Rendezvous (9781301288946) (33 page)

Sinclair felt a nudge against his arm.
Glancing around, he discovered that George Warburton had edged his
way through the crowd and now stood at Sinclair's side.

The man bore his usual phlegmatic
expression as he studied the distant figures of the soldiers lining
up in columns. Never averting his gaze, he continued to address
Sinclair. "Such a fine spectacle, don't you agree, Mr. Carrington?
But I find the noise a little excessive."

With one of his bland smiles Warburton
beckoned slightly with his head for Sinclair to follow him.
Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, but she appeared too absorbed by
the spectacle to notice his defection.

Edging cautiously away, Sinclair
trailed Warburton at a distance. But he thought the ground could
have opened to swallow him and no one in the crowd would have paid
any heed. At that moment Bonaparte had arrived upon the scene, and
all eyes were trained upon him.

The first consul rode down the ranks
astride a white horse, wearing a black beaver hat and gray
greatcoat, surrounded by the more dazzling uniforms of his staff.
The throng of spectators appeared mesmerized.

Sinclair and Warburton drew back
further into the gardens of the Tuileries. Standing beneath the
stark, sprawling branches of a poplar tree, they feigned an avid
interest in the troop inspection taking place.

"So, Mr. Carrington," Warburton said,
"how goes your tour of Paris? Rewarding, I trust?"

"Not so much as I would have hoped, Mr.
Warburton."

"That is most
disappointing."

"I am all but convinced I know the
identity of the—er, gentleman we both seek. But proving it! He is
quite a slippery devil."

"I suppose I don't have to remind you,
Carrington. You are running out of time. According to the message
you sent me the other day, Merchant's society plans to make its
move in—in what?"

"Two days' time," Sinclair said through
gritted teeth. "And you are sure that no word of the plot has
reached the Tuileries?"

"As sure as I can be. Oh, we did think
our informant had returned to the guardhouse yesterday, but it
turned out to be only a wench, come for a lover's tryst.
Besides"—one of his rare smiles touched Warburton's lips—"if the
plot were discovered, I imagine you and your group would know of it
before I did."

"That is what I am afraid of," Sinclair
said grimly.

There seemed no more to discuss, and he
was prepared to move on, but Warburton asked almost desperately,
"And you have learned nothing more, Mr. Carrington? Nothing
whatsoever?"

Sinclair hesitated. The one new bit of
information he had uncovered appeared to him so vague as to be not
worth mentioning. However, when Warburton persisted, he said,
"Well, I have questioned the porter at our lodgings. Someone has
been seen leaving our building and returning late at night. It was
too dark for the porter to remark who the person was beneath the
hood of the cloak, but the fellow was familiar with the driver of
the cabriolet. I tracked him down just yesterday, but all the
cabman could do was give me the address he had delivered his
passenger to, somewhere in the vicinity of the
Palais¬Royal."

"Then that is something surely,"
Warburton said eagerly. "Have you checked this address?"

"No, not yet."

Sinclair stiffened defensively at
Warburton's incredulous look. "I am supposed to have nothing on my
mind, Warburton, other than participating in a certain plot. It is
a little difficult for me to get off by myself during the
day."

"What about your nights, man? What are
you up to then?"

Sinclair compressed his lips. He did
not feel that the answer to that concerned either Warburton or the
British army. Yet perhaps it did. Perhaps it concerned them greatly
that one of their agents was allowing himself to be dangerously
distracted.

The truth was Sinclair did not know if
he could have absented himself from Belle's side at night even if
he tried. He made love to her each time as though it might be the
last, for which all he knew it could be. He could not delude
himself that this affair was like countless others, that the
passion would burn itself out.

It was different with Belle, had been
from the first. He had always known that, though even yet he feared
to acknowledge how deep his feelings for her ran.

And as for her? What did she feel? He
had asked himself that question so many times, asked it now as his
gaze tracked toward the crowd of onlookers, toward where she
sheltered beneath her parasol, her face shaded from his view, even
as her heart continued to be.

He would like to believe she was
learning to experience some deeper emotion other than gratitude and
desire when he took her in his arms. But, Sinclair thought sadly,
he could not delude himself on that score, either.

He realized with some chagrin that
while their lovemaking might have distracted him somewhat from his
task, Belle remained absorbed with her work, nothing seeming to
sway her from her purpose.

Even now, her gaze focused intently
upon Bonaparte, only shifting when she bent to exchange some
comment with Baptiste about the review.

Bonaparte had dismounted and was
barking out maneuvers to the troops in a clear resonant voice,
which they executed with precision.

The first consul was more in his
element doing this, Belle thought, than he had been mingling with
the guests at the reception.

Deeply engrossed in the
orderly demonstration, Baptiste murmured, "It is a great deal
different than in the old days, eh,
mon
ange
? I can remember the time when the
gathering of a crowd such as this would have raised a knot in my
stomach."

Belle remembered all too well. A crowd
could so easily turn into a mob bent upon violent and vengeful
purposes. Yet as she gazed about her, she too felt the difference
Baptiste spoke of. Even the throng that clustered against the gates
seemed remote from that unruly crowd who had once overrun the
Tuileries. Everywhere there was a new sense of order, which seemed
to emanate from the short man in gray with his booming
voice.

Bonaparte might not be an impressive
figure on horseback, but rapping out commands to his troops was
another matter. Belle turned to gauge Sinclair's impressions and
was surprised to find him gone.

Searching about for him, she saw him
some little distance away, in earnest conversation with a
quiet-looking man Belle did not recognize.

Belle frowned. Something in Sinclair's
manner made her feel as if the man was an acquaintance, but
Sinclair had said he had never been to Paris before, that he knew
no one. Was this a friend from England perhaps?

