Rendezvous (9781301288946) (45 page)

"Where is Jean-Claude now?" she
demanded hoarsely. "Have you seen him? Have you done something to
him?"

"Not at all." Lazare's feigned
expression of innocence mocked her. "The noble comte is most hale,
and as to where, you know he is right here in Paris. Have you not
enjoyed seeing him again? You have me to thank for that. It was I
who convinced him to return to France, that only he can be the
avenger, the restorer of the French people."

"What lies have you been telling him?"
Belle cried.

"Only what he wanted to hear. I
discovered a long time ago, you can inspire people to do the most
incredible feats, even against their own nature, by simply telling
them what they want to hear."

Belle drew in a shuddery breath. She
could bear no more of Lazare’s taunts, the hints of some dark plot
unfolding just beyond her comprehension. Damn the villain! She
would force the truth from him.

With a quick movement she lunged for
his pistol, but Lazare was quicker still. He had not lowered his
guard as much as she had thought. Once more he snatched up the
weapon, holding it inches from her eyes, forcing her
back.

"I think not, Isabelle," he said. “We
will see my little game through to the end. Who knows? You may
guess the solution in time and thwart me yet."

At that moment the fiacre jerked to a
halt. Belle's heart pounded with dread as she realized they had
drawn up outside the theater, the dark street that stretched before
it bobbing with lantern bearers escorting pedestrians to the door.
Other coaches rattled past theirs, disgorging their
occupants.

"We have arrived in good time," Lazare
said. "Soon the performance begins."

She feared he did not mean what would
happen on stage. She tried one last desperate gambit. "You know
Crecy's men will not be here. I told Marcellus not to proceed with
anything until he heard from me."

"We will not need them. I have made my
own arrangements."

"But we have no carriage. How will we
manage the abduction and our escape?"

Lazare's only answer was his devil's
smile. She knew in that instant that whatever took place here
tonight, escape formed no part of Lazare's plans for
her.

Whatever hellish plot he was weaving,
maybe she could best put a stop to it by refusing to enter the
theater. Let him shoot her if he would. It would be better than
this tormenting uncertainty. Yet she thought of Sinclair, captive
in Lazare's lodgings, and Jean-Claude, also in danger, but in what
manner she did not know. Possibly the survival of both men depended
upon herself.

"That is right, Isabelle." With what
uncanny ease Lazare seemed able to read her mind. "Think about the
men you love. The question is which do you love the more? If you
could save only one, I wonder which you would choose."

She cast him a glare filled with
loathing, but his taunting words fired her determination. She would
never have such a choice forced upon her. She would cut through
this dark web of Lazare's weaving, save both Sinclair and
Jean-Claude, see Lazare in hell.

She pushed open the door to the fiacre
herself, leaping down. Lazare followed close behind. The cool night
breeze felt bracing against her heated cheeks. She hoped it would
help to clear her mind, help her to think.

Some sort of bizarre trap awaited her
within the confines of that theater, she was certain, something
that involved Jean-Claude. Yet she saw no other course than to see
this nightmare through. Her head whirled, her fears as intangible
as phantoms in the dark, the truth of this situation eluding her
like a nagging puzzle whose solution is obvious at once when it is
revealed, but always too late.

As they approached the theater doors,
observing the other silk-clad women, an absurd thought flitted into
Belle's mind.

"I am not dressed for this," she said,
gesturing to her plain gray woolen gown. "The first consul will be
less than charmed."

"I am sure he will find, as so many men
do, that your beauty needs no silken trappings." Lazare's cold
fingers stroked her cheek. "Your unblemished beauty."

She felt his suppressed quiver of rage,
the hatred long held in check. It would be so easy to goad him to
violence, finish this right here and now. But that would not tell
her what the man plotted.

Suppressing a shudder at his touch, she
preceded him into the brightly lit theater salon. All around them
gaiety and laughter spilled forth, jewels and silks mingling with
the coarse dress of the common man. Everyone anticipated the play,
taking no notice of lesser drama in their midst. Lazare had the
pistol concealed beneath his cloak, but he no longer had need of it
to control her.

He whispered in her ear, "We must
separate now, Isabelle. I will watch until you enter the box. Then
I will be below you in the pit. My eyes will be upon your every
move. One false start, one hint of anything strange, and remember I
can find my way back to Carrington much faster than you
can."

She didn't give him the satisfaction of
a reply. She stalked away toward the door to the box where she knew
the first consul awaited her.

As she slipped inside, she cherished
the wild hope that perhaps Bonaparte would fail to come. It would
make this tense situation so much easier.

But he was there. He arose from his
seat at her approach. He was garbed simply in the uniform of a
sub-lieutenant. Here in the shadows of the box, she doubted if many
in the theater were even aware of the first consul's
presence.

His greeting smile was stiff. "You are
late, madame. I had begun to fear you meant to disappoint
me."

Belle took a deep breath, hoping her
nervousness did not show. Never had she felt less capable of coolly
playing out a role. "I beg your pardon, sir. I have never been very
punctual."

"Like most women. Yet why did I have a
feeling you would prove different?" He stared at her. Was it her
imagination that he looked at her differently than he had at their
first meeting? He appeared to have taken no notice how she looked,
yet she knew she must appear an astonishing sight. She could feel
disheveled wisps of her hair clinging to her cheeks. She knew she
must be pale. Did her eyes reveal her desperation?

His own gray ones appeared too shrewd,
not quite as warm as she remembered, even perhaps a little
wary.

No, it must all be attributed to her
own nervousness, for he stepped closer. Carrying her hand to his
lips, he said, "You need not look so worried. I will not have you
shot."

