Rendezvous (9781301288946) (18 page)

His voice died away. As soon as the
connecting door to the workshop was closed, the man underwent a
startling change. He no longer faced Belle with that obsequious
deference. His face broke into a crooked smile which infused his
ugly countenance with an unexpected charm.

"So,
mon ange
," he said, stretching out his
hands to Belle. "You have come back to Paris at last!"

"Baptiste." Her voice was filled with
warmth as she stepped forward, flinging her arms about the gnome's
neck. Watching the two of them embrace, Sinclair blinked, trying to
assimilate the fact that this droll little man was the agent
Baptiste Renault, whose aid he and Belle had come to
seek.

Mentally he reviewed all the
information he had managed to glean about Renault thus far. He and
Belle had apparently worked together during the Revolution,
smuggling dozens of people proscribed out of Paris. Although he had
been arrested once, somehow Baptiste had managed to be one of those
few who had survived all the twists and turns, the changes in
government that marked the Revolution.

And Sinclair knew one thing more. This
was the man Belle had described as her one true friend in Paris.
Watching her as she returned Baptiste's fierce hug, Sinclair
thought he had never seen Belle relax her guard so much, for one
moment looking radiant, unreservedly happy. He felt a twinge of
envy that this Baptiste could inspire such an expression upon
Belle's face. But Sinclair immediately brought himself up short. He
was indeed in a bad way if he was starting to feel jealous even of
this older odd-looking man.

When their enthusiastic greeting showed
no sign of abatement, Sinclair coughed discreetly to remind them of
his presence.

Belle swung around to face him, her
eyes still glowing, Baptiste's arm entwined about her waist.
"Sinclair, allow me to present to you, Baptiste Renault, the most
skilled fan maker in all of Paris."

"The world,
mon ange
," Baptiste
interrupted.

"And the most modest. Baptiste, this is
Sinclair Carrington, Victor's recent recruit" Smiling at Sinclair
in slightly mocking fashion, she added, "And for the moment my
husband."

"Ah, a role for which I envy him."
Baptiste sighed. "Having adored you these many years."

"Bah, you smooth-tongued rogue. You
never adored aught but your precious fans and your horrid
Paris."

Baptiste grinned. At last disengaging
himself from Belle, he stepped forward. "Forgive me, monsieur. I
forget myself. You must blame it on my excitement at seeing
Isabelle again." He offered Sinclair his hand, his skin as dry and
thin as the fan parchment, but his grip surprisingly
strong.

"A pleasure to meet you at last,
Monsieur Renault." Sinclair addressed the Frenchman in his native
tongue.

Baptiste studied him, and Sinclair had
the uncomfortable sensation of being sized up at a glance. He could
not tell what the man's verdict was, but he nodded toward Belle,
saying, "He speaks passable French for an Englishman."

"
Merci du compliment
, monsieur,"
Sinclair said wryly. He returned Baptiste's stare, attempting to do
a little sizing of his own. The genial little Frenchman looked
neither ruthless nor daring enough to be any sort of spy, let alone
one playing a dangerous game of double dealing. Yet Sinclair would
not have dismissed Baptiste as a suspect by his appearance alone.
The chief thing that seemed to disqualify Renault was that
according to Belle, the fan maker rarely ever strayed far from
Paris. If he were passing information about the English coastline
to Napoleon, he would have to have an accomplice.

Sinclair's gaze strayed to
Belle, her apparent closeness to Renault giving rise to all manner
of unpleasant thoughts. He was glad to relinquish them for the time
being as Baptiste clapped his hands together briskly and said,
"
Bien,
so it
appears the three of us will have much to discuss, but not here,
not now. You are tired from the journey, yes? I will show you
upstairs. Come along, then."

The steps were narrow, poorly lit, and
of such an alpine steepness that Belle and Sinclair moved
cautiously for fear of a misstep. They were quickly outstripped by
Baptiste, apparently well accustomed to the climb. His stream of
chatter floated back down to them.

