Page 102 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Putting her arms about him, she cradled his head against her. “Hush. Hush, my dear. You failed only because you are a gentle man, far too gentle for the madness of this world.”
Soothing him as though he were a child, she calmed him again. By the time she had managed to restore some measure of his dignity, she felt ready to drop with exhaustion.
“What shall we do now, Isabelle?” he asked at last, looking up at her.
“Crecy will help us to flee Paris—” she began.
“I don’t mean that. I mean afterward. I feel so lost, now, without a purpose. How shall I continue on with my life?”
“I don’t know,” Belle said, drawing away, unable to offer him any further comfort. The dramatic events of the past few days were beginning at last to take their toll upon her. She felt so drained.
“Is there any hope that you and I?—”
“Please, Jean-Claude,” she said wearily. “I can give no thought to the future just now. I am so tired.”
“Of course. I am an inconsiderate fool.” He managed to rise to his feet. “You too must rest.”
Belle nodded. She wanted nothing more than to seek out Sinclair, but she feared he might be angry with her for remaining with Jean-Claude. She bore not the strength to deal with that just now. Allowing Jean-Claude to lead her to the bed, Belle collapsed onto it. He drew the coverlet over her.
“I should go. It is not proper for me to be here like this with you. Since we are no longer married.”
His words caused a ripple of genuine amusement to course through her, an amusement, she thought with a pang, that only the irreverent Mr. Carrington could have appreciated.
“Do as you think best,” she mumbled to Jean-Claude, burrowing her head beneath the covers.
Drawnup to the table in the parlor, Crecy and Baptiste plotted the details of smuggling Sinclair and Jean-Claude out of Paris. Moodily, Sinclair stared out the window, wishing he could be gone now. It was raining again. Belle was right. It was forever raining in this bloody city.
“We shall keep to the original plan,” Crecy said. “The route through the Rouvray Forest. Instead of Bonaparte hidden in the false compartment beneath the seat, we shall have Monsieur Varens. Sinclair can disguise himself as a postilion, and Isabelle we shall garb as a boy. She makes a most attractive youth. At the crossroads I will have my men meet you with fresh horses.”
Baptiste nodded, frowning slightly. “My only concern is that Lazare also knew of this plan.”
“Bah!” Crecy snorted. “We have seen the last of that villain. You may be sure he is miles from Paris by now. He ever had a knack for preserving his own skin.”
“That is true.” Baptiste looked reassured. He turned to Sinclair. “You approve of this plan, monsieur?”
“It sounds fine to me,” Sinclair said with little interest. He hardly noticed when the two men left the salon to alert Crecy’s staff as to the time of the upcoming departure.
Sinclair tried to think no longer of what might be passing between Belle and Jean-Claude in that bedchamber. It seemed a long time before anyone emerged, and then it was the comte.
He still looked worn, but his features were composed. What soothing words had Belle uttered, what promises had she made to restore Jean-Claude? It tormented Sinclair to imagine the scene.
“Isabelle is resting,” Varens said. “She is exhausted.”
I daresay she would be after pouring out all her strength into you. But Sinclair choked back the sneering words.
He kept facing the window, hoping Varens would possess the sense to leave him alone, but it seemed the comte had a short supply of that commodity.
Varens spoke slowly, as though he had no wish to address Sinclair, but felt compelled. “I needs must express my thanks, monsieur, for your rescue of Isabelle.”
The Frenchman spoke as though she belonged to him. Perhaps that was the harsh truth Sinclair had to face. She did, always had and always would.
“Your thanks are unnecessary,” he snapped. “She didn’t need to be rescued.”
“The fact remains that while I lay helpless, you hazarded your life to see that she was safe.”
“I still don’t want your thanks,” Sinclair said. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“I am aware of that,” Jean-Claude said stiffly. “You must at least accept my gratitude for what you did for me at the theater. I would be a dead man now but for you.”
