Rendezvous (9781301288946) (25 page)

She wondered again where he had spent
the afternoon. He had been gone a long time, or had it only seemed
that way to her, ever alert for his return? She had been bathing
when she heard him stirring about in the room next to hers, but she
had not seen him until she stood in the antechamber ready to leave
and be handed into the carriage.

She had expected a certain awkwardness
between them. After all, the man had nearly made love to her on the
drawing room floor, but any constraint was dispelled by Sinclair's
remarking that since his afternoon's jaunt, he was now thoroughly
familiar with all the sorts of mud to be found in Paris. She had
laughed, and once more they were at ease with each other. Indeed,
Belle was finding it difficult to imagine ever being estranged from
Sinclair for long.

He appeared completely relaxed as their
coach finally crept past the gates, drawing closer to the palace
itself. The Tuileries was ablaze with light. Time appeared to have
been turned back to the days of the glorious Sun King, Louis XIV,
for whom the palace had been built. Moonlight skimmed over the
palace's massive seven stories, revealing to Belle that the scars
to the woodwork and the broken windows had all been repaired as
though the angry mob had never dared storm this majestic
dwelling.

As the carriage drew to a halt in front
of the palace, the coach door was opened by a footman, but Sinclair
leapt down to hand her out himself. As she placed her gloved hand
within his, their eyes met, and although the smile Sinclair gave
her was casual, his gaze was not. She knew then that she had been
fooling herself to think that either of them could forget what had
happened in the drawing room. The awareness of something begun and
not finished crackled between them.

Although the contact of his hand upon
hers was fleeting, it was enough to quicken her blood, adding to
the excitement she already felt at the prospect of meeting
Napoleon. Anticipation mingled with a sense of danger as she
entered the palace.

Within the antechamber to the reception
hall, other arrivals were already removing their cloaks, handing
them off to servants garbed in blue and gold livery. Belle and
Sinclair found it difficult to move forward for a party of
chattering young ladies. Despite the autumn chill, the demoiselles
were attired in gowns of thin muslin cut in the Grecian style, the
sheer fabric clinging to nubile young bodies, making it obvious
they wore nothing underneath but pink tights.

Sinclair paused in the act of helping
Belle off with her cloak, too much the male not to avail himself of
an interested stare.

"The latest fashion in Paris, Mr.
Carrington. Do you approve?"

"That all depends." Sinclair shifted
his gaze back to Belle, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Do you
intend to adopt it?"

"Alas, no, I am supposed to be a proper
English lady on this journey, remember?"

"More's the pity." Sinclair sighed. But
his teasing expression vanished as he slipped the cloak the rest of
the way from Belle's shoulders.

He had seen Belle's beauty in many
guises, but tonight she appeared an ethereal vision, a queen
stepped from the pages of legend, a Helen of Troy. Her womanly
curves were accented by a high-waisted gown of white silk, gleaming
beneath an overtunic of silvery gauze, with a long train sweeping
behind. Gloves drawn up to the elbow emphasized the slenderness of
her arms. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, the soft curls wisped
about her cheeks and forehead, a netting of tiny pearls winding
mistlike through the golden strands.

"On second thought," Sinclair murmured
in her ear, "forget the Paris fashions. I will settle for the
proper English lady."

"You are too kind, sir." Although she
acknowledged his compliment with a mocking smile, the color
heightened in her cheeks. Gracefully gathering the train of her
gown over one arm, she linked her other arm through Sinclair's,
resting her hand lightly on his coat sleeve.

As they joined the line moving into the
reception room, Sinclair glanced down at her with a swelling of
pride. Absurd, he thought. He behaved as though she belonged to
him. But in a sense tonight she did. To the world about him she was
Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, his wife. He could see the curious,
half-envious stares of the other women, the open admiration of the
men.

