Rendezvous (9781301288946) (42 page)

"You don't believe me?" he asked. He
had been prepared for many things, but not that she would still
doubt him after he had told her the truth.

"I am not sure. The fact still remains
that two of the agents marked through on this list met with violent
ends."

"I marked them off as suspects when I
learned of their deaths. You said the man Coterin was a fool, more
than likely the sort who would be shot in a botched escape attempt.
And as for Feydeau, as illogical as it sounds, you must accept the
fact that for once the man did not control his drinking. People all
have breaking points, times when they do the
unexpected."

"And the question mark by my
name?"

"I made the mark absentmindedly when I
was—" He broke off, realization flashing through him. "You thought
I had arranged the death of those two men and you were to be next!"
Sinclair's hurt was tempered with a sorrowful understanding. They
led similar lives, he and Belle. He knew too well the suspicion,
the caution that kept one alive.

He explained patiently, "The question
mark meant that, considering your cleverness and daring, I was
paying you the compliment of believing you my most likely
suspect."

"
Merci, monsieur
," she said bitterly.
"That sheds entire new light upon your assiduousness in my
bedchamber."

"No! Belle, damn it!" As he lurched
forward, all his battered muscles seemed to stiffen in protest.
Tired of the awkwardness of his situation, he said, "I am getting
up now. If you intend to fire, go ahead."

Not sparing her another glance, he
forced himself to his feet. With a show of deliberate nonchalance,
he limped over to examine his face in the mirror. His temple had
stopped bleeding, but with his eye nearly swollen shut, the bruises
discoloring his jaw, he looked like a prizefighter down for the
count.

When he turned back to Belle, she had
laid the pistol on the dressing table and sagged down upon a stool
before the hearth with her arms wrapped about herself. She reminded
him of the way he had found her that night down by the window,
looking so alone, so lost. He wanted to go to her, pull her into
his arms, but he knew he couldn't. Likely he would never be able to
do so again.

He approached as close as he dared,
saying in a gentle voice, "I won't have you believing that I bedded
you in order to get you to betray yourself, to give information.
This assignment has been pure hell for me. I have wanted you from
the first with my blasted conscience getting in the
way."

"How inconvenient for you."

"I never made love to you until I was
certain you were not the spy."

"Why didn't you tell me the truth then?
When were you planning to do so? On the way to the theater? Oh, by
the bye, Angel, one of your members is a Napoleonic agent, so
tonight you are likely leading your people into a trap."

"I was planning to tell you this
evening, would have told you days ago except—"

"Except for what?"

Except that he had been afraid of
losing her. No, how could he tell her that? How did one lose what
one had truly never had? He started to rake his hand through his
hair and winced when he grazed his wound. "Even though I was
certain you were not the spy, you have told me more than once you
have no strong interests on either side. What loyalties you have
belong to individual people. If I had ferreted out the spy and it
turned out to be someone like Baptiste . . ." He let the suggestion
speak for itself.

"Baptiste, of course," she murmured.
"All that time I thought you were being kind to my old friend,
spending so much time with him, you were merely seeking
information."

"No! And yes," Sinclair admitted
reluctantly. "I have grown to like and respect Baptiste, as much as
I have grown to hate this assignment. But I don't know if I could
have behaved any differently. Too much was at stake, too many lives
at risk because of the information Paulette was passing, the lives
of British soldiers, even my own brother."

Sinclair's voice trailed off as he
searched Belle's eyes for some sign that she understood. But with a
sinking heart all he noted were the lines of her face becoming more
rigid, all her old barriers being slammed into place.

"What I find most unforgivable," she
said at last, "is the way you let me rattle on and on about
honesty, about how there was no pretense or deceit between
us."

"God, Belle, you don't know how much I
wished that had been true. I was wrong to let you go on believing
in me, but it seemed like the one edge that I had over your
memories of Jean-Claude—the freedom from pretense, that you and I
are so much alike. We share the same world while—"

He was interrupted by her expression of
blazing scorn. "Still trying to deceive me, Mr. Carr? It won't
serve. You see, I take great pains to keep myself current with the
world. Not only do I read the military dispatches in the paper, but
the society columns as well.

"That stiff-necked old martinet you
described as your father, he is General Daniel Carr, is he
not?"

"You have heard of him?"

"Who has not heard of the famous
general, the youngest son of the Duke of Berkstead? That, I
believe, makes you the Honorable Mr. Daniel Sinclair Carr." She
pronounced his title with a kind of savage sarcasm.

"I don't hold your birth against you,
Belle," he said. "Don't hold mine against me."

The quiet reproof in his eyes defused
some of her anger, causing her to look away. She rubbed the back of
her neck, wishing Sinclair would stop talking, simply leave her be.
Never had she felt such a weight of emptiness settling over her
heart, not even during those dread days immediately after
Jean-Claude had left her. She was so tired. She wished she could
just let go of everything, yet even now she was forced to
act.

Somehow she got to her feet. "None of
this disagreement between you and me is of any importance. What I
have to do now is try to think."

"There is not much to think about,"
Sinclair said. "Paulette has escaped. She may even now be relaying
her information. We all must be out of Paris by first
light."

"You may go. Paulette cannot be any
danger to your precious army now. You have accomplished what you
came for."

Sinclair flinched at her harsh words,
but he said, "I go nowhere without you."

"I intend to stay. My business here in
Paris is not finished.”

