Rendezvous (9781301288946) (27 page)

Not to you, Mr. Warburton, Sinclair
thought, or the British army. But to Sinclair Carrington it was as
though the world had been lifted off his shoulders. At quarter past
one Belle had been in the apartment with him, staring out at the
rain.

Sinclair wanted to fling back his head
and shout his relief aloud. He had the urge to laugh and astonish
the solemn Mr. Warburton with a hearty slap on the back. He could
have embraced the fellow except there was someone else he would far
rather embrace instead.

Sinclair contented himself with a broad
grin. "Well, you gentlemen seem to be doing an excellent job of
settling this affair. I scarce see what you need me
for."

Warburton shot him a reproachful
glance. "There is the small matter that this counteragent supplying
the information has still not been identified. We had rather hoped
you would start doing something from your end."

"I have a notion who your man might be,
but I have no proof as yet." Sinclair thought of how Lazare's
whereabouts at the crucial time were unaccounted for, to say
nothing of Lazare's furtive behavior later in the afternoon. Some
of Sinclair's relief at discovering Belle's innocence evaporated as
a grim fact occurred to him. As long as the real counteragent
remained unchecked, she, as the leader of this plot to abduct
Napoleon, stood in more danger than anyone. The thought sobered
Sinclair at once.

"Was any other information passed?" he
asked Warburton.

The under secretary looked puzzled by
Sinclair's abrupt demand.

"The group I have infiltrated is
plotting to abduct Bonaparte,” Sinclair explained. "Was there any
hint of that in the message passed today?"

Warburton frowned. "Not as near as we
could tell."

Sinclair found the man's answer far
from satisfactory and not a little strange. If Lazare was the
counteragent, what was he waiting for? Perhaps for Belle to
finalize the details so that the information he passed would be
specific?

“It would be a good thing if this
counterspy could be stopped before he does decide to lay
information about the plot," Warburton said.

Sinclair heartily concurred.

"I say, Carrington. Do you think there
is any chance Merchant's group could succeed in their
endeavor?"

Sinclair shrugged. Between trying to
detect the counteragent and worrying it might prove to be Belle, he
had not given the objective to capture Napoleon much serious
consideration.

"If the counteragent could be stopped,"
Warburton said, "and you could still bring about the abduction of
Bonaparte, I do not think either the army or the diplomatic corps
would raise any objections about your participation in such a
maneuver."

"How very generous of them, I'm sure,"
Sinclair said wryly. He dropped his cheroot and ground it out
beneath his heel. "I trust you will find a way to keep me posted of
any further developments here at the palace."

"Of course," Warburton said.

Judging that they had been in each
other's company long enough, Sinclair suggested they return to the
salon. Any longer an absence might draw unwanted
attention.

As the two men reentered the reception
area, they drifted apart, Sinclair's thoughts already no longer
with Warburton. The under secretary's remarks had raised a new
problem for him. If he did expose Lazare in time, should he permit
Belle to go ahead with Merchant's mad scheme? Could she succeed in
abducting the most important man in France—perhaps in all of
Europe?

He glanced about the crowded reception
chamber. Both Belle and the first consul were conspicuous by their
absence. He experienced a growing sense of unease as he consulted
his watch.

He would give her five more minutes. If
she was not back, the abduction plot, the British army, and
Bonaparte could all be damned. He didn't care if all of Paris
sneered at him for a jealous husband. He was going after
her.

"And over there"—Bonaparte tapped his
finger against the window's night-darkened pane—"is the house where
I once watched the mobs break through the fence to get at the
king." He indicated the outline of a distant building beyond the
iron fence surrounding the Tuileries Gardens. "It was a very hot
summer's day."

Belle remembered it well herself.
August tenth. She had not been there to witness the event, but the
word had spread fast about the mob descending upon the king's
palace, the king and his family forced to flee for protection to
where the assembly sat. But Belle’s concern had not been for the
fate of the gentle King Louis. She had been terrified that the
unreasoning mob might also attack the assembly, of which
Jean-Claude had been a member.

"The king was too soft. He should have
ordered his Swiss guard to fire. He could have scattered that
rabble." Bonaparte mused. "It is not enough to inhabit the
Tuileries. One must remain here."

The consul's eyes darkened with
ferocity. "But just let the mob ever try to come here
again—"

He left the threat uncompleted, but a
chill coursed through Belle. From the hour's conversation they had
shared, she sensed that for all his unexpected charm, this
Bonaparte knew how to be ruthless to his enemies. If her plan
failed, despite his seeming admiration for her beauty, she knew she
could expect little mercy.

His fierce expression faded as quickly
as it had come. "I fear I have absented myself from the reception
too long. These affairs are a boring nuisance, but necessary. One
who governs should not be aloof. In any case, I fear I have wearied
you with my discourse."

Belle assured him this was not the
case. He was a fascinating talker, extremely gregarious. It had not
been difficult to draw him out, elicit his most decided opinions on
art, history, and literature. He had not much use for novels,
declaring them fit reading only for chambermaids, but he was fond
of music, and most especially the theater.

In fact, he was willing to talk to her
of anything, as long as it concerned matters of no real importance.
Belle detected a certain hint of male patronage in that he would
never burden a woman's mind with anything beyond her comprehension
such as military or political matters.

Still, he had behaved in a gentlemanly
fashion, and Belle could not deny that she had enjoyed the hour
spent in his company. But she felt no further along with finding a
way to accomplish her purpose in coming to Paris.

She had no choice now but to allow him
to conduct her back to the reception salon. Before they crossed the
threshold, he surprised her by stopping suddenly, placing his hand
on her arm. She noted the whiteness of his fingers not much larger
than her own.

"I should like to see you again,
madame," he said in his usual direct fashion. "Would you sup with
me some evening?"