Did Belle realize the sensation she
caused? There was no way of telling from the proud, unconcerned
lift of her chin. On one level Sinclair believed that she did, not
out of vanity, but with an almost cynical acceptance, regarding the
men who ogled her as foolish. But he doubted that Belle would ever
really appreciate what havoc her beauty could wreak upon a man's
heart.

As they stepped inside the reception
room, Belle felt tempted to reach for her fan. The press of people,
the fire banked high in the great marble fireplace, the glow of
candles shining off the bright yellow cast of the walls gave her
the feeling of having walked into a blaze of sunshine. Obviously
neither the first consul nor his lady had yet made their appearance
through the huge double doors at the opposite end of the room. The
guests milled about talking, giving Belle the leisure to observe a
crowd no less brilliant than the glittering candelabra.

The ladies appeared in a profusion of
diamonds, feathers, and silks, their cheeks rouged with the
Parisians' unashamed regard for cosmetics, which made Belle feel
pale as a ghost by comparison. As for the gentlemen, dashing
uniforms weighted with medals mingled side by side with crisp
evening coats and the more fantastic wasp-waists of those French
dandies known as the Incroyables.

Perhaps it was not the same august
assemblage that had once graced the halls of a king. Here and there
Belle caught snatches of vulgar language, the odor of doubtful
linen, a glimpse of muddy shoes, which never would have been
tolerated at Versailles, but this was still the respectable world
of Paris.

The world that she had once sought to
belong to as Jean-Claude's wife. But she had never been quite at
ease, ever aware of being the actress's daughter from Drury Lane,
always waiting to be found out. So many years had passed since
then, but so little had changed. She crept into their midst, still
the imposter.

Belle snapped out of her musings as she
realized she and Sinclair were being approached by the English
ambassador. He introduced himself and as they were supposedly there
according to his auspices, Belle favored him with a gracious smile.
His lordship must have been quite accustomed to his staff selling
invitations to unknown English travelers. His interest in them was
polite, but distant.

As the ambassador moved on, Sinclair
whispered in her ear, "You look ravishing tonight, Angel. But I
fear that gentleman's stares over there are a little excessive. Do
you know him?"

Following Sinclair's nudge, Belle
casually fixed her attention upon a lean man standing in the shadow
of one of the chamber's massive pillars. The fellow studied her
from beneath an unprepossessing shock of yellow hair, his wan skin
appearing stretched too tautly over sharp features.

"Fouché!" Belle tightened
her grip on Sinclair's arm. At his enquiring gaze, she explained in
low tones, "He was Napoleon's minister of police up until a few
months ago. He is believed to have been dismissed because Bonaparte
feels secure enough to deem Fouché's services no longer necessary.
The
on dit
is that
Fouché would give a great deal to prove Monsieur Bonaparte
wrong."

"Marvelous," Sinclair said through
gritted teeth. "The former minister of police. And now he is coming
this way."

"So he is." Belle fluttered her fan
before her eyes. "Keep smiling, my dear husband."

She would have wagered that no other
man in the room looked more relaxed or gracious than Sinclair, only
she herself aware of the tension that stiffened his arm, perhaps
because she felt that same tension knotting in her stomach as
Joseph Fouché edged toward them through the press of
people.

Fouché pulled up short, snapping into
an ingratiating bow, but Belle noted his eyes never wavered from
her face. Ferret-like eyes, she thought, repressing a shudder. She
had never liked the cast of them.

"Forgive my impertinence, madame,
monsieur," Fouché said. "May I make so bold as to present
myself—Joseph Fouché."

"Sinclair Carrington," Sinclair replied
easily, "and my wife, Isabelle."

"Isabelle. A beautiful name for a
beautiful lady." Fouché compliment seemd as insincere as his
smile."I must confess that it was the sight of you, madame, that
rendered me so bold. As foolish as it may sound, I have the feeling
we have met before."

Belle's heart thudded, but she met
Fouché’s speculative stare. "I do not believe so,
monsieur."