When Sinclair finally rejoined her, she
asked casually, "Did you chance upon an old crony of
yours?"

Sinclair replied easily enough. "No,
that was only a fellow I met at the reception the other night, a
secretary or clerk or some such to the ambassador. Boring chap, but
it seemed rude to cut him."

"Oh, I see," Belle said, but she
didn't. Why did she once more have that uneasy feeling that
Sinclair was not telling her quite the entire truth? Perhaps it was
the way his eyes, ever bold, skated away from making contact with
hers. And yet what reason would he have to lie? She felt guilty
herself for being so suspicious. She was worse than a jealous wife
thinking her husband had acquired a mistress. It was only that she
had made herself so vulnerable, given so much of herself to
Sinclair, if she should once more be proven a fool . . .

Suppressing such thoughts as best she
could, she realized that the review had come to its end, the troops
filing off. If Bonaparte had remarked her attendance or even
recalled inviting her, he gave no sign of it. He mounted his horse
and rapidly rode away.

But as the crowds began to disperse,
Belle was approached by a dapper little man. In a low voice he
introduced himself as Napoleon's valet, Constant. With a low bow he
slipped her a note with the Napoleonic seal holding it closed
before turning and vanishing back through the gardens as quickly as
he had appeared.

Sinclair glanced at the paper with a
jaundiced eye. "Another billet-doux, I suppose?"

"We will know soon enough when we
return to the apartment." She gave him an arch smile and proceeded
to outline her plans for the rest of the afternoon. "I think we
should go over the details of the plan one more—"

But she was interrupted by a heartfelt
groan that issued from both Baptiste and Sinclair at
once.

"Have mercy,
mon ange
," Baptiste
pleaded. "This plan—we could recite it in our sleep. Such a
beautiful day to spend in the stuffy apartment. Surely you could
spare an hour. It is so rare that I take a holiday. I thought to
treat you and Monsieur Carrington to a petite repast at a small
café that I know."

"What an excellent notion," Sinclair
was quick to agree.

"Out of the question—" Belle began, but
Sinclair and Baptiste exchanged a glance past her. She found
herself firmly seized by one man on either side and propelled
forward.

"I think I am the victim of a
conspiracy," she grumbled, but her resistance was only token. To
say truth, she felt in something of a holiday mood herself. Perhaps
it had something to do with the stirring notes of the brass band,
the warmth of the sun on her face, or even more the warmth in a
certain wicked pair of green eyes. In any case, she gave over all
resistance, allowing herself to be whisked away by Sinclair and
Baptiste.

The Café D'Egalité was a modest
establishment, not far from the river, its rough-hewn walls giving
the impression that it had stood nearly as long as the Seine
flowed. The aroma of spirits and fresh-brewed coffee hung in the
air so strong it might have been steeped into the woodwork of the
tables. A placard hung on the wall, slightly askew, proclaimed,
"Here we still honor one another with the title of
Citoyen."

Even this obviously half-forgotten
reminder of revolutionary days was enough to curtail Belle's
pleasure in the café's quaintness. As though sensing her stiffen,
Baptiste suggested they occupy one of the tables in the small
garden. The day was certainly warm enough.

While Belle ordered
bavorosie
and Baptiste his
wine, Sinclair opted for some "genuine English beer."

"I thought you did not like beer,"
Belle said as she stripped off her gloves.

"I don't." Sinclair sighed. "But the
waiter appeared so proud to be able to offer it, how could I
disappoint the poor fellow?"

Offering him a half-amused
smile, Belle glanced about the garden which boasted no more than
five tables, all of the others being vacant. The only others
present were two elderly gentlemen playing at
jeu des bagues
at the opposite end of
the garden. She decided she might just risk a glance at the note
from Bonaparte.

Breaking the seal, she scanned the
contents. The opening amused her somewhat.

“Since the night of the reception, your
beauty fills my memory. My thoughts have been only of
you.”

This was yet another side to the blunt
Corsican soldier. Who would imagine he could be such a romantic. It
was the sort of infatuated nonsense she might have expected to have
received from a boy like Phillipe Coterin, But as she scanned
farther down the page, her smile faded,

"Damn!" she said.

Sinclair paused in the act of raising
the flagon to his lips. "What's amiss?"

By way of answer she simply handed the
note to him.

"The white curves of your soft, sweet—"
Sinclair began to read aloud.

"Not that," she interrupted sharply.
"Read the closing paragraph."

Belle could tell when Sinclair had
found the crucial part, for one of his eyebrows jutted
upward.

"Well, what is it?" Baptiste cried. "Or
do you both mean to slay me with this suspense?"

"Bonaparte has canceled his supper with
Belle," Sinclair said. "He leaves Paris within the week for an
extended tour of the provinces."

"
Nom
de Dieu
!" Baptiste exclaimed. He shook his
head. "
Quelle
catastrophe
! Why, once he is out of
Paris on a ceremonial tour, there will be no getting near the man.
He will constantly be surrounded by his entourage and adoring
crowds."

Belle bit ruefully down upon her lip.
"I know."

"And so the note is his
farewell?" Baptiste asked. "He makes no further mention of seeing
you again,
mon ange
?"

"Not at an intimate supper. But by way
of consolation, he offers a discreet meeting in one of the boxes at
the Theatre Odeon to attend the current performance."

"Ah, but of course." Baptiste nodded.
"The general is most fond of drama. He often attends
incognito."

"It doesn’t matters if he comes
disguised as a Turk," Sinclair said. "I would defy anyone to
arrange the abduction of a man from so public a place as a
theater."