"You cannot possibly still be thinking
of going ahead with the abduction—"

"No, Mr. Carrington. I am not that big
of a fool. But I cannot leave without making some attempt to
discover what has become of Paulette. If there is any chance at all
she has not yet gone to Bonaparte, I must try to stop
her."

"Are you mad? Do you have any idea how
dangerous that would be?" He took a step toward her almost as
though he wished to shake sense into her head. Belle drew herself
erect, defying him to touch her. He stopped just short, but she
read the steely determination in his eyes.

"You are coming with me now, Belle,
even if I have to take you by force."

"Don't you understand anything?" she
cried. "Oh, certainly, it would be easy for you and me to flee this
disaster. Our lives are not centered here. But what about Crecy and
Baptiste?"

Although the set of his jaw remained
stubborn, she could tell her words were giving Sinclair
pause.

"Baptiste has already risked enough
with nothing but a failed plot to show for it," she continued
passionately. "To be exiled from Paris—I believe it would kill him.
I won't see him make such a sacrifice. Not without making some
attempt to prevent it."

She and Sinclair squared off for a long
moment. He was the first to concede. "All right, Angel, what do you
want to do?"

"Find Paulette." She was gathering up
her cloak. "I intend to start by going back to that brothel—if you
haven't burned it to the ground—and ask some questions."

"I will go with you."

"I doubt you will be welcome there. I
will have a much better chance if I go alone. Paulette may even
still be hiding there."

Sinclair regarded her with folded arms.
"And what do you expect me to do?"

In his condition Belle thought the best
he could do was gain a few hours' rest, but she knew he was
unlikely to do so. After thinking a moment, she asked, "Is it
possible you could contact your friend Warburton at this hour? If
he and your other agent keep as close a watch upon that guardhouse
as you say, it is possible they will know if Paulette has been
there."

Sinclair appeared to turn this
possibility over in his mind, and nodded in agreement. He seemed
far from pleased at the prospect of letting her venture off on her
own, but after gruffly ordering her to take care, he turned to
go.

Yet as he stalked toward the door, he
paused to look back. "I only want to tell you one more thing,
Belle. I did not lie when I said I love you."

She froze, trying to steel herself
against the low-spoken words, yet they stirred her all the same,
touching upon a memory. Her heart constricted when she recalled
what it was. Sinclair's words were almost an echo of her plea to
Jean-Claude so long ago.

She turned away, not wanting to
understand the misery her rejection was inflicting upon Sinclair at
this moment, not wanting to, but understanding it all too
well.

She heard the door open behind her, and
somehow she could not let him go like that. She whipped about.
"Sinclair?"

He stopped. She could almost hear his
breath still. "Yes?"

She drew in a deep breath, but her pain
at his deception was yet too raw for her to do more than confess,
"About the pistol. It wasn't loaded."

He offered her a sad smile before
exiting. "I never really thought it was, Angel."

Dawn found Belle's eyes gritty from
lack of sleep, her limbs aching from exhaustion, and she had
accomplished nothing. Paulette appeared to have vanished off the
face of the earth. Some judicious bribes at the brothel to the
sleepy-eyed femmes earned her only the knowledge that Paulette had
slipped out during the fight and had never come back.

Most of Belle's time had been wasted
listening to Madame Margot bemoaning the recent events. "One of our
best chambers ruined by fire," the elderly dame had wailed, "to say
nothing of the brutes we had tromping through here, wild-eyed
Englishmen, loutish soldiers, scarred rogues—"

"
Oui
, Madame," Belle said soothingly,
making her escape from these vapid outpourings as soon as she
could. The visit to the brothel having proved useless, she made her
way to Crecy's. At least she could alert him to the danger and
solicit some of his servants to join in the search.

The morning had considerably advanced
by the time she made her way back to the apartment. Gray and
overcast, the day was an accurate reflection of her spirits.
Dragging herself down to the apartment's tiny kitchen, she brewed a
cup of tea while she attempted to decide what to do
next.

She had just sagged down at the wooden
table when a footfall alerted her to Sinclair's return.

"Belle?" he called.

"In here," she replied
wearily.

He appeared shortly in the doorway,
looking as exhausted as she, a stubble of beard rimming his jaw, a
heavy circle under his one eye, the other now darkened to a shade
of purple. At least the swelling had gone down. His dark hair
spilled over his brow, concealing the cut on his forehead. When he
collapsed down on the chair opposite her, the instinct to reach
across and reach for his hand was strong. With great difficulty,
she hardened herself against the impulse.

"Any luck?" she asked, although his
downcast expression gave her the answer.

He shook his head. "Neither Warburton
nor the other agent has seen any trace of her. Not that she
couldn't have somehow slipped past them and already be inside the
Tuileries. But they promise to keep as close a watch as they can
and intercept her if they see her."

Sighing, Belle stared into her teacup,
but she made no move to taste the bitter brew, merely warming her
hands upon the steaming china. After long thought she said, "I
doubt if Paulette made it to the Tuileries. If she had, we would
likely have soldiers thundering at our door by now."

"Then where do you think she has gone?
Does she have other friends in Paris?"

"I have no idea. It should be rather
obvious I didn't know the woman that well. But Crecy's men are
searching the vicinity of the Palais-Royal. I told Marcellus to do
nothing more until he hears from me."

Sinclair nodded. He shifted upon the
chair as though seeking a more comfortable position. Belle did not
miss the way he flinched, one hand going surreptitiously toward his
ribs. Despite her lingering anger with him, she could not help
feeling a stab of remorse and empathy. He had taken the devil of a
beating last night with no chance to rest and recover.