Before she could reply, he added,
"Alone."

Belle did not pretend to be coy or to
misunderstand his meaning. She had to lower her lashes to conceal
her elation. A supper alone with him, presumably without his guards
in attendance. Her heart pounded so violently she feared he would
hear it.

"I should like that," she said. "My
husband frequently goes out to enjoy the gaming houses in the
Palais¬Royal, but I have no taste for such."

"Nor have I." He raised her hand to his
lips and saluted it with a brusque kiss. "I shall send my valet
Constant to you to settle the date."

Belle hoped he mistook the excited
flush mounting into her cheeks as gratification at this mark of his
favor. But she saw she need not have worried. His attention had
already been claimed from her by the reception salon. He surveyed
the crowded chamber with satisfaction.

"The Due de Nanterre has finally put in
his appearance," Bonaparte said, nodding toward an elderly
gentleman. "Many of those stiff-necked emigres have been accepting
my invitation to return. They finally see that France can be better
rebuilt through me than a doddering Bourbon king. When the Comte de
Egremont arrives, I shall count this evening a complete
success."

Bonaparte's last remark brought an
abrupt end to Belle's mood of elation, driving the blood from her
cheeks. "The Comte," she faltered.

"Egremont. Jean-Claude
Varens."

"You expect him here tonight?" How
Belle kept her voice steady, she did not know.

Bonaparte angled a curious glance at
her. "You know him?"

Belle concealed her dismay behind her
fan. "I met him in London once."

"He emigrated to England. I am glad a
man of such ancient family now chooses to resume his life in
France." Despite his expressed pleasure, the consul's brow was
marred by a frown. "Except that he is a divorced man. Did you know
that?"

"I—I—no, I didn't."

"Apparently he separated from his wife
during the Revolution, as so many men did. I suppose divorce was
bound to come under our legislation, but I think it a great
misfortune that it should become a national habit. What becomes of
husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers, yet unable to
forget one another?"

Belle shook her head, glad to see that
he did not expect an answer to his impassioned speech. Her throat
had become so constricted she doubted she could have given him one.
She felt grateful to see Sinclair approaching, although he was not
looking quite calm himself.

"Ah, Mr. Carrington," Bonaparte said.
"I have enjoyed the company of your lovely lady. As you see, I have
brought her back to you."

"Excessively gracious of Your
Excellency." Sinclair's voice carried a hard edge to it. For one
playacting the jealous, suspicious husband, Belle feared he was
doing too good of a job.

But Bonaparte looked more amused than
annoyed by Sinclair's scowl. He extended an invitation to both of
them to attend his upcoming military review and then moved off and
was soon seen to be deep in conversation with
Talleyrand.

Sinclair glowered after the first
consul before shifting his gaze to Belle. "What the devil has
Bonaparte been saying to you? You look pale as a sheet."

"Nothing," Belle lied. "It all went
splendidly. I am to have supper with him. It is only I have
developed the most dreadful headache. I would appreciate leaving
now."

Sinclair favored her with a hard stare,
but he asked no further questions, much to Belle's relief. She
wished for nothing but to retrieve her cloak and be gone as quickly
as possible. She felt herself to be a coward, but knew she could
not endure the prospect of encountering Jean-Claude again, not
here.

Leaning upon Sinclair's arm for
support, she permitted him to guide her through the press of
people, but once more her luck was out. A familiar slender figure
blocked the doorway, his somber black attire and melancholy air
seeming out of place amidst all the gay chatter.

Belle felt her heart sicken within her.
Sinclair halted with a sharp intake of breath. "Varens. What the
devil—" His gaze shifted to Belle. "You knew, didn't you? You knew
he was due to arrive."

Belle abandoned any further attempt at
pretense. "Yes, Bonaparte mentioned it to me just a moment
ago."

"What in blazes is Varens doing here? I
assumed he had retired to his estates in the country."

"So did I." Belle's mind reeled in
disbelief as she watched Bonaparte approach Jean-Claude. The comte
greeted the first consul with obvious reluctance.

"Belle, there is something I need to
ask you," Sinclair said, his voice low, urgent. "Does Jean-Claude
know Lazare?"

Belle dragged her eyes from Jean-Claude
long enough to frown at Sinclair, astonished by his peculiar
question. "Of course not. Lazare came into my life long after
Jean-Claude and I were divorced."

"But is it possible that Jean-Claude
met Lazare somewhere on his own? I never mentioned the matter
before, but there was a moment aboard the packet boat when I had
the impression they knew each other."

"Lazare is not the sort of man
Jean-Claude would know." Belle scarce knew why her reply came so
sharp. Sinclair's suggestion sounded harmless enough on the
surface. Why then did she feel as though he had slandered
Jean¬Claude's honor? She passed her hand wearily over her brow. "I
would truly appreciate it if you would summon our carriage. I just
want to get out of here."

Sinclair appeared as though there was
much more he would like to have said, but he nodded, giving her
shoulder a compassionate squeeze. As he hastened off to fulfill her
request, Belle had a strong urge to lose herself in the
crowd.

Her pride rebelled, and in the end she
placed herself so that inevitably, she must fall under
Jean-Claude's gaze. He had just finished speaking to Napoleon and
was stepping farther into the room.

He blanched at the sight of her, the
shock obviously greater to him. She at least had been forewarned.
But Jean-Claude was quick to recover. Looking right through her, he
prepared to turn in the opposite direction.

Anger flashed through Belle. Did he
think she was going to keep letting it be that easy for him? She
had allowed him to brush her off in Portsmouth. Napoleon's words
echoed through Belle's mind-husbands and wives who suddenly become
strangers to each other. But she and Jean-Claude were not
strangers. She had to acknowledge that fact; so should
he.