Page 12 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Sorry to crowd you,” he said. “These settles are so narrow.”
“There is a good six inches of space on the other side of you, Mt. Carrington.”
“But there is a loose nail in that comer.” His eyes twinkled. “You would not want me to tear a hole in the seat of my—um—coat.”
Belle compressed her lips, but decided it would be best to ignore him, as much as one could ignore that much masculinity pressed against one’s side. Giving all of her attention to Mr. Crawley, she fidgeted in her seat.
Crawley typically selected the most straight-backed uncomfortable chair he could find. He drew it over to the hearth and sat down, pulling a worn leather-bound ledger from beneath his greatcoat. The title was inked in neat gold letters.
The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Relics.
Belle pulled a face. Crawley and his infernal mania for keeping up the appearance of being involved in legitimate business!
Mr. Crawley cleared his throat. “When you were fetching your brandy, Mr. Carrington, I was just on the point of informing Mrs. Varens that you are to be her partner in her next venture.”
“What!” Belle sat bolt upright. She turned to look at Sinclair. Although his smile was bland, there was no mistaking the devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Out of the question!” she snapped.
When she saw Crawley start to bridle, she hastened to add, “Meaning no insult to Mr. Carrington, but I have always selected my own cohorts.”
“Not this time,” Crawley said. “It is Mr. Merchant’s particular wish that you work with Mr. Carrington.”
“Mr. Merchant must leave the choice to me as he has always done.” Belle expected Sinclair to jump into the middle of this quarrel, but he appeared content to lean back, sipping his brandy. All the same she had the impression he was merely biding his time.
Crawley puffed up his thin chest, the prelude to delivering a lecture. “Mr. Merchant is not likely to tolerate much more of your insubordination, Mrs. Varens. You will find yourself without employment if you continue in this manner.”
“Perhaps I would be glad. I never intended to follow this line of work forever.”
“So you have told me many times, madam. But your retirement may come sooner than you desire if you anger Mr. Merchant. He was not at all pleased with what took place on your last assignment. You must not expect to be paid for the consignment you brought back from France.”
The man’s dry description of the unfortunate Coterin family only added to Belle’s irritation. “I don’t expect so much as a damned shilling.”
“An attitude you can scarce afford,” Crawley said. “You are a lady of expensive tastes?—”
“If my bills worry you so, Quentin, I shall have my dressmaker send the reckoning to you next time.”
“That should give him and Mrs. Crawley something interesting to talk about on a long winter’s eve,” Sinclair drawled.
Despite how annoyed she was, Sinclair’s unexpected comment surprised a laugh from Belle. Crawley went scarlet.
“Mr. Carrington! I have enough difficulty with Mrs. Varens’s unseemly humor as it is. She needs no encouragement from you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Sinclair said.
His intervention had helped Belle to check her rising temper. When she glanced at him, he winked back, and for a brief moment she felt a sense of kinship with him, as though they stood together in conspiracy against the officious Quentin Crawley.
“What’s past is past,” Belle said to Crawley in milder tones. “So what is this next assignment that Merchant believes I need Mr. Carrington’s talents to accomplish?”
“That will be revealed to you by Mr. Merchant himself this evening.”
“Victor Merchant is here in Portsmouth?” Belle asked. When Crawley nodded, she struggled to absorb this startling information. Merchant never came down from London. In the three years she had worked for the society, she had rarely met the Frenchman face to face. Always he had employed Quentin Crawley as his go-between. What was afoot that required the presence of Merchant himself?
“You and Mr. Carrington will meet with Mr. Merchant at the Maison Mal du Coeur. It is a mansion up the coast from?—”
“I know where it is,” Belle said.
“Good. Then I will expect you both to be there at midnight. Take the path up from the sea and enter by way of the garden door. A lantern will be left burning for you. Please be prompt.” Crawley rose to his feet and began looking for his hat.
