Page 31

“Which is a great deal more than I do,” Sinclair mumbled, picking up his own pace as he trailed Lazare down yet another street, then through a series of alleyways and murky lanes, the buildings about him growing increasingly more dingy, the high walls of plaster cracked and flaking.

Picking his way past piles of refuse, Sinclair struggled to avoid the torrents of rainwater pouring down from open gutter spouts.

He judged he had been skulking after Lazare for more than half an hour when the Frenchman finally slowed his steps on one of the less frequented streets of the city.

Many of the houses on the narrow roadway sported broken or boarded-over windows.

Only one shop appeared to be in operation, a confectioner’s, whose sign creaked on its pole, the letters barely legible.

Lazare paused on the doorstep of this establishment.

“Wouldn’t that be a glorious end to your career, Carrington?” Sinclair thought. “Dying of pneumonia from trailing a man with nothing more sinister on his mind than a craving for chocolates.”

Still he watched from the opposite side of the street.

Lazare made no move to enter the shop, merely drawing back into the shelter of the doorway as though he were waiting for something.

To appear less conspicuous, Sinclair adjusted his umbrella lower over his face and pretended he was making a purchase from one of the street hawkers—an elderly peasant selling kindling wood, Sinclair noted with grim humor.

These little men seemed to be found on nearly every street corner in Paris. So much for his landmark.

The minutes ticked by and Lazare continued to slouch in the doorway.

Sinclair began to feel as though he’d come on a fool’s errand.

He would have to move along in a moment or run the risk of attracting Lazare’s attention.

And how he would ever find his way back to the Rue St. Honoré, Sinclair did not know.

But all such concerns were swept aside as Lazare stiffened to attention. A cabriolet drew to a halt in front of the shop, pausing only long enough to deposit a gentleman garbed in black before the vehicle trundled on its way.

Sinclair abandoned caution as he strained to have a better look at the slender man approaching Lazare. He could not remark the man’s face, the stranger’s hat was pulled too low, the collar of his cape too high, but something about the fellow struck Sinclair as being elusively familiar.

Lazare stepped forward. The two men greeted each other, although no move was made to clasp hands.

Lazare appeared his usual insolent self, but it was obvious the stranger was nervous, all his movements furtive He started to gesture toward something, but to Sinclair’s frustration, a slow-moving diligence lumbered up the street, cutting the two men off from his view.

The outside passengers clung to the top of the stage, looking as miserable as Sinclair felt. He waited impatiently for the heavy vehicle to rattle on past.

Lazare and the stranger had vanished. Sinclair, however, did not feel unduly concerned. There was only one place they could have disappeared to that quickly—within the confectioner’s shop.

Hesitating for only a moment, Sinclair slogged his way across the street and cautiously approached the shop. Sheltering deep beneath his umbrella, he risked a glance through the dirty latticed pane. Except for a slatternly woman behind the counter, the shop was empty.

But that was impossible. The stage had blocked Lazare from his view for but a moment. There was nowhere else the two men could have gone but inside.

Tired, chilled to the bone and tormented by the feeling that he was close to discovering something, Sinclair decided to take a grave risk. Closing his umbrella, he turned the knob and boldly entered the confectioner’s shop himself.

The shop bell tinkled dismally. The silence of the narrow wooden room seemed thickened by dust. The establishment appeared as though it had been untroubled by customers for months, let alone being used for a rendezvous by a Napoleonic spy. Even the proprietress bore a most laconic expression.

She roused herself enough to wipe her hands on her grimy apron and say, “Good day, monsieur. And how may I serve you on such a cold, damp afternoon?”

“It is that, indeed,” Sinclair said, rubbing his hands briskly and flashing his most charming smile. The woman was as impervious to it as if she had been blind. She clearly waited for him to make his selection and leave her in peace.

Feigning an interest in the shop’s wares, Sinclair studied the rows of marzipan, chocolates, mushrooms of sugar, and multicolored sugar almonds.

Even with his sweet tooth, none of the confections displayed in the midst of such filth tempted him, but he took his time selecting some marzipan, giving himself an excuse to linger.

His gaze tracked toward a curtained door at the rear of the shop.

“This foul weather appears to be keeping your customers away,” he remarked to the woman.

“That’s right,” she said as she wrapped up his purchase. “Haven’t seen nary another soul all day.”

“How strange. I thought I saw two gentlemen precede me into the shop.” Sinclair studied the woman’s dull eyes carefully.

She did not flick so much as an eyelash as she replied, “Alas, I wish it were so, monsieur. I shall be a pauper at this rate.”

With a taut smile she accepted Sinclair’s money and handed him his purchase. Sinclair accepted it and nodded graciously. Perhaps he had made a mistake. But if Lazare had not ducked in here, it was obvious Sinclair had lost him. There was nothing for him to do but try to retrace his steps.

In the corridor behind the curtained door, Lazare heard the bell’s chime as Sinclair left the shop. After a pause the proprietress thrust her head past the curtain to announce, “He’s gone, monsieur.”

“So I heard, madame.”

“Another of your creditors, Monsieur Lazare?”

“Just so, madame.”

“Well, I didn’t let on you’d come in.”

“For which I am most grateful, madame.” Lazare forced an ingratiating smile.

The proprietress shrugged. “As long as you pay me the rent for the rooms upstairs, your other debts are nothing to me.” With that she lowered the curtain, retreating back into the shop.

Lazare turned toward the flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above, his smile fading into a savage frown.

Of course the old bitch would get her rent money, as long as it suited him.

Even though he was ostensibly living in the garrets above Baptiste’s fan shop, he had need of these rooms here, far from Isabelle’s observant eye, a convenient place to receive a certain visitor she must know nothing about for the present.

As for Sinclair Carrington, the Englishman was becoming a damned nuisance. If Lazare had not happened to spot him across the street, Carrington might have discovered far too much about Lazare’s secret dealings.

For his vengeance to be complete, Lazare needed Belle alive until the end of this affair.

But Carrington was another matter. The next time the English dog was so unwise as to go traipsing alone through the city streets, it might be well that he meet with an accident.

Paris could prove to be a very dangerous city.

With this pleasing thought, some of the tension in Lazare’s shoulders relaxed. He started up the stairs, but before he could reach his room, a slender figure melted out of the shadows, regarding Lazare through worried eyes.

“Is anything wrong, monsieur?”

Lazare raked a contemptuous glance over the nervous figure of his guest.

“No, not at all.” Lazare’s teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. “Nothing that I cannot take care of, Monsieur Varens.”