"I still live in the rooms behind the
fan shop. Madame Fontaine's place, the apartment you will have,
takes up the second and third floor. These stairs can be reached
through the fan shop or the outer door, which has a porter on duty.
He is a good fellow and will run errands for you."

Baptiste paused before an oak door on
the first landing, fumbling through a ring of heavy keys attached
to the belt beneath his apron. The steps twisted at a sharp angle,
continuing upward to the next floor.

"Is anyone living in the apartments
above us?" Belle asked.

"A retired shoemaker and his wife."
Baptiste clucked his tongue in disgust as he tried first one key,
then another. "But you need not worry about them. They keep to
themselves. They will take no heed of your comings and
goings."

"And the garrets?"

"At the moment empty. When Merchant
wrote to say that he was also sending along Lazare-" Baptiste
fairly spat the name. “I assumed that you would not wish him
sharing your quarters, I thought that the garret would do well
enough for the likes of him.”

"I can see that you are a gentleman of
great discernment, Monsieur Renault," Sinclair said.

Baptiste flashed him a grin, then
grunted with satisfaction as he found the right key at last.
Turning the knob, he shoved the door open, bowing Belle and
Sinclair past him with a sweeping gesture.

As soon as Belle stepped across the
threshold, she was beset by a cold draft and that musty smell of
rooms left too long closed. She wrapped her arms about herself and
shivered—not so much from the chill in the air, but a shiver of
reminiscence as she studied her surroundings. The actress
Mademoiselle Fontaine's apartment held all the garish glitter of a
stage set with its high ceilings and neo-Greek cornices. The
crystal chandelier would have appeared too ostentatious for a
king's palace, let alone an apartment. The outer room was a
combination antechamber and dining room, the walls hung with Indian
cloth, the scattered chairs covered in crimson corded silk of
Tours.

As Belle moved farther into the room,
her footsteps seemed to strike out a lonely echo upon the black and
white tiled floor, and she could almost feel herself dwindling into
a child of ten again. The place reminded her depressingly of the
sort of chambers and furnishings her actress mother had chosen
those fortunate times when Mama had acquired herself a rich
benefactor. Jolie Gordon never had known the difference between the
lavish outlay of money and real elegance. She would have fancied
herself quite the grand lady with such an establishment. But even
at such a tender age Belle had known better and so had the
tradesmen who had waited upon Mama, outwardly so polite as they
vied for her custom. Only Belle had noticed their thinly veiled
sneers and blushed with shame.

She had vowed then she would never live
in the midst of such tawdry glamour. But like so many of her vows,
it was worth about as much as the dust now coating the surface of a
heavily ornate mahogany dining table. Belle trailed her gloved
finger along it, leaving a glossy streak.

Baptiste bustled forward, apologizing.
"Ah, I meant to get up here, have the place cleaned and aired, but
I had no notion when you would arrive. I will get a fire going at
once."

He flung open a set of double doors
leading into a cream and gilt drawing room furnished with a
stiff-backed settee supported by clawed griffin feet and cases of
books whose pristine spines suggested that the volumes did little
more than adorn the shelves. As Baptiste bent to his task by the
hearth, Belle felt Sinclair touch upon her shoulder. She glanced up
to meet his eyes and saw a frown creasing his brow.

"You don't like this place, do you?" he
asked.

She started, but she did not know why.
She ought to be accustomed by now to how easily Sinclair seemed to
discern her thoughts.

"What's not to like?" she quipped. "It
has all the charm and elegance of a high-priced
brothel."

"We don't have to stay here. I am sure
I could find us someplace else."

"Don't be ridiculous. We have a job to
do and this place will serve our needs as well as any. You seem to
keep forgetting that you are not an eager husband striving to
please a new bride."

"So I do. What a fortunate thing that I
have you to keep reminding me."