There was finality in her tone, but
Fouché was not so easily dismissed. "But such beauty one does not
forget." He stroked his chin, his eyes narrowing. "In Paris, I
believe, during the Revolution—"

"No one with any wisdom lived in Paris
during the Revolution, monsieur."

"I did." Fouché’s manner of strained
geniality vanished for a moment. "You look so extraordinarily like
an unfortunate lady I saw summoned to face charges of treason
before the Revolutionary Tribunal."

"Ridiculous, monsieur," Sinclair
growled. "This is the first time my wife has ever been to
Paris."

Belle affected to lay a soothing hand
on Sinclair's arm. "Please, my dear. I am sure Monsieur Fouché
intends no offense. It would not be unusual if I did resemble at
least one of those wretched people. It is my understanding that
half of Paris was called to trial before that court."

"Not quite so many as that, madame, but
most who were did not survive to talk about it."

"And some," Belle retorted before she
could stop herself, "possessed the uncanny ability to survive no
matter what the cost."

Fouché's pale skin washed a shade of
dull red, his lips giving an angry twitch. "Well, it would seem I
was quite mistaken. Your pardon for having disturbed you,
madame."

He bowed stiffly and stalked away.
Sinclair vented his breath in a manner that was part curse, part a
sigh of relief. Belle discovered that her hand was shaking, but
more from anger than alarm.

"Disgusting viper," she said. "He dares
talk to me of surviving when he made his own way through the
Revolution along a path paved in blood. He was one of those who
found the guillotine too slow, and organized a plan to have the
condemned lined up in front of cannons."

"Disgusting he might be, Angel, but
vipers can also be dangerous. Did Fouché see you on
trial?"

"He might have, but I doubt it. He had
had a falling out with Robespierre at that time and was running for
his own miserable life."

"But if he should remember you,"
Sinclair persisted, "as the woman tried for being the Avenging
Angel and rescuing aristocrats—"

"No one could possibly remember me from
those days," Belle said. "Do you have any notion what I looked like
after weeks in prison? The rats that scurried along the floor of
the Conciergerie were more attractive."

Sinclair said nothing more, but his
doubts remained. Belle possessed a beauty that no prison pallor
could have disguised. Her eyes alone would have been enough to
haunt a man's dreams.

All concerns about Fouché had to be set
aside for the moment. The double doors at the end of the room were
flung open. A hush fell over the room as the assembled company
divided into two respectful lines, leaving a path between
them.

Josephine Bonaparte made her entrance
on the arm of that wily old statesman, Talleyrand. The Creole
beauty's braided hair was fixed into place with a shell comb, her
graceful form garbed in a silk robe with short sleeves. Her regal
bearing attracted so much attention that the man who slipped into
the reception room behind her went unnoticed and
unheralded.

But Belle's attention riveted upon
Napoleon Bonaparte. Attired in a simple uniform, a blue coat with
white cashmere breeches, he wore a tricolored sash of silk tied
round his waist, his hat tucked under his arm. He appeared far less
dashing in contrast to the other military men with their
embroidered coats overloaded with ribbons and jewels. And yet his
very simplicity made Bonaparte seem so much more the
soldier.

Still, it was hard to credit that this
unassuming person could be the man whose ambitions set most of
Europe atremble, the brilliant general who had spilled his share of
English blood. He bore no resemblance to the formidable villain
depicted in the British press.

As Bonaparte moved down the line of
guests, Belle was struck once more by his sense of restrained
energy. She had a clearer view of his face than when he had passed
her by on horseback. His skin was of a marble whiteness, his brow
wide and high, his smile surprisingly gracious. She could discern
none of his remarks until he stood but two persons away from her.
Disconcertingly blunt, he put more than one lady to the blush.
Pausing before one of the young demoiselles Belle and Sinclair had
noticed earlier, Bonaparte remarked to his equerry, "See to it that
the fires are banked higher in here. I fear for the ladies' health,
as some of them are nearly naked."