Page 66

Twenty

B elle remained calm in the hours following Baptiste’s death. Too calm, Sinclair feared. Crecy’s men arrived, and she had her friend wrapped in a cloak and laid inside the carriage, while making arrangements to have him transported back to the city he had so loved for his burial.

Lazare appeared all but forgotten, his cursing and sobbing finally ceased.

One of Crecy’s servants inquired what Belle wanted done with the miscreant.

She spared Lazare only a cursory glance, saying, “See him delivered to the gates of the Tuileries, with a note— A gift for the first consul, Napoleon Bonaparte. Receive one Etienne Lazare, the man who sought your life. With the compliments of the Avenging Angel.”

She never seemed to hear the way Lazare damned her to hell or his continued blustering threats of vengeance as she mounted her horse and rode away.

Sinclair had feared that Belle might have insisted on risking the return, to escort Baptiste to the city herself. But she remained content to linger amongst the straggling trees on the fringe of the Rouvray Forest, watching Crecy’s men drive the coach to the distant gates of the city.

If Belle had desired to go back into Paris, Sinclair would have found her a way. But when he asked her, she only said, “No, it is not necessary. Crecy will know what to do. Baptiste and I have ever said our farewells here at the edge of the forest.”

Shading his eyes, Sinclair could just see the coach joining the procession of other carts awaiting admittance to the gates as dawn broke over Paris, tinting the city with hues of rose and gold.

Then he, Belle, and Jean-Claude whipped their horses about, heading for the road that would take them to the coast.

Belle waxed silent most of the journey, lost in thought, her eyes dulled with sadness.

She withdrew from Varens as much as from himself, Sinclair noted.

It would have given him pain to see her turning to Jean-Claude, but Sinclair would have felt relieved to see Belle seek comfort of somebody, rather than retreat behind a wall of grief.

They caught the packet boat on the eve of the following day. Sinclair expected Belle to retire to the cabin, fighting off her customary bout of seasickness. Yet she did not seem to notice the white-capped waves as the boat rocked along the surface of the channel.

Sinclair drew near to where she stood alone, staring over the deck rail, fingering an ivory-handled fan, spreading out the leaves of silk.

Sinclair needed no identification of the delicate strokes to recognize Baptiste’s handiwork.

The old man had depicted none of the usual classical motifs so popular with the ladies.

Like a lover capturing the essence of his mistress upon canvas, Baptiste had painted a scene of the banks of Paris, the silver-green waters of the Seine reflecting back the soaring towers of Notre Dame, the arches of the Pont Neuf, the ducks skimming the surface.

Gazing at the fan, Sinclair was flooded with the memory of the smell of the reeds, the lapping of the river waters, the laughter of the crowds thronging the bridge.

Belle closed the fan. She surprised him by glancing up with a tremulous smile.

“I was just thinking about Baptiste, all those times he and I arranged those fake funerals, smuggling people out of Paris in coffins. It was rather ironic that in the end, we had to spirit him back in. Baptiste would have found that rather amusing, don’t you think? ”

Her voice broke unexpectedly on the last word. Her eyes filled, and slowly, the tears tracked down her cheeks. Sinclair said nothing, merely held out his arms. She cast herself into them, burying her face against his shoulder.

Several days later Belle descended the stairs of the Neptune’s Trident. Mr. Shaw passed her with his usual beaming smile, his eyes twinkling over the rims of his glasses.

“The fire is banked high in the coffee room,” the inn’s host said. “Your brandy has been laid out, and the luncheon is ready to be served.”

“Thank you.” Belle returned Shaw’s smile. Strange, she reflected, but she had never thought that returning to this familiar old inn would feel in some odd way like coming home.

Shaw added with a discreet cough, “Your gentleman friend is already waiting.”

Belle’s heart skipped a beat. Sinclair. She had not seen him since they had left the ship.

He had been very gentle as he handed her into the carriage.

He had affairs to attend to, he said, but he would call upon her soon—a promise he had not kept.

And she had not even known the address of his current lodgings to find him.

Sweeping eagerly into the coffee room, she said, “At last, Mr. Carrington. For once I hoped you might have been more punct?—”

The playful greeting died upon her lips. It was not Sinclair’s tall form silhouetted by the fireside, but the reed-thin frame of Quentin Crawley, warming his hands at the blaze, the tufts of his sandy hair standing on end.

