Rendezvous (9781301288946) (36 page)

"That has nothing to do with it."
Jean-Claude glared down at her. "It is Bonaparte, himself. What he
is. Do you not see it? He is the dark side of the
Revolution."

When she looked at him with
incomprehension, Jean-Claude flung his hands wide in an impassioned
gesture. "He is the embodiment of all the violence, all the greed,
the power hunger that destroyed the fine ideals, the noble purpose
and the quest for freedom that the Revolution should have
been."

"I will grant you that General
Bonaparte is something of a freebooter, an opportunist, perhaps,
who took advantage of the circumstances—"

"He is evil incarnate."

Belle tried to reason with him, but saw
it was of no avail. Jean-Claude, who had ever thrived on debate,
attempting to see all viewpoints, was totally beyond reason. It was
as though he had taken all the anger and the bitterness of the
Revolution he had never been adequately able to express and had
found an outlet for it by settling his hatred on the person of one
man. Foreboding coursed through her.

"If you hate the man so," she asked,
"why were you at his reception?"

"Because at last I have learned the
advantage of playing my enemy's games, disguising my feelings,
watching, waiting—" The glazed look in Jean-Claude's eyes made her
acutely uneasy. "There is the future of France to consider and my
son."

"Yes, Jean-Jacques." Belle seized
eagerly upon the boy's name, hoping to snap Jean-Claude out of this
strange mood. "Jean-Jacques is the most charming child. Do you
intend to bring him over to France to live with you?"

"Not until things are
different."

"How different?" Belle asked sharply,
now thoroughly alarmed. She knew that the members of her group were
not the only plotters to be found in Paris. There had always been
other wild dreamers, some of them even highly placed in the French
army, hoping to generate another coup, sweep Napoleon from power. A
ridiculous fantasy, considering Bonaparte's military skill and his
popularity with the people. Surely Jean-Claude could not have
fallen prey to any of those fanatics.

"Jean-Claude," 'she demanded. "Exactly
what have you gotten yourself involved in?"

"Nothing." He forced a smile. "Nothing
that I would wish you to be concerned about. All I can tell you now
is that these past few months I have been like a man slowly coming
awake from a dream, beginning to know myself for the first time. I
am a fool."

"No, Jean-Claude. You—"

He shook his head, gently pressing her
hands to silence her protest. "Even worse than a fool, I was a
villain of the worst sort. I did France more harm than any of those
murderous scoundrels who marched in the streets. "I discovered too
late that the careless tossing around of ideas is more dangerous
than the blaze of cannonfire. All I did was muse and dream of
Utopia, and while I did so, I let them murder my king.”

Jean-Claude raised one trembling hand
to cup her cheek. "I failed you as well, didn't I, my Isabelle? I
let my pride murder our love."

"You could not help it," she assured
him. "After all you had been through—"

"After all I had been through, I
foolishly flung away the one precious possession I had left. My
Isabelle."

For a moment she thought he meant to
catch her up in his arms. How often had she prayed for such a
thing. She was surprised at the relief she felt when he didn't. It
was just that she was so confused. Her head was reeling.

"You do still care for me, don't you,
Isabelle? A little?"

"Yes, of course, I do," she stammered.
"A great deal"

Pressing her fingertips fervently
against his lips, he said, "Dare I hope that perhaps—" He checked
himself with great difficulty. "No, at the moment all I can ask is
that you be my friend until after. . ."

"After what?"

"After my prospects improve." He stood
up abruptly. "I think it best if we walk back now before I am
betrayed into saying something most unwise."

Now thoroughly in control of himself,
she could sense him trying to put some distance between them,
except for a certain warmth in his eyes.

He had all but declared he had forgiven
her, even intimated that his love for her might once more be
revived. There had been a time when she would have been contented
with much less from him. And here he stood, promising so much more,
yet she could feel nothing but alarm.

Jean-Claude had no more notion of how
to conduct himself in an intrigue than a babe. He was bound to end
in disaster.

But he's not exactly your
responsibility anymore, is he? a surprisingly irritable voice
inside her demanded. Haven't you got enough to contend with? Yes,
but she would never forgive herself if she let anything happen to
him.

Still, there seemed nothing she could
do but fall into step beside him as they wended their way back
across the bridge

"Sinclair will be wondering what has
become of me," she remarked.

At the mention of Sinclair a shadow
crossed Jean-Claude's face. "Sinclair," he repeated, as though the
very way she had pronounced his name had dealt Jean-Claude a blow.
"The other night at the reception you told me—"

He stopped himself, stiffening his jaw
resolutely. "No, I won't ask you any more about him. We will
pretend he does not exist. He does not matter."

Belle nearly protested she could
pretend no such thing, that indeed Sinclair did matter. But she
kept silent, not wishing to shatter the tentative peace between
them.

She permitted him to escort her back
across the bridge, but back on the quay she saw no sign of
Sinclair. Jean-Claude refused to take his leave of her.

"I could scarce leave you here
unescorted with no male protector."

Belle heaved an impatient sigh.
Sinclair would have sensed at once her need to be alone, that she
was capable of shifting for herself. It seemed to have never
occurred to Jean-Claude to inquire after her manner of life during
these intervening years. He simply assumed she had continued to
live like a lady. He might no longer be a day-dreamer, but he was
still as impractical.

The critical thought startled her. She
suppressed it and after much firm insistence persuaded him to go.
As Jean-Claude took his leave of her, she could not forbear making
one last attempt to draw him out.

"You worry me. I fear you are in some
sort of trouble. I don't think it was wise for you to return to
Paris."

