Page 83 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
As for Lazare? Who ever knew what went on in the dark corners of his mind? Likely his reasons were just the opposite of Baptiste’s—the hope that Bonaparte’s removal would bring back the return of violence and turmoil.
And her own motives? Belle wondered as she slowly refolded the diagrams and the map. She hardly understood her own determination. Perhaps Sinclair was partly right when he had accused her of doing it for Jean-Claude, upending the world to turn back time for one man.
But how far did she wish for Jean-Claude’s future to concern herself—of that she was no longer certain. Time was not so easily turned back for her. In the interval there had been Sinclair.
Belle harbored no doubt of Sinclair’s reluctance to go ahead with this scheme, his opinions of their chance of success. Why, then, was he going through with it? Did it have anything to do with the words he had whispered to her yesterday?I have fallenin love with you.
What joy such words were supposed to bring to a woman, not the almost bittersweet ache they had brought to her, a mingling of fear and guilt. It might well have been different, if she had never known Jean-Claude, if she had ever learned to know her own heart. A most strange realization, she mused, to be having at this time of her life.
She was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of the clock upon the mantel chiming out the hour.
“Midnight already?” Crecy said, also bestirring himself. “I wonder what has become of Monsieur Carrington and Lazare?They certainly are nonchalant about this business. I wish I possessed such sangfroid.”
“I was beginning to wonder about them myself,” Belle said. She did not wish Sinclair to think she was trailing after him, controlling his every movement as though she were indeed a possessive wife. But the meeting did seem to have broken up.
Sinclair had been in a strange humor all day, moody, most unlike himself. She knew that he did not want to go ahead with the abduction, but she was beginning to feel that his reluctance was owing to something more than misplaced gallantry, his concern for her. Yet what other motive could he possibly have?
She shoved herself up abruptly from the desk. Excusing herself, she went to find Sinclair. After the quiet of the study it took her senses a moment to adjust to the glitter and noise of the gaming salon.
It seemed strange. While they had been behind that oak door, planning such a dramatic event, one that could change the entire course of France—perhaps the world—Crecy’s establishment had gone on heedlessly. Belle wondered if that was true with most earth-shattering moments in history. The bulk of mankind simply went on with their lives. To those here tonight, nothing seemed more important than the numbers on the dice or the flick of the next card. But this world appeared to have gone on without Sinclair. He was nowhere to be seen.
Belle summoned the servant who had taken their cloaks. She found him lingering in conversation with the doorman, behavior that would have earned them both a sharp rebuke from Crecy. She asked, “Have you seen a tall, dark, good-looking gentleman? The one I came in with?”
“Monsieur Carrington?Oui, madame,” the servant relied. “He left some time ago.”
Left? The information startled her. Sinclair had said nothing about venturing off the premises.
“Did he happen to mention where he was going?”
The servant exchanged an embarrassed glance with the doorman. The doorman cleared his throat. “I am sure madame’s husband will return soon. If you wish to leave, I can summon you a cabriolet, or I am sure that Monsieur Crecy will have his own carriage fetched round for you.”
Belle fixed the man with a cool stare. “Where has my husband gone?”
He tried to bluster his way out of it, but he quailed before her haughty gaze. “Well, he did ask the directions to Number 32.”
Belle frowned. The address meant nothing to her. Where in blazes had Sinclair slipped off to which would cause these two men to squirm so? A suspicion occurred to her when she thought of one of the chief businesses of the Palais-Royal besides gaming.
“What sort of establishment is at Number 32?” she asked.
Their continued reluctance to answer confirmed Belle’s suspicion. “It’s a brothel, is it not?”
“Ah, madame!” The doorman reddened with acute discomfort.
Belle heaved an impatient sigh with all this male subterfuge. She commanded a servant to bring her cloak.
The doorman mopped his brow with relief. “And I will see to obtaining a coach for madame.”
“I don’t need a coach,” Belle said, swirling a cloak about her shoulders. “Just the directions to Number 32.”
“It is at the end of the lower arcade-but, madame!” The doorman looked aghast. “You cannot think of going there.”
“I am not just thinking of it.” Belle gave him a taut smile. “I fully intend to do so.”
Over his protests she stalked out into the night air. The cool breeze did nothing to ease the hot flood of anger and confusion coursing into her cheeks. She could think of no reason Sinclairshould have wandered off to a brothel—none but the most obvious.
Her judgment rejected this solution almost immediately. For all his pose of being a rake, such behavior seemed most unlike the Sinclair she knew, the Sinclair who had held her in his arms, told her he loved her.
Yet what do you know of him? A voice inside her jeered, a voice that sounded remarkably like Lazare’s.He has a habit of disappearing, our Mr. Carrington. Where do you suppose he goes?
