Page 57

It took some doing to locate the shop, but from bits and pieces of what Sinclair remembered, Belle managed to guess at the address. They retraced the route he had taken the day he had followed Lazare, arriving at last to the narrow street with its tumbledown buildings.

“This is it,” Sinclair said, glancing up at the rusted signpost.

“It appears to be closed.” Belle tried the door and peered through the grimy window into the empty shop.

“That should prove no problem.” Sinclair gave a furtive glance about him. The street was nearly empty of pedestrians, those who did pass by looking far too occupied with their own affairs to pay much heed. “Have you got a hairpin?”

Although Belle was astonished by the request, she groped beneath her poke-front bonnet and produced the requested article.

“Stand in front of me to cover my movements,” Sinclair said. Belle did as he asked. In a matter of minutes he had picked the lock.

“Is that something you learned at Eton, Mr. Carrington?” she could not refrain from asking.

“Good lord, no. The only thing of practical value I learned there was how to wield a cricket bat.” He grinned at her and she could not help giving him a half-smile. It was the closest to their usual banter as they had come since his grim confession.

Even that slight relieving of tension seemed to help as they crept cautiously into the shop.

“I hope we are not caught,” Belle murmured. “I would find it rather ironic to end my career being charged with stealing sweetmeats.”

“Believe me, Angel,” he whispered back, closing the door behind them, “no one would steal this shop’s wares. Vilest marchpane I have ever tasted.”

Sinclair indicated a curtained doorway behind the counter. “I believe Lazare must have disappeared through there that day. He met someone that I almost mistook to be—” He broke off, casting an easy sidewise glance at her.

“To be who?” she prompted.

“No one of importance. Come on.”

Belle had the feeling that was not what Sinclair had intended to say, but she had no chance to question him, exerting herself to keep up with his long strides.

Cautiously Sinclair led the way past the curtain. A pair of rickety stairs wound upward to a landing above. They climbed up them stealthily to find a solitary door at the top.

Belle started to knock, but Sinclair stayed her hand. “If Lazare does happen to be out for my blood,” Sinclair said, “I would just as soon not announce our arrival.”

Grasping the hairpin, he set to work on the lock and soon set the door to creaking open. Belle tensed, catching her breath, but she peered past Sinclair’s shoulder into an empty room.

“This may not even be Lazare’s room,” she started to say, then stopped as she recognized Lazare’s trunk shoved against one chipped plaster wall, the familiar battered portmanteau held closed with a length of thick rope.

The room showed signs of recent habitation. Two dusty glasses along with a bottle drained to the dregs stood propped on an upended crate. The fireplace held a thick coating of ashes.

Sinclair’s interest fixed itself upon the trunk. Striding forward, he struggled to remove the rope and began to paw through the contents. It appeared to be nothing more than Lazare’s clothing.

“What do you expect to find?” Belle demanded.

“I don’t exactly know.”

She watched him for a moment, beginning to feel that this was all but another waste of time. Noting another door, she said, “Well, I suppose I can at least see what is in there.”

“Just be careful, Angel,” Sinclair replied.

As she slipped through the door, Sinclair tapped the lid of the trunk. It had a strangely hollow sound. Using his pocket knife, he began to pick at the wood. It splintered easily, revealing a compartment behind.

Excitedly, he slipped his hand inside and drew out a packet of papers. Straightening, he carried them over to one of the apartment’s narrow windows, taking advantage of what meager light filtered past the filthy panes.

The first document appeared to be some sort of communication Lazare had been in the process of writing to Merchant.

“When you read this, you will know your orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of Carrington. Tonight will see the finish of the rest of it. Isabelle Varens …”

As Sinclair scanned down the rest of the page, he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.

“Angel, I found something you had better look at right now. Belle?”

From within the next room Belle groped through the near darkness of what she guessed to be a bedchamber. The heavy curtains had been pulled so tightly closed as to render the room but a mass of shadows.

Banging into the end of the iron bedstead Belle moved carefully toward the window. The curtains smelled of mildew and damp. When she flung them back, a flood of dim gray light entered the room. Turning, she prepared to better examine her surroundings, her gaze focusing upon the bed.

She let out a strangled gasp. A woman lay upon the bare mattress, her dark curls tumbled over the pillow. She fixed Belle with a vacant glassy-eyed stare, a bright slash of red about her neck.

But it was not Paulette’s familiar red ribbon. It was blood.

Dimly Belle was aware of Sinclair calling her name from the other room but she could not seem to avert her gaze from Paulette. The French woman’s features were frozen in a waxen image of horror. Involuntarily Belle’s hand crept to her own throat.

Steeling herself, she stepped closer. There was no doubt that Paulette was dead. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear.

Lazare’s signature, Belle thought grimly. Staring down at the woman who would have betrayed them all, Belle supposed she should have felt a righteous satisfaction. But after her initial horror, she experienced nothing but pity. Poor foolish, greedy Paulette.

Sinclair’s voice came more insistently. “Belle? Are you all right in there?”

She slowly pulled the sheet over Paulette’s face. Then she turned to rejoin Sinclair.

He stood just inside the door, frowning as he perused a document in his hand. He did not see the shadow that stealthily slipped into the room, creeping up behind him.

“Sinclair?” Belle cried. “Look out. Behind you!”

Her warning cry came too late. Sinclair turned, but not in time to escape the full force of Lazare’s cudgel crashing down on his head.