course.
"Excuse me for a moment," he murmured
to his brother. Sinclair strode over to the desk. Tumbling his
coat, hat, and most of the papers aside, he finally located a
quill, a half-dried pot of ink, and a blank sheet of vellum.
Drawing up a chair, he began to decode the message. It was not a
simple code, but Sinclair had worked with this particular one
enough that he was able to accomplish his task with reasonable
swiftness.
Darlington's letter began
with a word of congratulations to Sinclair for having successfully
insinuated himself into Merchant's group. Many French èmigres had fled to
England during the Reign of Terror, most of them royalists dreaming
and plotting to restore the French monarchy. But none of these
French royalists were so well organized and so well funded as
Merchant's Society for the Preservation of Ancient Relics. The
British army, bearing no fondness for Napoleon, applauded
Merchant's efforts to overturn the Corsican upstart's
government.
At least, the army had done so until
recently. Evidence from British spies operating in Paris revealed
that one or more of Merchant's little band, possibly Merchant
himself, was really working for Bonaparte.
Under the guise of being a royalist
plotter, this counteragent was drawing maps of the English
coastline and fortifications, passing the information back to
Napoleon for use in a possible invasion. It was Sinclair's task to
expose Bonaparte's spy and put a halt to these activities, an
assignment which Sinclair understood well enough. There was no need
for Darlington to elaborate further upon it. Consequently, the rest
of the colonel's message was brief.
"Eliminate the name Feydeau from your
list. Now beyond suspicion. The man died last week in a coaching
accident.
Sinclair paused in his decoding to
reach for his umbrella. He unscrewed the top and then slipped a
scroll of paper from inside the hollowed-out bone handle. Unrolling
the parchment, Sinclair read down the list of names and brief notes
he had jotted about the agents known to work for Merchant. Laurent
Coterin had already been scratched out. After dipping his quill
into the ink, Sinclair put a line through the name of Simon
Feydeau.
With two of the eight names thus
eliminated, it made Sinclair's task that much easier. Thoughtfully
stroking his chin, Sinclair studied the ones remaining. Baptiste
Renois, Paulette Beauvais. Marcellus Crecy-Sinclair could form no
conjectures about these people, for he had yet to meet any of
them.
Victor Merchant—here, Sinclair had the
advantage of one meeting and some sketchy background information.
Merchant, once known as the Baron de Nerac, had fled France shortly
after the execution of the late Louis XVI. He had arrived in
England, possessing scarcely more than the shirt on his back, and
yet in the intervening years, Merchant had somehow acquired
seemingly limitless funds with which to finance the activities of
his society.
Funds that could be coming from
Bonaparte, Sinclair thought. Yet if Merchant was the counteragent,
someone else had to be doing the actual spying for him, for
Merchant rarely strayed far from his townhouse in
London.
Reserving any further judgment on
Merchant, Sinclair moved to the next name on the list: Quentin
Crawley. Well, Quentin certainly traveled about enough to qualify.
But a smile tugged at Sinclair's lips. He did not often trust
merely his intuition, but he would be astonished if Crawley turned
out to be the one he sought. As Mrs. Varens had pointed out,
Quentin very much enjoyed ‘playing spy,’ but to involve himself in
any real danger, the precarious position of being a
counteragent-Sinclair doubted that Crawley possessed the steady
nerves such a deception would require.
On the other hand, Sinclair thought,
his gaze resting on the last name, there was Isabelle Varens
herself, cool, sophisticated, obviously intelligent. Sinclair did
not doubt that Isabelle had the courage to take such a risk. One
didn't earn a sobriquet like
"Excuse me for a moment," he murmured
to his brother. Sinclair strode over to the desk. Tumbling his
coat, hat, and most of the papers aside, he finally located a
quill, a half-dried pot of ink, and a blank sheet of vellum.
Drawing up a chair, he began to decode the message. It was not a
simple code, but Sinclair had worked with this particular one
enough that he was able to accomplish his task with reasonable
swiftness.
Darlington's letter began
with a word of congratulations to Sinclair for having successfully
insinuated himself into Merchant's group. Many French èmigres had fled to
England during the Reign of Terror, most of them royalists dreaming
and plotting to restore the French monarchy. But none of these
French royalists were so well organized and so well funded as
Merchant's Society for the Preservation of Ancient Relics. The
British army, bearing no fondness for Napoleon, applauded
Merchant's efforts to overturn the Corsican upstart's
government.
At least, the army had done so until
recently. Evidence from British spies operating in Paris revealed
that one or more of Merchant's little band, possibly Merchant
himself, was really working for Bonaparte.
Under the guise of being a royalist
plotter, this counteragent was drawing maps of the English
coastline and fortifications, passing the information back to
Napoleon for use in a possible invasion. It was Sinclair's task to
expose Bonaparte's spy and put a halt to these activities, an
assignment which Sinclair understood well enough. There was no need
for Darlington to elaborate further upon it. Consequently, the rest
of the colonel's message was brief.
"Eliminate the name Feydeau from your
list. Now beyond suspicion. The man died last week in a coaching
accident.
Sinclair paused in his decoding to
reach for his umbrella. He unscrewed the top and then slipped a
scroll of paper from inside the hollowed-out bone handle. Unrolling
the parchment, Sinclair read down the list of names and brief notes
he had jotted about the agents known to work for Merchant. Laurent
Coterin had already been scratched out. After dipping his quill
into the ink, Sinclair put a line through the name of Simon
Feydeau.
With two of the eight names thus
eliminated, it made Sinclair's task that much easier. Thoughtfully
stroking his chin, Sinclair studied the ones remaining. Baptiste
Renois, Paulette Beauvais. Marcellus Crecy-Sinclair could form no
conjectures about these people, for he had yet to meet any of
them.
Victor Merchant—here, Sinclair had the
advantage of one meeting and some sketchy background information.
Merchant, once known as the Baron de Nerac, had fled France shortly
after the execution of the late Louis XVI. He had arrived in
England, possessing scarcely more than the shirt on his back, and
yet in the intervening years, Merchant had somehow acquired
seemingly limitless funds with which to finance the activities of
his society.
Funds that could be coming from
Bonaparte, Sinclair thought. Yet if Merchant was the counteragent,
someone else had to be doing the actual spying for him, for
Merchant rarely strayed far from his townhouse in
London.
Reserving any further judgment on
Merchant, Sinclair moved to the next name on the list: Quentin
Crawley. Well, Quentin certainly traveled about enough to qualify.
But a smile tugged at Sinclair's lips. He did not often trust
merely his intuition, but he would be astonished if Crawley turned
out to be the one he sought. As Mrs. Varens had pointed out,
Quentin very much enjoyed ‘playing spy,’ but to involve himself in
any real danger, the precarious position of being a
counteragent-Sinclair doubted that Crawley possessed the steady
nerves such a deception would require.
On the other hand, Sinclair thought,
his gaze resting on the last name, there was Isabelle Varens
herself, cool, sophisticated, obviously intelligent. Sinclair did
not doubt that Isabelle had the courage to take such a risk. One
didn't earn a sobriquet like
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