Rendezvous (9781301288946) (31 page)

"I suppose I should let you go," she
said reluctantly, "and catch what sleep you still can. We have a
busy day ahead of us."

"Do we?" His eyes fixed tenderly upon
her face. "Strange, but as tired as I am, I feel as though I could
abduct a dozen Bonapartes."

"One will do," she said. But she knew
what he meant. She too had the curiously elated feeling she could
accomplish anything, overcome any obstacle. "I never told you all
that happened at the reception when I was alone with
Bonaparte."

Easing herself out of his arms, she
plumped up her pillow and lay down upon it. Settled more snugly
beneath the covers, she gave a tiny yawn and began to relate the
conversation she had had with the first consul.

But Sinclair barely heard a word she
said. Propping himself up on one elbow, he played with one of the
strands of her hair, twining it about his finger. How soft Belle
was in the morning, like a lovely pastel, all hazy rose, cream, and
gold. He studied the tranquility that had settled over her
features.

For one night she had not cried out in
her sleep for Jean-Claude Varens. At least he had gifted her with
that much, Sinclair thought with great satisfaction, a night of
pleasure, a night of comfort. That had been all that he had set out
to do. Why, then, did he feel he wanted to give her so much more,
speak tender words she would not want to hear, words that would
cause her to shrink from him?

With great difficulty he thrust such
foolish thoughts aside and attempted to focus on what she was
saying.

“And so I agreed to have supper with
him, an intimate supper. The abduction promises to be much easier
than I thought, and yet-" She frowned.

Sinclair traced the furrows pinching
her brow, attempting to smooth them away. "And yet?" he
prompted.

"I never expected to somewhat admire
Bonaparte, to almost like him,” she admitted sheepishly. “What did
you think of him?"

"I suppose he can exercise a certain
sort of fascination," Sinclair conceded. To him, as a loyal
Englishman, Bonaparte would ever be simply his country's enemy. But
if Belle was beginning to have second thoughts about the abduction,
Sinclair was ready to encourage her, fearing as he did that the
plot might be betrayed by the traitor in Merchant's
organization.

"Are you saying that you might not be
disappointed if for some reason the abduction had to be called
off?" he asked.

"I don't know. Yes, I think that I
would. After all, Merchant has offered us a considerable
reward.-

"Is the money that important to you,
Angel?" Sinclair stroked the hair back gently from her brow. "What
would you do with such a sum?"

"Invest it wisely." She suppressed
another yawn, burrowing deeper into her pillow. "I told you I don't
intend to be a spy forever. Someday I mean to leave my past behind
me and buy a cottage in some quiet little village."

When Sinclair smiled, she peered up at
him beneath eyelids becoming increasingly heavier with the need for
sleep.

"Why are you smirking at me like that?"
she demanded.

"Because I can't imagine you sitting
about stitching samplers and having the vicar and local tabbies in
for tea."

"You don't think I could act the role
of a respectable lady?"

"Oh, I think you could act the part all
right, but whether you would be happy doing so is another matter,"
Sinclair did not believe that Belle would be content in her little
village. Any more than if she had managed to remain married to the
dull, but virtuous lean-Claude. But Sinclair knew he would only
anger her by raising such speculations.

"Such a tame life would not suit me,"
was all he said.

"Then you must spend your share of the
money some other way." Despite her efforts to stay awake, her
lashes drifted downward. "Though you may be right about one aspect
of it," she mumbled. "The pretense, hiding my past, would grow
tiresome after a while."

She forced her eyes open long enough to
give him a drowsy smile. "You know that is the one thing I truly
adore about you, Sinclair."

"What's that, Angel?" he
asked.

"That there is never any pretense
between us. No deception. Yours is probably the first honest
relationship I have ever had."

Sinclair's answering smile froze. He
was glad when she closed her eyes again so that she would not see
how she had disconcerted him.

That is your cue, Carrington, a voice
inside him nagged. Time to tell her the truth about who you are,
what you are really doing in Paris. But how could he, after what
she had just said, especially after what had taken place between
them? He could just hear himself trying to explain. "I work for the
British army, Belle. I was sent here to spy upon you and your
companions, to discover which of you is a traitor."

Might she not misconstrue the
compassion that had led him to encourage her to talk out her
sorrows last night, even misunderstand his motives for making love
to her?

And yet, he had to tell her the truth,
let her know what danger she risked by going ahead with a plot that
might at any moment be betrayed. How would she react? Would she
help him uncover the counterspy?

Sinclair studied Belle's serene
profile, the golden lashes fanning her cheeks. He had learned
enough of Belle to know that her loyalties were to people above
nations. If Lazare were the one, Sinclair did not doubt that she
would aid him gladly. But Englishwoman or no, if the traitor should
prove to be Baptiste or even if Jean-Claude were somehow involved,
then Sinclair did not know how far he could trust to Belle's
support.

He ground his fingers against his weary
eyes. Everything had seemed simplified when he had discovered Belle
could not be the counterspy. But he now saw clearly that matters
were more complicated than ever. He still could not risk telling
Belle the truth.

In any case, the present opportunity
for confession had passed. While he had debated the matter, Belle
had fallen soundly asleep. Slipping quietly from the bed, he donned
his breeches. By the time he retrieved his shirt, he had reached a
decision. He would not tell her, not until he had proof certain the
traitor was Lazare. In the meantime, he must keep a vigilant watch
over Belle and make sure she remained safe.

He tiptoed over to the bed and adjusted
the coverlets more snugly about her. But as he bent to kiss her
smooth untroubled brow, he could not rid himself of the nagging
sensation that by keeping silent he was making a grave
mistake.

