Rendezvous (9781301288946) (32 page)

"Oh! Baptiste, you are here. Is
Sinclair with—" She broke off in surprise as she obtained a better
look at her old friend. This was Baptiste as she had never seen him
before. Gone were the much-darned brown clothes and the leather
apron. Dressed in an old-fashioned, but immaculate green frock
coat, he had knotted a modest white cravat and black tie about his
throat. In one work-worn hand he carried a gray felt hat trimmed
with silk cord, his straggly salt and pepper hair smoothed back in
neat waves.

"Why, Baptiste! You
look
trés beau
."

He blushed at her
compliment, the red spreading from the tip of his nose across his
leathery cheeks. He shrugged. "It is nothing, only the
habillement
I wear to
mass."

"But it is not Sunday. What is the
occasion?"

"Did not Monsieur Carrington inform
you?" Baptiste regarded her in rather anxious fashion. "You see, I
was telling him but yesterday afternoon that I had never taken the
time to attend any of Bonaparte's reviews. They are acclaimed as
quite the spectacle. And if our plan succeeds, this could well be
the last, so. . .” He trailed off, staring humbly down at the brim
of his hat.

"So Monsieur Carrington suggested you
accompany us?" Belle asked with a smile.

"If you have no
objections,
mon ange
."

"Of course I do not object. But where
is Sinclair? Have you not seen him this morning?"

When Baptiste answered in the negative,
she frowned, the first stirrings of unease beginning to niggle at
her.

"Are you sure he is not yet upstairs?"
Baptiste asked. "Perhaps he lingers in the bath."

Belle shook her head. "No, he has
definitely gone out. Both his cloak and umbrella are missing." She
had noted some time ago, that rain or shine, Sinclair rarely
stirred without his umbrella, an unusual affectation for an
Englishman. She could only suppose that he carried it for
protection, likely having a swordstick concealed in the handle as
many gentlemen were wont to do.

"Do not look so
worried,
mon ange
,"
Baptiste said. "I am sure he will return in good time. I wish to
check the shop once more to make certain the doors are secured,
then I will meet you out front to search for him if you
wish."

Belle agreed absently. Moving away, she
had already decided to check the apartment herself one more time in
the event that Sinclair had returned while she talked with
Baptiste.

As she started up the outer stairs, she
was relieved to hear a footfall on the landing above her that
seemed to pause just outside the apartment door.

"Sinclair?" she called out
eagerly.

"I fear not," a silky French voice
drawled.

She heard the scrape of a boot as a
tall masculine form emerged from the shadows above.

"Oh. Larare," Belle said in flat tones
of disappointment. She froze in mid-step. He continued to saunter
down the stairs, taking each one with a slow deliberation, those
cool blue eyes of his fixing her like ice picks.

Belle experienced a strong urge to
retreat, although she could not have said why. These past days
Lazare had kept to his pledge of not giving her any trouble. Aside
from his usual brand of insolence, he seemed to acknowledge her
position as leader, carrying out whatever commands she gave in his
own grudging fashion.

Yet she still did not relish
the prospect of a
tete-a-tete
with him, something she had managed to avoid thus
far.

His lips thinned to a sneer.
"What,
ma chére
Isabelle? Never tell me you have misplaced the estimable
Monsieur Carrington?"

"No," she said coldly, not about to
display any of her anxiety before Lazare's sarcastic gaze.
"Sinclair has simply gone out. When I heard you on the stair, I
hoped it was him returning. We do have the review to attend this
morning."

"Ah, yes, one of Bonaparte's infamous
military displays. It would be a thousand pities if Monsieur
Carrington did not return in time.”

Belle did not like the smile that
accompanied Lazare's words. He seemed to be taking a kind of sly
amusement from the situation.

In no humor to be baited by the
Frenchman's blunt wit, she said nothing more, but turned and made a
dignified exit, to stand outside, observing the morning bustle of
pedestrians and carriages thronging the Rue St. Honoré, peering
anxiously for some sign of Sinclair.

To her annoyance, Lazare followed her.
He lounged in the open doorway, paring the dirt from beneath his
nails with his knife. The sunlight accented the angel-white tint of
his hair and flushed his scar a shade of dull angry red.

"Monsieur Carrington, he has a habit of
wandering off, does he not?" Lazare asked as though making idle
conversation.

"I am sure I don't know what you mean,"
Belle said.

"It is just that I have
noticed each day he has an errand that takes him somewhere,
n’est pas
?"

Belle had not given the matter much
consideration. At other times she had been much too occupied
herself to keep track of the length of Sinclair's brief absences.
But now that she thought about it, she supposed that Lazare was
right.

"Now, where do you imagine he goes?"
Lazare purred.

"Out for a walk, to make a purchase, I
don't know," Belle said. "Since I am not in truth his wife, I don't
keep him on that tight of a leash."

A hint of irritation crept into Belle's
voice, although she determined to ignore Lazare and whatever he was
attempting to insinuate about Sinclair. The Frenchman had a
penchant for making mischief. It seemed as necessary to him as
breathing.

"Very much the man of mystery, our
Monsieur Carrington," Lazare continued to muse, rubbing the tips of
his fingers beneath his chin. "Have you ever found that strange,
Isabelle? I have. After all, we all know a little something of one
another, yet we know next to nothing about him."

Although Belle kept her features
impassive, she tensed. How like Lazare to hit upon the one fact
that did yet disturb her about Sinclair. As intimate as she and
Sinclair had become, his background did remain closed to her. When
he took her in his arms, touched her heart with that look of
soul-deep understanding, she could tell herself she knew Sinclair
well enough. That his reluctance to discuss his own past did not
matter and yet. . .

