Rendezvous (9781301288946) (41 page)

Belle was forced back from Sinclair's
desperate struggle. She tensed as the soldier closed in. He lunged
wildly, but she deftly parried the blow, the scrape of steel
ringing out into the night.

Auguste's thrusts were savage, hard,
but with little skill behind them. Belle parried easily, but knew
if she did not make an end to this soon, he would wear her down.
Panting, she circled, looking for her opening, aware that Sinclair
was not able to come to her aid, terrified that he was being choked
to death.

The man made a wild slash, coming
perilously near to cutting open her face. It took him a moment to
recover his balance. In that unguarded instant Belle drove her own
weapon home, piercing Auguste's sword hand. With a cry, he dropped
his weapon, clutching at his bloodied hand.

As Belle pressed the tip of her sword
in menacing fashion against the paunch of his stomach, Auguste
stumbled back from her in wide-eyed terror. Sparing not so much as
another glance for Giles, he whirled about and fled the
court.

Belle's own gaze flicked to Sinclair.
He appeared to have gone slack beneath the large soldier's hands,
with their brutal crushing grip upon his neck.

Gripping the sword in her
sweat-slickened hand, Belle staggered to his aid, but at that
moment Sinclair's hand closed about a rock and dealt a hard blow to
his assailant's temple.

His grip broken, Giles tumbled to one
side. Sinclair rallied enough to deliver one more punch. With a low
groan Giles sagged back, subsiding into unconsciousness.

Belle's relief was short-lived as she
watched Sinclair also sink down, clutching his throat. Belle bent
over him, pushing his hand aside, ripping away his disheveled
cravat, loosening his shirt buttons.

"Sinclair?" she whispered, studying his
pale, bruised features, the bloody cut on his forehead, one eye all
but swollen shut.

Behind them in the house beyond the
gate, at last a light appeared, and the sounds of the occupants
stirring awake were heard.

"Sinclair!" she called more
frantically.

He forced his good eye open to regard
her. He could hardly get his breath, but he still managed to give
her his roguish grin.

"And you would trade all this for a
cottage in Dorsetshire?" he rasped.

"You fool!" she said with a choked
sound that was part laugh, part sob. Drawing her arm beneath his
shoulders, she struggled to help him to his feet. "Let me get you
home, or we may yet end this night in gaol."

Sinclair sagged back against the
pillows of Belle's bed. He emitted a low groan as she dabbed a cool
cloth at the cut upon his brow. He winced as her fingers accidently
brushed against the huge swelling below one eye.

"I suppose it could have been worse,"
Belle muttered, surveying the damage.

"Much worse. You saved my life tonight,
Angel. Where did you ever learn to wield a sword like
that?"

"From Jean-Claude's old sword master.
Jean-Claude had not much employment for the man, so I persuaded him
to give me lessons to pass the time—" Belle broke off, annoyed with
herself for nearly admitting she had oft found life at Egremont a
little boring.

"Now, stop talking and hold still," she
snapped. Now that the danger was past, a cold anger took possession
of her. Sinclair had jeopardized everything, getting involved in a
fight in a brothel like some drunken sailor on shore leave. Why,
she wanted to know? What had it all been about?

"As soon as I have attended to this
wound, we have a great deal to discuss, Mr. Carrington."

"Yes, I fear we do." He sighed, closing
his eyes.

Belle drew back, regarding his cut and
the bloodied cloth in her hand with some frustration. "I cannot
seem to get the blasted thing to stop bleeding."

"There is some sticking plaster in my
room," Sinclair said. "In the wardrobe."

"I will go fetch it. You just lie still
and don't move." She left the room, striding into Sinclair's
adjoining chamber. She pulled a face. As always, it was a mess,
perhaps now even worse than usual. When he had returned from the
fight, the first thing Sinclair had done was strip off his bloodied
cloak and waistcoat, adding them to the heap.

After a lengthy search she found the
sticking plaster. But hastening toward the door, she tripped over
something and nearly sprawled headlong. As it was, she banged her
elbow on Sinclair's bedpost.

Straightening, she cursed and moved to
kick the object that had caused her fall out of the way. Sinclair's
blasted umbrella! Her lips curved into a wry smile as she conjured
up a mental image of herself, how ridiculous she must have looked
earlier, seeking a swordstick where there was none.

Bending down, she retrieved the
umbrella, intending to toss it upon the table with Sinclair's
shaving gear, where it could do no further harm. She noticed the
bone handle had been cracked in the fight. When touched, it came
off in her hand. Strange, but the interior appeared almost hollow,
like a place of concealment. When she tipped it up to examine it, a
piece of paper dropped to the floor.

Belle felt a surge of annoyance with
Sinclair. She had made it clear that she wanted nothing written
down, no matter how clever the place of concealment. What sort of
damaging evidence had he felt the need to commit to
paper?

She scanned the paper briefly, but
frowned. It had nothing to do with their mission. Rather it was
some brief notes, a list of all the names of those who worked for
Victor Merchant.

A prickling of uneasiness coursed
through her. Why would Sinclair have something like this hidden
away?

She studied the list more closely.
Lazare's name was scrawled at the end, like a hurried addition.
More interesting still, Laurent Coterin and old Feydeau's names had
been crossed off. None of the others bore any special notations
except for her own, which had been underlined with a question mark
placed beside it.

Her heart gave an uneasy thud. The
men's names who were crossed off were dead, had both met their ends
in a fairly violent manner. The lines through the names only added
to the sensation that it was as if as if they had been eliminated.
Belle ran a hand over her brow. What could it all mean? A daunting
suspicion occurred to her. She tried to shut it out, but couldn't
quite manage it. A montage of scenes whirled through her brain:
Sinclair's ever-present reluctance about this mission, his joining
the society out of nowhere, his reticence about his past, his
inexplicable knowledge about Feydeau's death. Then there was the
mysterious man who had approached Sinclair at Bonaparte's
review.

