Rendezvous (9781301288946) (10 page)

Lost in her memories, Belle
did not notice that Sinclair had also begun to stroll about,
examining the salon, but from a far different perspective. He had
not her eyes for French antiques or
objets
d'art
, but he recognized the trappings of
wealth when he saw them. Apparently this Madame Dumont had fled
France with her pockets better lined than most emigres. It was
therefore possible, then, that she and not Napoleon could be the
source of Victor Merchant's unexplained funds. A wealthy royalist
patroness would certainly make Merchant a less likely candidate to
be Bonaparte's spy.

But what of Isabelle Varens? Sinclair
stole a glance at Belle, lingering by the console table, one finger
tracing the pattern of the white porcelain. Her eyes almost
luminous, she seemed to have retreated to some world of her own
dreamings. A not entirely happy world, to judge from her
expression. Her features were shadowed with grief, the set of her
mouth soft and vulnerable.

Once more she roused in him that
inexplicable urge to enfold her in his arms, pull her out of that
dark, cold world with his embrace. He took a step toward her and
then checked himself. He had vowed to himself on the way here
tonight that he would maintain an objective attitude toward
Isabelle, keep his desires under more rigid control. That vow had
almost gone straight out the window with his first sight of her
slipping into the garden. Sinclair was not often given to flights
of fancy, but with a halo of moonlight rimming her fine gold hair,
her pearly-hued skin almost translucent, she had indeed seemed like
some angel sent to earth to dazzle the eyes of mortal man. Except
that beneath her cloak, he had caught glimpses of the tantalizing
swell of her breasts, the full curve of her hips, reminding him
that she was very much a woman, vibrant and alive. It had been
damned hard to apologize to the lady for kissing her when all he
wanted to do was pull her into his arms and make a more thorough
job of it. And for a brief moment he had thought she was equally as
willing.

Ruefully Sinclair raked his hands
through his hair. Such thoughts as these could scarcely be
construed as objective. He tried again, this time stalking toward
the long windows, deliberately putting the length of the room
between himself and Isabelle. Lost in her own musings, she seemed
oblivious to his movements, continuing to caress the
china.

Fact one, Sinclair told himself, the
lady apparently had a taste for the finer things, a very expensive
taste. Fact two, she had told him herself this afternoon that she
was only involved in all this for the money. With an attitude like
that, she might not be particular where her funds came from, Victor
Merchant or Bonaparte.

And yet- Sinclair frowned. That theory
didn't agree with what Crawley had told him earlier. On the way to
the inn Sinclair had had to listen to a long diatribe concerning
how Isabelle Varens had abandoned her mission to rescue the
penniless family of a fellow agent recently caught and executed.
That didn’t seem like the action of a mercenary woman.

There was only one way to learn the
truth, and that was to continue to work with her, get to know her
better. Remembering how skilled she was at closing herself off, it
didn't promise to be an easy task. Yet it could be an all too
pleasant one. In spite of himself, his thoughts focused once more
on her lips, so soft and yielding, the way her gown
clung—

Damn! He was doing it again. Sinclair
swore at the familiar stirring in his loins. What he needed was a
good blast of cool air to bring him to his senses. Moving toward
the velvet draperies to undo the last of Crawley's careful
arrangements, Sinclair stopped when he heard the door click open.
He turned to face the threshold at the same time Belle snapped out
of her reverie and also glanced in that direction.

A stocky middle-aged man garbed simply
in drab breeches and frock coat strode into the salon and closed
the door behind him. Victor Merchant's collar was fashioned of
black velvet, a sign of perpetual mourning for his executed
king.

Sinclair felt no more impressed by the
man's appearance than he had been on the occasion of their previous
meeting in London when Sinclair had been accepted as a member of
Merchant's society. There was a coldness in Merchant's demeanor, a
stiffness in his carriage that reminded Sinclair too much of his
own father, although the Frenchman lacked the handsomeness that
distinguished General Daniel Carr. Merchant was thick-necked, his
complexion pasty white, and his right eye was fractionally higher
than his left, giving him the impression of being dull-witted. Yet
Sinclair had already surmised this was far from the case. Behind
that unprepossessing exterior lurked a most calculating
intelligence.

