Rendezvous (9781301288946) (37 page)

"I told you. I saw that playbill. It
gave me the idea to—"

"I wonder." Sinclair regarded her
through narrowed eyes. "Or did it have more to do with something he
said to you today?"

He could feel the sudden tension in the
soft hands that rested against his chest.

"I suppose," he said bitterly, "you
will tell me it is none of my concern what Varens wanted of
you."

Her hands fell away from him. She took
a step back. "He wanted nothing. Only to apologize for his behavior
at the reception—that is all."

"Was it? I feared that perhaps the
noble idiot finally realized what he had thrown away when he let
you go."

Her indignant glance should have
stopped him, but he had gone through far too many agonies of
jealousy and suspicion while waiting for Belle's return. He feared
if he did not release some of it, he would explode.

"Perhaps Varens is the reason for your
sudden eagerness to make your plan work at all costs. You are no
longer thinking of a little cottage in Dorsetshire, are you, Belle?
Maybe it has occurred to you that with Bonaparte gone, Varens might
get his estates back and you could be his countess again. And you
expect me to risk my neck to help you."

Her throat constricted. "I don't expect
anything from you—ever again." Whipping away from him, she strode
to the door that connected their bedchambers and yanked it open. "I
think you had better go."

"Right." He marched toward the door,
but when he reached the threshold, he hesitated. He glanced down at
Belle, her face so pale, the set of her jaw so obdurate, yet the
misery roiling in her eyes matched the turmoil he felt in his own
soul.

Ever cool in his relations with women,
he was not accustomed to these gnawing feelings of anger, the
suspicion that he was behaving like an ass.

"Oh, hell." He expelled his breath in
an explosive sigh. Prying her fingers from the knob, he eased the
door closed. He gave her a rueful smile. "We have really gotten our
parts down well, Angel. We are even starting to sound
married."

His remark choked a reluctant laugh
from her. When he held out his arms, she cast herself into them. He
strained close, burying his face against her hair.

"I told you once that I did not mind
about Varens, but he is not just a memory anymore, is he? And I am
very much afraid—" Sinclair drew in a deep breath and then took the
plunge. "I have fallen in love with you."

"Oh, Sinclair." She gazed up at him,
earnestly scanning face. "I wish that I could tell you how I feel,
but I am so confused. Nothing is clear to me anymore."

Her arms tightened about his neck, and
she rested her head wearily against his shoulder.

"It's all right, Angel. You don't have
to try to say anything. We agreed from the beginning, no promises,
no forevers. But no matter how things turn out between us—"
Sinclair felt his jaw tighten as he pleaded, "Don't go back to
Varens. He's bad for you, Belle. You don't belong in his artificial
world of dreams. You are too strong, too real for that."

"I am not planning to go off with
anyone," she said. "He has not even asked me. But there was some
truth to what you said earlier. I would like to see him regain his
estates, at least some part of what he has lost. But that is not my
only reason for wanting to go ahead with the plan against
Bonaparte."

"Forget Bonaparte. Forget Varens,"
Sinclair groaned. He forced her face up to his. "For this one last
night, just be mine."

He crushed her mouth beneath his in a
kiss that was hard and long, only breaking off to continue the
feverish caress along the soft white column of her throat. He felt
Belle stiffen with surprise, resistance at first of this fierce
onslaught, only to give way with a burst of passion that matched
his own.

They clung, kissed, tumbled to the bed,
and embraced in a manner that was little short of desperate. The
tenderness, the playful skill that had always graced their previous
couplings was gone. Sinclair bore but one determination. If he
could drive Jean-Claude from Belle's heart with the ferocity of his
loving, he would do it. And she responded eagerly, her own desire
as savage as though equally determined to forget.

Yet when they at last lay spent in each
other's arms, they experienced none of the usual glow of
satisfaction. Belle drew away from him, and they rested side by
side, without touching. And when their eyes met, it was clear that
Jean-Claude was yet very much with them. Nothing had been
resolved.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

By day the Palais-Royal appeared nearly
the same as it had for the generations when it had been owned by
the D'Orleans family. The gardens were a place of great charm with
rows of lime trees and broad expanses of lawn. The quadrangle
structure itself stretched upward in a series of galleries,
connected on the ground floor by a colonnade done in the neoclassic
style. But the palace that had once sheltered the household of a
duke with claim to royal blood was now broken into a series of
small businesses and apartments.

In the bright sunshine it was a whirl
of activity, one of the favorite shopping spots of Paris with its
collection of restaurateurs, confectioners, florists, milliners,
hair-dressers, watchmakers.

But by night the gardens
rustled with shadows, the shops were all shuttered, and the
denizens of the upper floors stirred to life, the Palais becoming a
hive of the most respectable vice to be found in Paris. The
galleries boasted a seemingly endless array of gambling salons, to
say nothing of the discreet apartments of those women known as
the
femmes du monde
, their daring low-cut gowns replacing those demure muslin of
the ladies who had strolled about shopping in the afternoon. These
bold creatures lay claim to the gardens, lingering in the shadows
of the colonnades along with the cutpurses and scores of other
rogues.

One such pert dame, what youthful
attractions she possessed buried beneath a layer of rouge, eyed
with speculation two strapping soldiers lounging near one of the
colonnades.

The older of the two, a fellow with a
pointed chin, appeared more interested in swilling from a bottle of
gin. But the younger, crudely handsome with a fine set of bristling
mustaches, offered the wench every sign of
encouragement.

When she tried to approach, the
weasel-faced one glared at her. "Off with you, slut. Go peddle your
wares elsewhere."

"Ah, you are hard and cruel, m'sieur,"
she started to whine, but when he menaced her with upraised fist,
she cursed him, melting back into the night.

