Page 23

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 to present 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.”

Baptiste grinned. At last disengaging himself from Belle, he stepped forward. “Forgive me, monsieur. I forget myself. You must blame it on my excitement at seeing Isabelle again.” He offered Sinclair his hand, his skin as dry and thin as the fan parchment, but his grip surprisingly strong.

“A pleasure to meet you at last, Monsieur Renault.” Sinclair addressed the Frenchman in his native tongue.

Baptiste studied him, and Sinclair had the uncomfortable sensation of being sized up at a glance. He could not tell what the man’s verdict was, but he nodded toward Belle, saying, “He speaks passable French for an Englishman.”

“ Merci du compliment , monsieur,” Sinclair said wryly.

He returned Baptiste’s stare, attempting to do a little sizing of his own.

The genial little Frenchman looked neither ruthless nor daring enough to be any sort of spy, let alone one playing a dangerous game of double dealing.

Yet Sinclair would not have dismissed Baptiste as a suspect by his appearance alone.

The chief thing that seemed to disqualify Renault was that according to Belle, the fan maker rarely ever strayed far from Paris.

If he were passing information about the English coastline to Napoleon, he would have to have an accomplice.

Sinclair’s gaze strayed to Belle, her apparent closeness to Renault giving rise to all manner of unpleasant thoughts.

He was glad to relinquish them for the time being as Baptiste clapped his hands together briskly and said, “ Bien, so it appears the three of us will have much to discuss, but not here, not now. You are tired from the journey, yes? I will show you upstairs. Come along, then.”

The steps were narrow, poorly lit, and of such an alpine steepness that Belle and Sinclair moved cautiously for fear of a misstep. They were quickly outstripped by Baptiste, apparently well accustomed to the climb. His stream of chatter floated back down to them.

“I still live in the rooms behind the fan shop. Madame Fontaine’s place, the apartment you will have, takes up the second and third floor. These stairs can be reached through the fan shop or the outer door, which has a porter on duty. He is a good fellow and will run errands for you.”

Baptiste paused before an oak door on the first landing, fumbling through a ring of heavy keys attached to the belt beneath his apron. The steps twisted at a sharp angle, continuing upward to the next floor.

“Is anyone living in the apartments above us?” Belle asked.

“A retired shoemaker and his wife.” Baptiste clucked his tongue in disgust as he tried first one key, then another. “But you need not worry about them. They keep to themselves. They will take no heed of your comings and goings.”

“And the garrets?”

“At the moment empty. When Merchant wrote to say that he was also sending along Lazare—” Baptiste fairly spat the name. “I assumed that you would not wish him sharing your quarters, I thought that the garret would do well enough for the likes of him.”

“I can see that you are a gentleman of great discernment, Monsieur Renault,” Sinclair said.

Baptiste flashed him a grin, then grunted with satisfaction as he found the right key at last. Turning the knob, he shoved the door open, bowing Belle and Sinclair past him with a sweeping gesture.

As soon as Belle stepped across the threshold, she was beset by a cold draft and that musty smell of rooms left too long closed.

She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered—not so much from the chill in the air, but a shiver of reminiscence as she studied her surroundings.

The actress Mademoiselle Fontaine’s apartment held all the garish glitter of a stage set with its high ceilings and neo-Greek cornices.

The crystal chandelier would have appeared too ostentatious for a king’s palace, let alone an apartment.

The outer room was a combination antechamber and dining room, the walls hung with Indian cloth, the scattered chairs covered in crimson corded silk of Tours.