"Good evening, Monsieur Carrington.
Madame Varens," Merchant said in his usual laconic
tones.

"Good evening." Sinclair stepped
forward offering his hand. Merchant ignored it, moving past him.
Rather nonplussed, Sinclair lowered his arm, but Belle did not look
in the least surprised by Merchant's rudeness. She must have
expected it, for Sinclair noted she made no move to greet Merchant
herself, but merely watched in wary silence as Victor selected his
seat.

He chose that fancy painted affair that
Crawley had fussed with earlier. Lowering himself into the fragile
gilt armchair, Merchant sat ramrod stiff.

"Be seated," he commanded Sinclair and
Belle, adding "please" as almost a reluctant
afterthought.

Her head arched high, Belle arranged
herself gracefully opposite Merchant upon a gilt-trimmed banquette.
Although Sinclair settled in beside her, he could not have imagined
anything more uncomfortable than this hard-cushioned bench without
arms or back.

Silence settled over the room, unbroken
except for the ticking of the pendulum clock. Sinclair sensed that
Merchant maintained this rigid quiet on purpose, as though trying
to make them nervous. His demeanor reminded Sinclair of the times
he had been called in to face the headmaster at Eton after one of
his pranks and had been kept waiting on tenterhooks to see if he
would be sent down. Gradually, however, Sinclair realized
Merchant's tactics were aimed at Belle rather than himself. It was
she at whom Merchant stared. She seemed unperturbed by his scrutiny
except for a certain belligerent tilt to her chin.

"It was good of you to wait upon me at
this hour," Merchant said at last.

"You sent Crawley to tell us our
presence was commanded here tonight," Belle said, a hint of mockery
in her voice. "Don't I always make haste to carry out your
orders?"

"Do you?" Merchant asked. "Then give me
what I sent you to France to obtain. The listing of the number and
type of boats being constructed at Boulogne."

He extended one hand, palm upward
toward Belle. His fingers were white and puffy and put Sinclair in
mind of the bloated flesh of a drowned man he'd once seen dragged
from the Thames. He felt Belle tense beside him.

"You know full well I haven't got any
list for you."

"Oh?" Merchant's fingers curled slowly
as he withdrew his hand. "So devoted as you are to carrying out my
orders, I wonder what important task caused you turn aside from
your mission."

"I am sure by now you know that,
too."

If possible, Merchant's expression grew
colder. "So I do. But I admit that I am at a loss to account for
your behavior. How do I write to His Majesty Louis XVIII where he
awaits in exile and tell him that the cause for reclaiming his
throne must perforce be delayed longer because one of my agents
thought the lives of an insignificant widow and her brats of more
value?"

Anger sparked inside of Sinclair, which
he suppressed with difficulty. It would not help him achieve his
own ends if he antagonized Merchant. Besides, there was no need for
him to rise to Belle's defense. She managed quite ably on her own.
Although she flushed, her voice remained level. "I am sure you will
find some way to explain it all to His Majesty, Victor. But when
you are writing, you might just drop Louis a hint that he does his
cause no good by publishing threats of what he intends to do to the
revolutionaries if he regains his power."

A trace of real emotion flickered in
Merchant's dull eyes, an almost fanatical gleam. "His majesty does
right to warn the vermin." Victor gestured to the portrait of Louis
XVI above the mantel.

"Think you that the king will allow his
brother's death to go unavenged or the countless numbers of our
noble brethren who were butchered by the peasants?" Merchant's fist
crashed down upon the delicate arm of his chair. "Non, I tell you
there will be a new Reign of Terror in Paris one day. But this time
it will be the blood of the canaille that will flow through the
streets."