"You didn't have to drive her off,
Giles," the youth protested. "I could have used a bit of
diversion."

"We are here for business, Auguste, not
diversion." Giles took another gulp from his bottle. "Lazare is
already wroth with us."

Auguste snorted. "You may fear the
displeasure of Monsieur Scar Face, but I promise you that I— oof!"
He broke off with a grunt when his older brother poked his stomach
in warning fashion.

A figure stalked toward them, draped in
a black cowl and cape like some sinister monk of the Inquisition, a
man seeming spawned of the night shadows. Moonlight rendered the
wisps of Lazare's hair ghost-white, his handsome scarred face like
some grotesque mask depicting good and evil.

For all his bravado, young Auguste went
pale, and Giles's hand, yet clutching his bottle, was seen to
tremble. Lazare's mouth thinned to a smile. They feared him, both
the brothers Marboeuf, despite their bluster to the contrary. Their
courage was about as real as the false uniforms they wore upon
their backs, a clever device they had long ago adopted to avoid
being pressed into the army. If any officer ever questioned them or
examined their regimentals too closely, the Marboeufs were quick to
take to their heels.

But against an unarmed opponent in the
dark, Lazare thought cynically, the two bore courage enough. After
ascertaining they were sufficiently cowed by his stare, Lazare
said, "You are on time for once, citizens. You show great
wisdom."

"Been waiting for nigh half an hour,"
Giles ventured to grumble. "Damned chilly tonight." He lifted his
bottle to his lips for another swallow.

Lazare's hand shot out, knocking the
bottle from Giles's grasp. The glass shattered against the
colonnade. But in a night already disrupted by raucous laughter,
the shameless squeals of the lightskirts pursuing their trade, the
splintering sound went unremarked.

Giles glowered at Lazare, but he dared
not comment, merely rubbing the back of his hand across his
lips.

"I want you sober," Lazare hissed.
"There will be no mistakes such as you made yesterday
morn."

"We done our best," Giles whined.
"Who'd of thought the Englishman could move so fast? I never did
see the likes of how he fair dived from beneath the hooves of my
horse."

"We could scarce take another pass at
him, either," Auguste added. "Not in broad daylight."

"Well, it is dark enough now," Lazare
said.

"Oui." Auguste fingered the ends of his
mustache and slapped his sword in a swaggering manner. "This time
we will see how well Monsieur Carrington can dodge a
blade."

"I care not how you do it." Lazare eyed
him coldly. "But sunrise tomorrow must find Carrington quite
dead."

Marcellus Crecy's gaming den was
located upon the second-floor arcade of the Palais-Royal. The
discreet looking door opened onto a vast chamber glittering with
light. Large gilt mirrors reflected back the fashionable men and
women of Paris gathered about tables, lost in the pursuit of
roulette, vingt-et-un, and other card games.

Sinclair blinked, taking a moment to
adjust his eyes after the darkness outside. By the time he moved to
help Belle off with her cloak, a servant had intercepted him in the
task. The fellow's powdered wig and maroon-colored livery with gold
buttons would have done justice to a ducal household.

Crecy, who ambled forward to greet
them, might well have been the duke, his girth elegantly garbed in
a silk coat and knee breeches, his leonine mass of silvery hair
swept back from his broad forehead.

"Ah, Madame and Monsieur Carrington."
Marcellus's round face creased into a bland smile. "So good of you
to grace my establishment."

While Belle offered her hand to be
kissed, Sinclair could only manage a curt nod. He had not much more
capacity for keeping up this pretense. Today had already proved
enough of a strain. His hope that the others in the society would
dissuade Belle from pursuing her reckless plan had proved
unavailing. To a man, they had all approved her idea. The day had
been spent in another frenetic round of preparation. Tonight would
see the confirmation of the plot's final details.

Crecy leaned forward conspiratorially.
"You could not have chosen a better night. The most discreet game
of euchre is being played in a private room in the back. Perhaps it
would be more to your taste than this crowd."

Belle's low reply gave nothing away.
"Thank you, monsieur. You are the perfect host."

With a graceful bow, Marcellus led the
way.

I've got to put a stop to this thing
soon, Sinclair thought desperately, as he had more than once these
past hours. Yet how he was to do so without revealing to all of
them his true identity and purpose, Sinclair did not
know.

For the moment all he could do was to
keep step with Belle, trailing after Crecy. Marcellus appeared very
much the master of his establishment, pausing here and there to
greet some of his clientele, to deliver a sharp rebuke to a footman
not leaping swiftly enough to attend the guests' wants, thereby
allowing them to wander too far from the tables with money still in
their pockets. Fortunes seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye,
swept away beneath the croupier's nimble rakes.

Despite the seriousness of their
purpose in coming there tonight, Marcellus was not too preoccupied
to display to Sinclair the amenities of his house.

When they passed by a curtained alcove,
he gestured proudly toward it. "In there I have what I call the
refuge of the wounded, Monsieur Carrington. Those gentlemen who
ruin themselves at the tables have access to a private balcony, a
selection of pistols, also ink and paper for any farewell
message."

"How excessively civil of you,"
Sinclair said dryly. Crecy did not seem at all perturbed by this
hint of his disapproval.

"Ah, well, we French have always been
more sophisticated about such things than you English."

"God preserve me from such
sophistication," Sinclair muttered. He stole a glance at Belle to
see what she made of Crecy's accommodation, but she had paid little
heed. He did not know where her thoughts were, but he judged from
her distant expression that she was miles away.

With Jean-Claude, he wondered, then
forced the painful supposition aside. He and Belle had made a pact
after rising from her bed last night. They would discuss neither
the Comte de Egremont or the future until their mission was
resolved. Nor would they seek to touch or embrace.