Belle sagged down on Sinclair's bed,
wanting to fight off such disturbing thoughts. They all pointed to
one thing, a most clever enemy who had infiltrated their
organization with a view to destroying it from within, possibly an
agent of Bonaparte himself. But why would any Englishman want to
help Napoleon?

The reason most adventurers embarked
upon their schemes—money. Sinclair had ever assured her he was an
adventurer, no gentleman. And did that mean that Sinclair plotted
her destruction as well? No, how could he after what they had
shared, after telling her that he loved her?

But how could she be that naive? What
better way was there for a spy to gain cooperation and information
than through seduction? It was the oldest trap in the world. Until
now she had ever been too canny to fall into it.

Yet no lover had ever so been as
skillful as Sinclair, the caress of his eyes, that look of
soul-deep understanding even more potent than the magic of his
body. She had always had such scorn for women who let themselves be
used, taken in, wondering how they could be such fools! It seemed
she was about to discover how for herself.

She stared at the question mark by her
name. Was she then fated to be the next to die? The thought sent a
dull lancing of pain through her. She felt so weary of this life,
the constant danger, the distrust, the suspicion, so weary of
struggling with it. With Sinclair she thought she had escaped much
of that for a time, at least having a partner she thoroughly
trusted to share it all.

Her one honest relationship, she
thought with a bitter sneer. She leaned against the bedpost,
feeling suddenly drained. If it was her life he wanted, he could
have it.

The thought didn't last for long. Her
survival instincts were too strong, part of her yet clinging to the
belief that there had to be another explanation. She must be wrong,
jumping to conclusions. But she could take no chances with such a
risky mission in the balance and other lives dependent upon her
own.

Wearily she trudged back to her room,
deciding what she had to do. She needed to know the truth about
Sinclair and she needed to know it now, no matter how ruthless the
measures it took to gain it.

Sinclair allowed his throbbing head to
pillow against the cushions, wincing at the pain shooting through
his rib cage when he moved too suddenly. He felt as though he had
been dragged on a hurdle, yet he could not afford to pamper his
much battered body too much longer. The fact remained that he had
allowed Paulette to escape.

What was the wench doing now? Would she
make all haste to get her message to Bonaparte, or would she panic
and flee? Either way he had to warn Belle. Likely, they might all
have to flee Paris tonight.

He heard the door open when Belle
returned to the room, but his eyelids felt too weighted to
open.

"Angel?" he called.

"I shall be right with you," she said.
He heard her rustling about the chamber, the sound of a drawer
sliding open. Sinclair did not relish the upcoming confrontation
with Belle when she had believed in his honesty. How would she
react to his deceit, the destruction of the plan she seemed to so
cherish?

Already he could imagine what she must
be thinking at discovering he had slipped off to a brothel. Her
silence seemed to send a chill through the room.

"Angel?" he called again. "Did you find
the sticking plaster?"

He received no answer. He didn't know
how, but he sensed her standing over him.

He flicked his eyes open.

She appeared no ministering angel this
time. With a hard light in those blue eyes, she towered over him,
aiming a pistol straight at his heart.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Belle watched Sinclair's eyes widen in
astonishment. Even as his gaze fixed upon the pistol, he registered
not so much alarm as confusion, a half-amused
uncertainty.

"You don't seem to have found the
sticking plaster, Angel." But all traces of his amusement vanished
as he stared into her eyes.

"No," she said, "but I did find this."
She held up the list she had found inside his umbrella.

He struggled into a sitting position.
"Oh," he said in a flat voice. The single guilty syllable was as
good as a confession. Stark pain ripped through Belle. Until that
moment she did not know exactly how much she had been praying for a
denial, some logical explanation of the damning evidence against
him.

It cost her great effort to keep her
grip steady upon the pistol handle. "I want to know what is going
on. Who are you, Sinclair Carrington?"

He sighed. "I knew this moment had to
come, but I had hoped not like this. I had been waiting for the
right time to tell you the complete truth. Believe it or not,
tonight I had resolved—"

"That doesn’t matter now," Belle said
sharply. "No more attempts at evasion, if you please. I want naught
but direct answers, and I want them now."

"And you will have them, but that
pistol is not necessary. I can guess, unfortunately, what you must
be thinking, and I don't blame you. But I can explain everything to
your satisfaction." He made a movement as though to rise from the
bed.

"No! Stay where you are." Belle drew in
a steadying breath. "We played a game similar to this one time
before." She felt her throat constrict as she recalled that rainy
afternoon their romp had nearly ended by making love. Why did it
all seem so long ago?

"I feel more at ease with you as you
are," she concluded. "I don't trust you."

"Right," he said, leaning back. There
was no bitterness or anger in his voice, only a deep sorrow. He
half-closed his eyes. "Where would you like me to
begin?"

"You can start by telling me, Mr.
Carrington—if that is your real name—exactly who you are working
for, for I have a strong notion it is not Victor
Merchant."

"My name?" he said wearily. "My name is
Daniel Anthony Sinclair Carr. I am a spy for the British
army."

Sinclair continued, telling his story
from the beginning when he had first infiltrated Merchant's
organization until the happenings of this evening, catching
Paulette and then becoming involved in the brothel fight. Belle did
not interrupt, even to interject a question.

When he had finished, he studied her
face for her reaction. The hand holding the pistol had relaxed,
although a certain amount of skepticism remained in her
eyes.