"Merchant considered Sinclair suitable
enough to employ him," Belle snapped at Lazare. "That is sufficient
for me,"

"Is it? For
moi
, I am afraid not. I
have never placed that much faith in Merchant's judgment. Now, this
Carrington—" Lazare wagged the tip of his knife at her. "He never
seems to show that much enthusiasm for the little project that has
brought us all to Paris."

"I don't ask for enthusiasm, just
efficiency."

Once more she had to admit to herself
that Lazare spoke true. At all their meetings Sinclair remained
silent, never putting forth any suggestions, though Belle was
certain his mind equaled her own when it came to weaving plots.
Sinclair had been reluctant from the first, yet he had undertaken
the mission. His lack of enthusiasm signified nothing. All the
same, Belle wished that Lazare would take himself off. His voice
was beginning to affect her like the rasp of a file on an iron
bar.

She glanced once more up the street,
annoyed to feel her foot begin to tap out a rhythm of nervous
impatience.

"Maybe Carrington has lost his nerve,"
Lazare said softly. "Maybe he has simply gone off and does not
intend to come back."

"I hardly think so." She spun about to
glare at Lazare. "Do you have nothing better to do than stand here
jawing at me?"

Lazare ignored her tirade. His teeth
glinted as he continued inexorably, "Maybe you will find yourself a
widow again. Maybe I will have to take over Carrington's
role

"That will not be necessary,
Lazare."

The sound of that familiar resonant
voice flooded Belle with a welcome sense of relief. She caught a
glimpse of Lazare's stunned expression before she turned to face
Sinclair.

"Sinclair, where have you. . ." Her
words trailed off in dismay as she took in Sinclair's appearance,
his hair wildly disheveled, dirt smudging his cheek, the capes of
his garrick torn and smattered with mud, the curly-brimmed beaver
hat he gripped in his fist smashed beyond recognition.

"What happened to you?" she
asked.

"I went out to find a tobacconist,"
Sinclair said, "when I was nearly run down by two soldiers on
horseback."

While Belle exclaimed, taking
Sinclair's arm to assure herself he had not been hurt, she thought
she heard Lazare mutter a low curse. But when she glanced his way,
his head was ducked down as he slid his knife back into its
sheath.

"You should be more careful where you
walk, Carrington," Lazare grunted.

"I was being careful enough. Those two
had to have been blind not to see me."

Lazare shrugged. "Ah, well, you know
these soldiers. They think they own the streets of Paris. A pity
they ruined your pretty coat, but it could have been your
head."

So saying, Lazare turned and lurched
back into the building. Sinclair stared hard after him. "Now, why
do I get the feeling that our good friend Lazare is disappointed it
was not my head?"

"Never mind him," Belle said, making a
brisk attempt to brush some of the dirt from Sinclair's sleeve.
Although relieved to have him returned unharmed, her mind was
already racing ahead. "I am glad to see you back safe."

"Are you, Angel?" Sinclair glanced down
at her, his look becoming warm.

"Certainly. Have you entirely forgotten
about the review?"

"Ah, yes, Bonaparte. And to think I
imagined your joy to see me was entirely for my own
sake."

Although Sinclair spoke in his usual
jesting fashion, she thought she detected a flash of hurt in his
eyes. She would have liked to reassure him in a most intimate
manner, but Baptiste joined them just then and she had no choice
but to urge Sinclair upstairs to quickly change his
coat.

The sunlight flooded the Place du
Carrousel, glinting off the bayonets as the troops marched into
place for the review, their colorful regimental flags snapping in
the breeze.

Flanked on either side by Sinclair and
Baptiste, Belle unfurled her parasol to shield her face. Baptiste's
height placed him at a disadvantage when some taller gentlemen
moved in front of him, but he craned his neck, leaning to one side
straining eagerly for a view as the soldiers maneuvered into
position. Belle noted with some amusement that his enthusiasm was
little different from the small boys who stood at the vanguard of
the crowd gathered outside the gates, pressing their faces against
the bars.

Sinclair, however, observed the entire
proceedings with folded arms, a half-frowning expression upon his
face. Belle supposed that one could not expect an Englishman to be
much diverted by a display of French military might.

"You do not seem to be much impressed,
Mr. Carrington," she murmured to him in a low voice.

"This is not the way I would choose to
spend such a fine morning, watching a parcel of saber
rattling."

She arched one brow. "We are a little
surly today, are we not?"

"What do you expect, recollecting that
the entire purpose of this expedition is to escort my wife here to
flirt with another man. I am acting out the part of the jealous
husband."

"And you do it so well, sir," she
teased, "though I doubt you have much to fear from Monsieur
Bonaparte this morning. He will be fully occupied."

Sinclair smiled, but said nothing. He
made greater effort to appear more himself, but the truth was, he
was worried. He had accomplished little these past five days, for
all his subtle questioning, attempting to delve deeper into the
backgrounds of Baptiste and Crecy, trying to keep a close watch
upon Lazare.

Sinclair felt that Lazare almost mocked
him with the correctness of his behavior. On the surface Lazare
appeared to be working as industriously to achieve the abduction as
any of them, and yet something in the Frenchman's manner left
Sinclair continually uneasy. His mistrust of Lazare had grown to
the point of superstition, where he had all but fancied the
miscreant had had something to do with his own near accident this
morning.

That, Sinclair reluctantly conceded,
had to be absurd. If there was anyone Lazare wished to harm, it was
not himself. It was Belle whom Sinclair frequently caught the
fellow watching like an adder about to devour its prey, waiting,
always patiently waiting. But for what? That was the question that
tormented Sinclair.

"Mr. Carrington?"

Lost in his own thoughts, Sinclair
scarce heard the voice speaking his name above the blare of the
military band. "Good morrow, Mr. Carrington."