Page 72 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
He shrugged, tossing the last of his bread down to the ducks. “My father was not exactly the sort of man to spend money on a grand tour.”
“No, doubtless he was not,” she agreed. Sinclair had never said, but Belle retained the comforting feeling that Sinclair’s background was not so different from her own. Like herself, he was an adventurer who had never known wealth, rank, or respectability. There was not that social gap between them that had existed between herself and Jean-Claude. It was what made their relationship so much more comfortable.
Sinclair pointed to a distant spire across the river. “Is that Notre Dame?”
“It is.” But when she saw the eager look cross his features, she said, “Oh, no. I have no intention of trudging all the way across the Pont Neuf to tour Notre Dame. You would bequite disappointed anyway. The cathedral was damaged during the Revolution, and I understand the repairs have not been completed.”
“Don’t distress yourself, Angel:” He favored her with a lazy grin. “Touring churches is not exactly my style, either. I am content to admire thegrandeDame from a distance. But what are those ugly towers there in the foreground?”
Belle squinted toward four conical-shaped towers, grim and forbiddingly cast in stone.
“The Conciergerie,” she said softly, looking quickly away.
Sinclair frowned. Gripping her by the elbow, he began to lead her in the opposite direction.
“The sight of it doesn’t upset me that much,” she assured him. “There is no need to run away.”
“No, we have more a need to act casual,” Sinclair said, slowing the pace. “I think we are being followed.”
Belle suppressed a startled exclamation, the immediate desire to whip around and look. “Who?”
“The man in the gray. Just over there by that last bookseller’s stall. He—” Sinclair broke off. He had been in the act of taking a cautious look behind him when he froze.
Belle also stole a peek. The man in gray was making no attempt to hide the fact that he was coming after them. As he drew closer, he called her name. “Isabelle.”
Jean-Claude. Although her eyes widened with incredulity, her heart didn’t do its usual patter at the sight of him. She felt the tension cording her muscles. Scarce knowing what to expect, she waited while he caught up to them.
“Monsieur le Comte,” Sinclair said, a hard edge in his voice. “We meet yet again. They tell me Paris is one of the largest cities in the world, but I am beginning to doubt it. The place has begun to seem too infernally small.”
His face rigid with dignity, Jean-Claude looked through Sinclair. He fixed his attention upon Belle.
“I have been following you ever since you left the military review,” Jean-Claude admitted. “I have been waiting, hoping for a chance. Isabelle, I must speak to you.”
“Of—of course,” Belle stammered, taken completely aback. After Jean-Claude’s behavior at the reception, that he would seek her out again was the last thing she would have expected.
“Speak to you alone,” he added pointedly. He glanced hesitantly toward Sinclair as though seeking his permission and despising himself for doing so.
“That would be entirely up to Belle,” Sinclair said coldly.
Belle found herself in the awkward position of being stared at by two pairs of masculine eyes, both of them questioning, both of them hostile. But even if other ages-old feelings were not stirred in her by Jean-Claude, curiosity alone would have won out.
She placed her hand upon Sinclair’s arm. “Sinclair, if you truly would not mind?—”
“I can manage to amuse myself.” But he took the sting from his harsh answer with an intent look. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”
She understood what he was trying to convey and flashed him a grateful smile. As Sinclair stalked away, Belle turned expectantly toward Jean-Claude.
“Perhaps we could walk out on the bridge,” he said. “Sit on one of the benches.”
She nodded in agreement, further astounded when he offered her his arm. After a moment’s hesitation she took it.
Sinclair watched their retreat from his vantage point by one of the bookseller’s stalls. He noted the stiffness of Jean-Claude’s gesture, but it was a gesture toward Belle all the same.
Sinclair felt the beginnings of that familiar hollow ache. He had once told Belle he did not mind her memories of Jean-Claude. He could live with them.
“It seems that I lied, Angel,” he murmured. “I do mind. I mind like hell.”
When he had said that, he had not yet known he was in love with Isabelle Varens. Yes, in love, he admitted at last. But it was the devil of a time to realize that as Belle vanished on the arm of Jean-Claude.