"If it eases your mind," he said, "I
plan to leave very soon, in a few days' time."

"That would be for the best," she
urged. "You should go back home."

"If only I knew where that was." He
gave her a sad smile and looked deep into her eyes one last time.
Then he brushed a hard kiss against her brow. Turning abruptly, he
vanished into the crowd thronging the quay.

"Damn!" Belle muttered as she stood
staring after him. It was as though the solid ground she had forged
for herself all these years had been swept from beneath her feet.
She had never had any doubts that she would know what to do if
Jean-Claude came back into her life and opened his arms to
her.

And now she stood cursing him. It was
not that she did not still care for him. Indeed she did, too much.
Cared for him and ached for him as well. He needed her now more
than ever, although he might not know it himself.

But in the interval there had been
Sinclair, a man who at last had broken through the barriers she had
constructed around her heart, who had taught her how to live again.
She could not delude herself that Sinclair only fulfilled a need of
her flesh. Their relationship went much deeper than that. There had
been a bond, an understanding between them from the very
beginning.

But was that love? It was very
different from the feeling she had cherished for Jean-Claude for so
long. She rubbed a hand over her throbbing temples.

Only one reality remained crystal clear
to her. Jean-Claude was deeply unhappy, more tormented than she had
ever seen him. If only there was something she could do to help him
now, something that would at last truly make up for that ancient
hurt she had inflicted upon him.

He belonged back at Egremont, with his
treasured books, watching his little son romp in those quiet
gardens, sheltered once more behind the high walls of the chateau
of his ancestors. She could not turn back time for Jean-Claude, but
if only she could restore him to his own.

Perhaps she might have accomplished
that if she had succeeded with her plot to abduct Napoleon. With
the monarchy returned to France, all the dispossessed nobles would
likely have their estates returned.

But these were all absurd speculations.
With her own carefully laid plans in ruins, she might as well leave
Paris herself. She scarce saw much reason to keep her rendezvous
with Bonaparte unless perhaps to lay the groundwork for a future
plot.

Why did the damned man have to change
the site of their engagement to the theater? Belle all but tossed
her head with contempt. As if she had ever had much use for French
theater. The stage had been so heavily censored since the days of
the Revolution, the sentimental and preachy tripe that remained was
scarce worth the bother. And she doubted if conditions had improved
much under Bonaparte's strict regime.

The playbill plastered over there on
the wall of the quay was a prime example. The Dutiful Wife—likely
an overdone drama about a virtuous and doubtless patriotic French
lady wrongly suspected by her husband. After he ends by killing
her, he would discover the truth and be so remorseful. And the
playbill promised the lead role would be enacted by none other than
the renowned Monsieur Georges Carribout.

And, God help the theater owner, Belle
thought with scorn, if for any reason the said Monsieur Georges
failed to appear. She knew these emotionally charged Frenchmen.
Their fury that day at the Bastille would be as nothing if denied
their favorite actor. Likely there would be a riot and the theater
would be thrown into a state of utter confusion—

Belle broke off, catching her breath. A
state of utter confusion. The words triggered something in her
mind, an idea, a daring idea that seemed to burst inside her head
like the shattering of a skyrocket.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice
Sinclair coming up behind her until he touched her lightly on the
shoulder. With a startled gasp, she spun around.

"Belle?" He frowned, staring down at
her. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He peered at her more
closely. "Are you all right?"

Well might he ask that. Belle knew that
she was trembling, but with excitement.

"Yes, I am," she breathed. "You see, I
know how we can abduct Bonaparte.”

Beyond the gauzy curtain of Belle's
bedchamber window, the sun set over Paris, stippling the sky with
rose, mauve, and gold, the colors bleeding together like an
artist's canvas left in the rain.

Yet as he stood moodily near the
window, Sinclair remained impervious to the sun's glorious display,
only aware of the shadows lengthening between him and
Belle.

She sat at her dressing table,
rearranging the bottles of lotion, hair ornaments, and other
toiletry articles as though she could find no pattern of order that
suited her.

Both of them had lapsed into a
discontented silence. They had been arguing for the better part of
the afternoon over Belle's newest plot for the abduction. Yet
Sinclair sensed that it was not in truth Bonaparte who fueled this
quarrel, but rather another solemn gentleman whose name each of
them was reluctant to mention.

"Your plan will never work, Belle,"
Sinclair muttered for about the tenth time.

"How can you be so all-fired certain?"
She snatched up a brush from her dresser, venting her frustration
upon the soft tangle of her curls. "It is no more risky than the
old plan, and you appeared willing enough to go along with
that."

"That one had some chance of success.
This one is pure madness."

Belle slammed the brush down. She drew
in a steadying breath before she spoke in a voice almost too taut
with control. "I will present my plan to the others, see what they
think, but I am sure they will agree with me. If you are still so
strongly opposed after hearing what they have to say, why, then,
you are free to go. I don't need you."

"I am fully aware of that," Sinclair
said in flat tones, yet still not able to disguise some of the pain
her words dealt him.

She glanced around at him quickly, some
of her anger appearing to dissolve. Heaving a deep sigh, she pushed
herself away from the table. "I am sorry, Sinclair. I did not mean
that."

She crossed the room to his side. After
a moment's hesitation she placed her palms lightly against the flat
of his chest. A smile crooked her lips. "It is only that you can be
so damnably stubborn, Mr. Carrington."

"So can you, Mrs. Carrington." Although
he half-returned her smile, he forced himself to remain unyielding
beneath her touch. "I thought you had agreed to abandon this
impossible task. I wish I knew what really happened to make you
almost desperate to go through with it again."