A mistake he might heartily come to
regret one day.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Belle awoke hours later, she bore
vague memories of Sinclair tucking her in, the feel of his warm
lips grazing her forehead. The recollection was marred by the
impression of a tension in the hands that had so tenderly pulled
the coverlet up to her chin, a glimpse of an anxious
frown.

Though why that should be, she could
not say. She tried to recall the conversation they had been having
when she had drifted off to sleep, but her memories of it were
hazy. In the end she dismissed her misgivings as imagination, more
pressing matters crowding forward to occupy her mind.

The promised invitation from Bonaparte
arrived that afternoon, setting the date of their supper for a week
hence, to be held at his private apartments in the palace of
Saint-Cloud, some twelve miles outside of Paris.

One week, Belle reflected as she
smoothed her hand over the crisp sheet of vellum. That did not give
her much time.

The ensuing days passed in a flurry of
activity. To avoid any hint of suspicion, she and Sinclair
continued to play their role as the typical English couple touring
abroad, accepting invitations to some of the salons, being seen
walking along the Petite Coblentz at the fashionable hour,
exploring the Louvre like the other foreign visitors to gawk at the
masterpieces Napoleon had plundered from the nations he had
conquered.

Contrasting to these public appearances
were the clandestine meetings with Baptiste, Crecy, and Lazare to
finalize the plans for the abduction. These sessions proved long,
the arguments many. Lazare favored waylaying the first consul's
coach en route, The road to St. Cloud contained quarries where a
contingent of armed men might easily be hidden.

But as Belle pointed out, Bonaparte was
no fool. She had gleaned the information that these quarries were
always checked before Napoleon set out for St. Cloud. She favored a
more subtle approach. Their own men disguised as members of the
consular guard would have a greater chance of drawing near to the
coach, overpowering the escort before the deception was
discovered,

While the merits of this suggestion
were debated at length, Belle frequently found her attention
wandering, her gaze tracking toward Sinclair. It was most strange,
she thought. Part of her reluctance to succumb to Sinclair's charm
had been her fear of the distracting effect it would have on their
work. Yet at most, when their eyes met, the warmth of a knowing
glance would pass between them. An accidental brushing of his hand
upon hers would send a tingle rushing through her veins. But she
doubted that any could have guessed from the cool sophistication of
their manner that their relationship was anything other than
professional.

By day Monsieur and Madame Carrington
presented the image of the well-bred married couple, courteous and
dispassionate. Ah, but by night, in Sinclair's arms, in the dark of
her bedchamber, that was entirely another matter.

By the morning of the military review,
five days had passed since the reception, and Belle felt able to
relax somewhat. Her plan had been adopted in the teeth of Lazare's
objections; most of the details had been settled. Work on the light
coach to which Bonaparte would be transferred was complete, some
reliable men for added force recruited from Crecy's servants, the
stitching on the duplicate guard uniforms nearly
finished.

Belle had naught to do but wait and
continue to enact her part as the alluring Mrs. Carrington. As she
prepared to dress to attend the review, she paused long enough to
force open the window casement in her bedchamber.

The weather had turned unseasonably
warm these past few days, the breeze whispering past the curtains
seeming more borne of May than October. Belle selected her lightest
gown, a high-waisted walking dress of pearl-colored jaconet, the
hem bordered with narrow tucks, then summoned Paulette to help her
with her hair.

But the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be
found. Belle pulled a wry face. Paulette had been more flighty than
usual of late, unreliable. She supposed it might be the weather or
the woman's excitement at being back in Paris again. It would not
have surprised Belle if Paulette had found herself a lover
somewhere.

Shrugging off her annoyance, Belle
scooped up the hairbrush from the dressing table. She had indeed
allowed herself to become a pampered dolt if she did not still know
how to do her own hair.

Brushing the strands into an
arrangement of soft curls, Belle donned a gypsy hat of straw,
bending it into bonnet shape by use of a sky-blue ribbon. Fetching
her silk-fringed parasol and a lace shawl, she headed briskly
downstairs.

It did not surprise her to find both
antechamber and drawing room empty. Punctuality, at least for
social functions, she was rapidly discovering, was not amongst
Sinclair's list of virtues. But this particular time, for the
military review, she did not intend that they should be
late.

Marching back up to his room, she
delivered a thundering summons against his door, but was
disconcerted to discover that Sinclair was not in the apartment at
all. He surely would have had no place to go at such an early hour.
She could not imagine where he might be unless. . .

She had noted that Sinclair found time
each day to stop below to pass a few minutes with Baptiste in his
lodgings or the fan shop, a fact that pleased Belle. Once
accustomed to being surrounded by a large family, she knew that
Baptiste was often lonely, the gregarious little Frenchman always
glad of any company, ever proud to display his crafts. Despite
Baptiste's initial wariness of Sinclair, she sensed that a liking
had developed between the two men.

Likely that was where Sinclair was now.
If she hurried down, she could visit with Baptiste herself for a
moment, and they would still have time to attend the
review.

Hastening below, she again
met with disappointment. A placard bearing the word closed had been
placed in the shop's front window. That was as odd as Sinclair's
unexplained absence, Belle thought. Today was the
decadi
, a proclaimed
holiday. But Baptiste had ever ignored the Revolutionary calendar,
the decree that every tenth day should be treated as a day of
rest.

Frowning in puzzlement, she went round
to the back of the building where Baptiste had his lodgings behind
the shop. She half-feared again to meet with no answer, but the
door swung open at once with her first knock.