“Oh, Quentin,” she said in a voice flat with disappointment.

He spun about, greeting her with his prim expression.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Varens. Welcome back to England. You are well, I trust?”

Belle closed the door, in no mood for Crawley’s punctiliousness or for making the pretense of a social call.

“Never mind all that,” she snapped. “Where is Victor Merchant? I rode out to Mal du Coeur yesterday. The butler told me Merchant had gone. I want to know where he is hiding.”

“Mr. Merchant is not hiding anywhere. He was arrested.”

“Arrested!” Belle exclaimed.

“All arranged by Mr. Carrington. He is a spy for the British army, though I expect you know that.” Quentin frowned reprovingly as though he suspected her of deliberately keeping secrets from him.

“Carrington had Mr. Merchant charged with plotting the murder of a British agent. Mr. Merchant was taken off by a guard of soldiers, though I have a feeling he was glad to go by the time Mr. Carrington had done with him.” Crawley gave an expressive shiver.

Annoyance and chagrin swept through Belle. So Sinclair had gotten to Merchant first. He might have included her in the capture, for she surely had greater complaint against Victor than he. But she supposed it mattered little as long as the traitor had been apprehended.

“I am glad Merchant has been arrested,” she said, moving to pour herself a glass of brandy. “Though it is most unfortunate for you, Quentin. No more spying. You will have to be content with life as a parish clerk.”

“Not at all.” Excitement rippled across Crawley’s bland features.

He puffed up his chest with pride. “You see, Mrs. Varens, funding for our society never did come from Merchant. Madame Dumont is in truth our director. A great lady. She never was too pleased with Merchant, but she desires that our work be continued.” Quentin’s eyes dropped modestly down.

“She has named me as Merchant’s successor. ”

“Congratulations,” Belle said dryly, saluting him with her glass.

“This calls for a toast.” She poured him out some brandy, biting back a smile.

She never thought Crawley would accept it, but to her astonishment he did, sipping cautiously at the amber-colored liquid as though it were some foul-tasting medicine.

“I do not delude myself but what I have undertaken a difficult task,” Quentin said after Belle had toasted him. “We have lost so many good agents, but I trust I may still depend upon you.”

“Not a chance,” Belle said, setting down her glass with a sharp click. “I am through with the society.”

“My dear Mrs. Varens! I understand that your confidence in our organization has been a little bruised. But you cannot believe I would ever serve you such a trick as Merchant did.”

“Of course not, Quentin. But I told you all along I would quit one day. I have had enough.”

Crawley’s indulgent smile was patent with disbelief. “I will not be gainsaid so easily. I also hope to recruit Mr. Carrington as well.”

“Sinclair? He works for the British army.”

“I can pay him much better,” Crawley said confidently. “And offer him far more intriguing assignments. When you hear what I have next in mind?—”

“I don’t want to hear.” Belle snapped.

Crawley’s mouth drew down into something approaching a pout. “Well! You can at least furnish me with Mr. Carrington’s present address.”

“I cannot do that, either,” Belle said bleakly. She wished that Crawley would simply go away and leave her in peace. To her relief, a discreet knock sounded on the coffee room door. Grateful for any interruption, Belle moved to answer it.

Mr. Shaw hovered upon the threshold. He slipped her a folded note closed with a blot of sealing wax. “A stable lad just delivered this for you, Mrs. Varens. I thought it might be important, so I brought it to you at once.”

Belle thanked Shaw. As the innkeeper quit the room, she examined her name inked upon the paper. The scrawl was all but illegible and heart-stoppingly familiar. Her pulse raced as she broke open the seal. Unfolding the note, she struggled to read the brief message,

Angel, I meant to say my farewells in person, but I thought it better this way.

I know how hard it has been for you with Varens and me both tugging at your heartstrings.

I love you too well to put you through any more of this.

I realize how much what he can offer means to you.

Wishing that you find all that you desire, Sinclair.

Belle sighed mentally blotting out all the other phrases save one: I love you too well .

Becoming aware of the curious stare of Quentin Crawley, she hastily refolded the note.

“Good tidings?” he asked.

“Er, yes. I find I don’t owe my dressmaker as much as I thought.” She slipped the note behind her back with an over-bright smile. “If you will excuse me, Quentin, I find it chilly in here. I will just slip upstairs to fetch my shawl.”