Rendezvous (9781301288946) (43 page)

Silently she pushed her cup of tea
across the table to him. He flashed a grateful look, but said, "No,
thank you, Angel, I am not that close to death's door as to be
drinking that."

"I'd offer you something stronger, but
there's not much here. Thinking that we would be gone, I told
Paulette to clear most everything out."

The mention of the woman's name brought
them back to the problem.

"So what do we do now?" Sinclair asked.
"I gather you learned nothing of any use at Madame
Margot's?"

"Only that she will never let an
Englishman cross her threshold again," Belle said, forcing down a
swallow of the tea. "Nor any soldiers or men with—"

She broke off, startled by the
recollection of some of the elderly woman's meanderings. Had her
mind simply been too numb at the time to take heed, or was she
reading too much significance into a certain fact now?

"Men with scars," Belle mused
aloud.

"What was that?" Sinclair
asked.

"Madame Margot. She said something
about a man with a scar lurking in her parlor."

Some of Sinclair's fatigue appeared to
be forgotten. "Lazare?" he asked eagerly.

"Lazare is certainly not the only man
with a scar to be found in Paris, yet he did leave the meeting
shortly after you did." Belle frowned. "But it makes no sense. Why
would Lazare be there? I cannot believe he had anything to do with
Paulette's business. He hates Bonaparte far too much to have had a
hand in that."

"That may be true, but I have had my
suspicions of Lazare all along," Sinclair said. "I never mentioned
it last night, but I am almost certain those two who attacked me
were the same men who nearly ran me down in the street. I think
they were paid to do so."

"By Lazare?"

"I don't know, but I would wager my
last farthing that he knows more about what went on in that brothel
last night than anyone else does."

Belle shoved to her feet, her
resolution returning. "Then perhaps it is time he shared that
information with us."

Sinclair also stood, a steely look of
anticipation in his eyes. "I shall be only too happy to flush the
rat down from his garret for questioning."

Belle scowled, moving to intercept his
retreat from the kitchen. The last thing she wished for was any
more brawling. But Sinclair seemed to bear no more sense than most
men in that regard.

She need not have worried, however,
about the upcoming confrontation. Lazare was not in his garret
apartment. The porter furnished the information that Lazare had not
returned last night.

"People have a nasty habit of
disappearing in this city," Sinclair grumbled. Belle did not have
the energy to set off on another wild chase, so she persuaded
Sinclair to wait awhile for Lazare's return.

In the meantime, it occurred to her she
had yet to warn Baptiste what had transpired. Again, she met with
frustration. She had forgotten that after Baptiste closed up shop
the night before, he had told her he meant to spend the day with an
old friend.

She knew well what he meant by that.
Likely Baptiste was out strolling the streets of his Paris,
visiting all his old haunts as though this might be the final time.
Belle prayed that it was not. Since she had no way of tracing him,
she had to content herself with slipping a carefully worded note
under his door, warning him not to go to the theater that
night.

Then she returned upstairs to keep her
vigil with Sinclair. By early afternoon their nerves were stretched
wire taut.

"I can't believe Lazare won't be back,"
Belle said. "It would not be like him to abandon the plot. He
despises Bonaparte too much."

"Well, I am going mad, simply waiting
here," Sinclair said, fairly pacing a hole in the drawing room
carpet. Indeed, this inaction was making Belle nigh insane
herself.

"Is there nowhere you can think of that
we could find the blasted rogue?" Sinclair asked.

Belle rubbed her temples in an effort
at memory. "Well, I do know Lazare does not usually stay here above
the fan shop when he comes to Paris. He once mentioned other
lodgings."

Sinclair tensed "It would not happen to
be above a chocolate shop, would it?"

"Yes, I think he did say something
about a confectioner's, but why—"

"Because I have an idea where it is, if
I can only find the shop again." Sinclair tugged at her hand,
dragging her after him.

It took some doing to locate the shop,
but from bits and pieces of what Sinclair remembered, Belle managed
to guess at the address. They retraced the route he had taken the
day he had followed Lazare, arriving at last to the narrow street
with its tumbledown buildings.

"This is it," Sinclair said, glancing
up at the rusted signpost.

"It appears to be closed." Belle tried
the door and peered through the grimy window into the empty
shop.

"That should prove no problem."
Sinclair gave a furtive glance about him. The street was nearly
empty of pedestrians, those who did pass by looking far too
occupied with their own affairs to pay much heed. "Have you got a
hairpin?"

Although Belle was astonished by the
request, she groped beneath her poke-front bonnet and produced the
requested article.

"Stand in front of me to cover my
movements," Sinclair said. Belle did as he asked. In a matter of
minutes he had picked the lock.

"Is that something you learned at Eton,
Mr. Carrington?" she could not refrain from asking.

"Good lord, no. The only thing of
practical value I learned there was how to wield a cricket bat." He
grinned at her and she could not help giving him a half-smile. It
was the closest to their usual banter as they had come since his
grim confession.

Even that slight relieving of tension
seemed to help as they crept cautiously into the shop.

"I hope we are not caught," Belle
murmured. "I would find it rather ironic to end my career being
charged with stealing sweetmeats."

"Believe me, Angel," he whispered back,
closing the door behind them, "no one would steal this shop's
wares. Vilest marchpane I have ever tasted."

Sinclair indicated a curtained doorway
behind the counter. "I believe Lazare must have disappeared through
there that day. He met someone that I almost mistook to be—" He
broke off, casting an easy sidewise glance at her.

"To be who?" she prompted,

"No one of importance. Come
on."