Belle shot to her feet. "If I thought
you and your precious king had any chance of resurrecting that
violence, I would not lift one finger to help you. I would walk out
that door right now."

Sinclair had conceived a marked dislike
of Merchant himself in the past few minutes. He would have been
happy to offer Belle his escort from this place, but he had his own
mission to think of. Standing up, he laid one hand soothingly upon
Belle's arm.

To Merchant he said, "I didn't think
you had gathered us here tonight to rake over the past or to
speculate about the future. I was under the impression you have
some important task for us to undertake."

Merchant's impassioned expression
faded. "So I do. If Madame. Varens could control her temper long
enough to hear me out."

Sinclair shifted his attention to
Belle. Her eyes were still stormy. He held her gaze until he felt
her relaxing beneath his touch. She expelled her breath in a long
sigh, then wrenched free of him, resuming her seat. Sinclair
followed suit.

Another nerve-racking silence ensued,
and then Merchant began again. "Before Madame Varens's unfortunate
outburst, I had been about to assure her that I am willing to
overlook her recent flouting of my orders and give her one more
chance."

"How magnanimous of you,
Victor."

Ignoring her sarcasm, Merchant went on,
"But this time have a care, Madame Varens. The assignment I am
about to give you is more dangerous, more difficult than any you
have ever received If you should be seized by one of your whims
again, you will put not only your own life at risk but Monsieur
Carrington's as well."

"That's a comforting thought," Sinclair
muttered.

Belle stirred restlessly. "Enough of
these preliminaries. You are growing as tiresome as Quentin
Crawley. Out with it, Victor. What do you want us to do, and how
much do you intend to pay?"

Merchant leveled her a stony stare. He
did not seem about to be hurried. He moved his head slightly, for
the first time making an effort to include Sinclair in the
discussion as well.

"I trust that both of you have heard of
General Bonaparte?"

"His name has cropped up in
conversation from time to time," Sinclair said. He was pleased to
see that his dry remark nearly succeeded in coaxing a smile from
the yet truculent Isabelle.

"Bonaparte assumed control of the
French government in 1799," Merchant continued tonelessly. "For a
time Napoleon held out the hope that he could be persuaded to use
his power to restore King Louis to his throne. But we were misled.
This summer Bonaparte had himself named consul for life, set
himself up as the uncrowned king of France. This cannot be
tolerated."

"We know all that," Belle broke in
impatiently. "Exactly what you do want me and Mr. Carrington to
do?"

"I thought I was making myself
perfectly clear." Victor leaned back in his chair, lacing his
fingers across his chest. His eyes glittered coldly.

"I want you to abduct Napoleon
Bonaparte."

CHAPTER FIVE

Stunned silence settled over the salon,
only to be broken by Sinclair's peal of incredulous laughter. But
Belle was not even tempted to smile. Her earlier premonitions had
proved quite correct. The meeting at Mal du Coeur had taken an
extraordinary turn.

Sinclair's laughter abruptly died. "You
must be jesting, Merchant, or else you are stark raving
mad."

"I assure you, sir," Victor said
coldly. "I am neither."

Sinclair regarded him with derision.
"Why don't you simply ask us to abduct the Pope while we're about
it or the tsar of Russia?"

"Neither the Pope nor the tsar
interests me. They do not control the government of France."
Merchant's gaze flicked to Belle. "You are strangely silent for
once, Madame Varens. Are you also shocked by my request? Do you
think the task as impossible as Monsieur. Carrington appears to
do?"

"Not impossible," Belle said. "But
extremely difficult."

“Difficult?" Sinclair
snorted.

"Your reward, of course, would be
generous," Merchant said, "commensurate with the risk." The fee
that he named caused Belle's eyes to widen. Such a sum could go a
long way to securing her future—a respectable future far removed
from the uncertainties of her present life. But when she considered
what she must do to earn it, she slowly shook her head.