Belle jerked away, unable to conceal
the tremor that coursed through her at his words.
"What?"

"For being late." He arched one brow.
"I am only teasing you." His voice gentled somewhat. "Do I frighten
you? I assure you I hold nothing but admiration for
you."

His hands reached up to help her off
with her cloak. Belle struggled to find some measure of her old
composure. When she saw him stare at her gown, she said hastily,
"You must forgive my appearance, sir. It was most difficult to
escape here tonight without arousing my husband's suspicion. He is
a most jealous man."

"You must not apologize. You look
lovely." He held out the chair himself for her to sit down. Belle
started to ease herself down when he added, "Quite like an
angel."

She froze, her startled gaze flying
back at him. It seemed even the most innocent remarks were flinging
her off balance tonight, but Bonaparte had clearly meant nothing
other than a compliment. His smile disarmed her.

She was beset by a sudden urge to
confide in him. But what would she say? "I beg your pardon, sir. I
meant to abduct you tonight, but I would as soon call the whole
thing off since one of my fellow conspirators has run
mad."

The thought nearly caused her to break
into hysterical laughter. Instead, she turned to stare into the
theater. Bonaparte offered her the use of his opera glass. She
accepted it, pleased to note that her hand was somewhat
steadier.

The box she shared with Bonaparte was
the closest to the right side of the stage. She had but to reach
out and she could have touched the heavy velvet curtain. It
afforded her an excellent vantage point of the rest of the theater.
The blazing chandeliers lit the interior as bright as the day.
Although the occupants of most of the boxes were lost in shadow,
Belle could make out clearly the faces of those filing in to fill
the benches of the pit.

Lazare had ensconced himself in the
first row; directly behind the orchestra pit. She could see quite
clearly that his gaze was not trained upon the stage but directed
toward where she sat.

Hastily she began to inspect the other
seats, fearing she would find Jean-Claude present. The vague idea
occurred to her that Lazare's revenge might well consist of a
scheme to abduct Napoleon himself and see that both she and
Jean-Claude were implicated, left to the mercy of the mob. Yet she
did not quite see how Lazare could carry out such a plan. In any
event, Jean-Claude was not present. She scarce knew whether to find
that a cause for relief or not.

She tensed when she did spy a familiar
face near the last row of the pit. Baptiste. Her heart sank. He
must have never seen her note warning him not to go to the theater.
He had assumed his place, faithfully preparing to enact his part in
stirring up the riot, believing that all was going according to
plan, and she had no way to let him know any different.

Belle saw only one course open to her.
If Jean-Claude did not put in an appearance, she would act. When
the riot did begin, the theater would be in a state of confusion.
She might be able to slip away, alert Baptiste, and the two of them
exit the theater before Lazare could get out.

Vaguely she became aware that Bonaparte
addressed her. "I despise comedy," he said. "Tragedy is the only
true art. Do you not agree, madame?"

She hardly knew what she replied,
nervously rubbing her hands together. Something crinkled beneath
the fabric of her gown, and it was then she remembered the note she
had stuffed up her sleeve.

She cherished little hope that it might
be of any use to her, but as the curtain parted and the stage
claimed Bonaparte's full attention, she drew out the note to
examine it.

It was difficult to make out the words,
but she recognized it as Lazare's handwriting at once, laboriously
crude. It appeared to be a message Lazare had begun to
Merchant.

“When you read this, you will know your
orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of
Carrington.

Belle sucked in her breath. Merchant
had ordered Sinclair's death before they ever left England. She
strained to see the rest of the writing.

“And tonight will see the end of the
business, Isabelle Varens arrested, Paris in chaos, and Bonaparte .
. .

Belle gasped, the last words blurring
before her eyes. She nearly dropped the paper.

Bonaparte
dead
.

The plot flashed into place for her
with alarming clarity. This was no abduction she had arranged for
tonight, but an assassination that had been planned all along by
Lazare and Victor Merchant, knowing she would never consent to
commit murder. They had effectively used her as their tool, their
dupe.

Belle's gaze flickered frantically to
the man at her side. Bonaparte leaned forward in his seat, his gaze
rapt upon the stage, oblivious to the danger. Lazare had to be the
assassin. And he would act, she felt sure, when the riot began. But
how had he planned to involve Jean-Claude, or had Lazare only held
out such a possibility to torment her?

Belle focused on the stage, realizing
they were nearing the point when Monsieur Georges would be expected
to make his entrance. As soon as the wrong actor appeared on stage,
the uproar would start.

Yes, there he was. The male lead strode
out, his nervousness apparent even beneath the elaborate powdered
wig and layer of white and red lead paint coating his cheeks.
Already the hisses had begun as some of the audience realized the
substitution. Lazare said nothing, but Baptiste, on cue, shouted
out, "Bah! We did not pay to see this clown. Does the manager think
to cheat us?”

As the rumblings in the theater grew,
Belle saw Lazare start to rise. No matter what the cost, she had to
do something. She could not sit by and see murder done.

She grasped Napoleon by the elbow.
"Your Excellency. You are in danger. You must—"

But he shook her off impatiently,
staring at the stage with a frown. "What is going on? I know that
man. He is no actor,"

"Please," Belle said.

"It is, I think- yes, it is the Comte
de Egremont."

"What!" Belle whipped toward the stage
as she too stared at the fake actor. It took her stunned eyes but a
moment to recognize Jean-Claude clearly outlined in the glow of the
candles that composed the footlights.

As though in some horrible dream, she
watched him pace toward the end of the stage, so close to their box
she could tell that his eyes glittered like pieces of glass. He
reached beneath the dark purple cloak of his costume and drew forth
a pistol.