Belle had the feeling that was not what
Sinclair had intended to say, but she had no chance to question
him, exerting herself to keep up with his long strides.

Cautiously Sinclair led the way past
the curtain. A pair of rickety stairs wound upward to a landing
above. They climbed up them stealthily to find a solitary door at
the top.

Belle started to knock, but Sinclair
stayed her hand. "If Lazare does happen to be out for my blood,"
Sinclair said, "I would just as soon not announce our
arrival."

Grasping the hairpin, he set to work on
the lock and soon set the door to creaking open. Belle tensed,
catching her breath, but she peered past Sinclair's shoulder into
an empty room.

"This may not even be Lazare's room,"
she started to say, then stopped as she recognized Lazare's trunk
shoved against one chipped plaster wall, the familiar battered
portmanteau held closed with a length of thick rope.

The room showed signs of recent
habitation. Two dusty glasses along with a bottle drained to the
dregs stood propped on an upended crate. The fireplace held a thick
coating of ashes.

Sinclair's interest fixed itself upon
the trunk. Striding forward, he struggled to remove the rope and
began to paw through the contents. It appeared to be nothing more
than Lazare's clothing.

"What do you expect to find?" Belle
demanded.

"I don't exactly know."

She watched him for a moment, beginning
to feel that this was all but another waste of time. Noting another
door, she said, "Well, I suppose I can at least see what is in
there."

"Just be careful, Angel," Sinclair
replied.

As she slipped through the door,
Sinclair tapped the lid of the trunk. It had a strangely hollow
sound. Using his pocket knife, he began to pick at the wood. It
splintered easily, revealing a compartment behind.

Excitedly, he slipped his hand inside
and drew out a packet of papers. Straightening, he carried them
over to one of the apartment's narrow windows, taking advantage of
what meager light filtered past the filthy panes.

The first document appeared to be some
sort of communication Lazare had been in the process of writing to
Merchant.

“When you read this, you will know your
orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of
Carrington. Tonight will see the finish of the rest of it. Isabelle
Varens . . .”

As Sinclair scanned down the rest of
the page, he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.

"Angel, I found something you had
better look at right now. Belle?"

From within the next room Belle groped
through the near darkness of what she guessed to be a bedchamber.
The heavy curtains had been pulled so tightly closed as to render
the room but a mass of shadows.

Banging into the end of the iron
bedstead Belle moved carefully toward the window. The curtains
smelled of mildew and damp. When she flung them back, a flood of
dim gray light entered the room. Turning, she prepared to better
examine her surroundings, her gaze focusing upon the
bed.

She let out a strangled gasp. A woman
lay upon the bare mattress, her dark curls tumbled over the pillow.
She fixed Belle with a vacant glassy-eyed stare, a bright slash of
red about her neck.

But it was not Paulette's familiar red
ribbon. It was blood.

Dimly Belle was aware of Sinclair
calling her name from the other room but she could not seem to
avert her gaze from Paulette. The French woman's features were
frozen in a waxen image of horror. Involuntarily Belle's hand crept
to her own throat.

Steeling herself, she stepped closer.
There was no doubt that Paulette was dead. Her throat had been slit
from ear to ear.

Lazare's signature, Belle thought
grimly. Staring down at the woman who would have betrayed them all,
Belle supposed she should have felt a righteous satisfaction. But
after her initial horror, she experienced nothing but pity. Poor
foolish, greedy Paulette.

Sinclair's voice came more insistently.
"Belle? Are you all right in there?"

She slowly pulled the sheet over
Paulette's face. Then she turned to rejoin Sinclair.

He stood just inside the door, frowning
as he perused a document in his hand. He did not see the shadow
that stealthily slipped into the room, creeping up behind
him.

"Sinclair?" Belle cried. "Look out.
Behind you!"

Her warning cry came too late. Sinclair
turned, but not in time to escape the full force of Lazare’s cudgel
crashing down on his head.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Belle rushed across the room, flinging
herself in Sinclair's path to prevent him from falling headlong and
smashing against the hard edge of the window ledge. The papers he
had been clutching in his hands fluttered to the ground.

The weight of his inert form crashed
against her, dragging her with him to the floor. His head lolled
back against her shoulder, his features so white, so still, a
terrible fear slashed through Belle. She had seen men killed
outright by such a blow as Lazare had dealt Sinclair.

Struggling, she eased herself from
beneath Sinclair's unconscious form, lowering him as gently as she
could.

"Sinclair?" she breathed. She was aware
that Lazare towered over her. Cursing, he kicked aside the papers
that Sinclair had been reading. Belle ignored him, concern for her
own safety forgotten. With trembling fingers, she explored the base
of Sinclair's throat. As she felt the faint but steady threading of
his pulse, relief coursed through her.

"Still alive?" said Lazare. "What does
it take to rid me of this English dog?"

With a furious hiss Belle turned,
starting to rise, but she was stopped cold by the barrel of
Lazare's pistol pointing into her eyes.

"Don't." He growled a low warning. "You
have never been a stupid woman, Isabelle. Now is not the time to
begin."

She froze, glaring up at him. "Damn
you, Lazare. What sort of game are you playing?"

"My own and the prying Monsieur
Carrington is very much in my way. Those fools, Giles and Auguste!
Twice they had the chance to dispose of him. Twice! And they failed
me both times. Now I must attend to the matter myself."

A surge of panic rose in Belle. She had
seen that nigh-crazed look in Lazare's eyes before. Instinctively,
she moved to position herself in between him and Sinclair's
helpless form.