lazare must have disappeared through there that day. He met someone that I almost mistook to be—” He broke off, casting an easy sidewise glance at her.
“To be who?” she prompted.
“No one of importance. Come on.”
Belle had the feeling that was not what Sinclair had intended to say, but she had no chance to question him, exerting herself to keep up with his long strides.
Cautiously Sinclair led the way past the curtain. A pair of rickety stairs wound upward to a landing above. They climbed up them stealthily to find a solitary door at the top.
Belle started to knock, but Sinclair stayed her hand. “If Lazare does happen to be out for my blood,” Sinclair said, “I would just as soon not announce our arrival.”
Grasping the hairpin, he set to work on the lock and soon set the door to creaking open. Belle tensed, catching her breath, but she peered past Sinclair’s shoulder into an empty room.
