Page 36 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“A bad one?”
“No, merely one I’m not prepared to deal with,” she admitted frankly. “I am taking enough risks on this mission without hazarding anymore.”
She tried to meet his gaze levelly, but looking into Sinclair’s eyes could be as dangerous as touching him. She was quick to turn the subject.
“We should hardly stand here on the steps all day. They are accustomed to more curious sights here in Paris, but I fear eventually people will begin to stare. Come inside and meet Baptiste Renault, my one true friend in Paris.”
Sinclair sketched an elaborate bow and opened the door for her, motioning her forward. As she passed beneath the portal, he gazed down at the top of her head, the soft blond curls haloing her perfect features. He felt as though he and Belle had at last reached some sort of an understanding, but the final line was the same. She had rejected him again.
He was not so conceited as to believe that every woman would fall at his feet. He had met with his share of rebuffs, butthey had never mattered. He had simply moved on to find a more interestedpartie.
He could not possibly be yearning for a woman he had heard cry out in her sleep for another man, a woman who might be the very spy he had been sent to betray. He could not be that big of a fool, could he? Sinclair refused to answer that question, refused to examine his own feelings any further. Like Belle, there were some risks he was not prepared to take.
Realizing that while he had been consumed with such troubling thoughts Belle had already vanished into the shop, he followed her inside, closing the door behind him.
The interior would have been dark, the towering houses across the narrow street cutting off much of the sunlight, had it not been for the glow of dozens of candles. Looking about him, Sinclair realized he had stepped into a sort of workshop, the smell of glue and parchment heavy in the air. Four rough-hewn tables were covered with fans in varying stages of completion, some of the parchment newly stretched out on half circle hoops while others lay complete, spread out to dry.
Sinclair had never paid much heed to ladies’ fripperies before. But he knew enough to recognize first-rate craftsmanship. Handles of wood, ivory, or mother-of-pearl were carved with an intricate delicacy. The classical scenes depicted upon the leaves of silk were miniature works of art.
The workroom was a hive of quiet activity. Several women were painting fans with fairylike strokes; a young man was busy with the stretching, while an older man deftly wielded a shaving iron upon a piece of tortoiseshell.
When Sinclair and Belle entered, the work abruptly ceased, curious eyes turning in their direction. Sinclair waited to take his cue from Belle, but she was silent, her attention focused on the older man.
This individual got slowly to his feet, and Sinclair was startled to see how short he was, a regular gnome, scarce coming up to Belle’s shoulder. The craftsman’s features even seemed elflike, the bulbous nose too large for his florid face, the chin pointed, the salt and pepper hair straggling over his forehead.
He regarded Belle calmly through eyes of chocolate brown possessing the twinkle of youth, although the pockets of lined flesh beneath them spoke more of the wisdom of age.
“Bonjour, madame, monsieur,” he said. “And how may I serve you? I usually do not require beautiful ladies to come into my workshop. I would be happy to display my wares in the convenience of your home.”
“No. I have not come about a fan.” Belle’s voice sounded odd to Sinclair, strangely suppressed. He noticed a gleam in her eye as she continued, “We are Monsieur and Madame Carrington. We have come about the apartment to let above stairs.”
“But of course.” The gnome bowed, rubbing his hands together. “Please to come this way.” He motioned Belle and Sinclair toward a doorway at the side of the shop. Pausing only long enough to glance back at his workers and command, “Back to work,mes amis.Vite, vite!” He slipped through the door, moving with a light spring to his step.
Sinclair allowed Belle to precede him, concealing a slight frown. This was not precisely what he had been expecting, but Belle appeared unperturbed. Doubtless her friend Baptiste awaited them upstairs.
The little man led them into a small foyer, from which a narrow flight of stairs yawned upward, The gnome spoke in a loud voice, clearly meant to carry back to the workroom. “I am sure you will find the apartment most satisfactory, Madame Carrington. It belongs to a charming actress, Mademoiselle Fontaine, and her lover, but she likes to have the lodgings sublet when she is touring in the provinces.”
His voice died away. As soon as the connecting door to the workshop was closed, the man underwent a startling change. He no longer faced Belle with that obsequious deference. His face broke into a crooked smile which infused his ugly countenance with an unexpected charm.
“So,mon ange,” he said, stretching out his hands to Belle. “You have come back to Paris at last!”
“Baptiste.” Her voice was filled with warmth as she stepped forward, flinging her arms about the gnome’s neck. Watching the two of them embrace, Sinclair blinked, trying to assimilate the fact that this droll little man was the agent Baptiste Renault, whose aid he and Belle had come to seek.
Mentally he reviewed all the information he had managed to glean about Renault thus far. He and Belle had apparently worked together during the Revolution, smuggling dozens of people proscribed out of Paris. Although he had been arrested once, somehow Baptiste had managed to be one of those few who had survived all the twists and turns, the changes in government that marked the Revolution.
And Sinclair knew one thing more. This was the man Belle had described as her one true friend in Paris. Watching her as she returned Baptiste’s fierce hug, Sinclair thought he had never seen Belle relax her guard so much, for one moment looking radiant, unreservedly happy. He felt a twinge of envy that this Baptiste could inspire such an expression upon Belle’s face. But Sinclair immediately brought himself up short. He was indeed in a bad way if he was starting to feel jealous even of this older odd-looking man.
When their enthusiastic greeting showed no sign of abatement, Sinclair coughed discreetly to remind them of his presence.
Belle swung around to face him, her eyes still glowing, Baptiste’s arm entwined about her waist. “Sinclair, allow me topresent to you, Baptiste Renault, the most skilled fan maker in all of Paris.”
“The world,mon ange,” Baptiste interrupted.
“And the most modest. Baptiste, this is Sinclair Carrington, Victor’s recent recruit” Smiling at Sinclair in slightly mocking fashion, she added, “And for the moment my husband.”
“Ah, a role for which I envy him.” Baptiste sighed. “Having adored you these many years.”
“Bah, you smooth-tongued rogue. You never adored aught but your precious fans and your horrid Paris.”