As Sinclair stalked away to explore
another door, taking the stairs that led to the next floor of the
apartment, Belle nearly called him back to apologize for her
ungracious manner of rejecting his concern. But the next thing she
knew, she might find herself explaining her reaction, telling him
all about her mother, telling him far too much. If she had annoyed
him, it was far better to leave it that way.

She followed Baptiste into the drawing
room, stripping off her cloak and gloves, glad to have a moment
alone with her old friend. She had seen little of him these past
years, since she never went into Paris and he never traveled far
from that city. All that they had shared had been hurried meetings
in Rouvray Forest, and those had always been too fraught with the
urgency of varied missions to allow much time for idle
chat.

Baptiste knelt before the hearth,
applying the bellows to a tiny flame he had coaxed amongst the
kindling. His ruddy cheeks and leather apron were smudged with ash,
the fire's light dancing in his large brown eyes. He reminded Belle
of an illustration she had once seen in a book of legends, the
dwarf-king at work upon his forge, conjuring treasures from the
dark secret places beneath the earth.

But then Baptiste had always given
Belle the impression of not being quite of this world. Some of the
smuggling feats they had pulled off together during the Revolution
had been nothing short of wizard's work. She smiled softly at the
remembrance, watching as his nimble fingers stacked more wood upon
the fire.

"And how have you been, my old friend?"
she asked.

"Well enough," he replied without
looking up. "Not getting any younger."

"That is what you have been telling me
ever since the day we first met."

"And it is as true now as it
was then." Baptiste stood up, dusting off his knees. He paused, a
chuckle erupting from deep in his chest. At Belle's inquiring gaze,
he said, "I was thinking of that first day,
mon ange
. What a mad lady you were,
all draped in your fake mourning, attempting to transport that
coffin with the petite Duc de Ferriers hidden inside past the very
noses of the soldiers sent out to look for him."

"I was doing well enough until the poor
child happened to sneeze Then you popped out of nowhere, covering
for me with your little snuff box, spilling so much of the stuff,
you had half the street sneezing until no one could tell where the
first sounds had come from."

"Ah, I recall it well! How ridiculous
those great hulking soldiers looked, wheezing until the tears ran
down their cheeks. Having thus come to your rescue, I would have
been far wiser if I had gone about my own business."

"But think how much duller your life
would have been. Besides, my 'funerals' proceeded much more
smoothly after you had become partner to them."

"
C’est vrai
." Baptiste scratched his
chin, his thoughtful manner belied by the twinkle in his eye. "How
many elderly aunts and uncles did you have perish in that one year
alone?"

"Oh, a dozen at least. I was once part
of a very large family."

Baptiste's smile faded and Belle could
have bitten out her tongue. Her jest came too near the truth for
Baptiste. Once the eldest of five siblings, he was now the last of
the brothers Renault.

He turned away from her, picking up the
poker and taking sharp jabs at the logs. "Why is it so easy to burn
down the house," he said gruffly, "but wood never catches when you
want it to?"

Belle realized he was signaling her
that he wished the subject turned, and she regretted that it had
ever been broached in the first place. Even the lighter
recollections of their days during the Revolution invariably led to
other ones more tragic. All memories were better left
untouched.

While Baptiste struggled with the fire,
Belle moved toward the chamber's high narrow windows, their
latticed panes overhung with double curtains of gold-fringed silk.
Belle parted them to allow more light into the room.

The Rue St. Honoré in all its bustle
lay sprawled below her, and she pressed her face against the glass,
the pane cool against her cheek. She had spent much of her time in
that other Paris apartment at No. 17, too much perhaps, staring
down into the street.

From such a lofty height she had once
watched a king pass by in the frosty morning hours of a winter's
day to keep his appointment with death, and a host of other folk as
well, more humble perhaps but bearing the same regal dignity as
they were trundled forth to meet the guillotine's embrace. Would
she be able to behave with such courage if faced with the prospect
of such a terrifying death? Belle had often wondered.