Rendezvous (9781301288946) (21 page)

"You are forgetting the
rain."

"And the infernal noise from the
street," Lazare growled.

"That is the music of
Paris." Although Baptiste subsided back in his seat, he raised his
face eagerly to Belle. "Did you happen to notice yester eve,
mon ange
-the bells of
Notre Dame? They ring again."

Belle relaxed her rigid manner enough
to smile at him. "I noticed, my friend."

"That at least is one good that
Monsieur Bonaparte has brought, the restoration of our
faith."

Lazare snorted. "The restoration of
superstition, old man. The way of the wealthy to control the minds
of the peasants."

A glint of mischief twinkled in
Baptiste's eyes. "As one of the latter, Lazare, I expect you would
know."

Before Lazare could retort, Belle
stepped smoothly in between them. "We already wander from the
purpose of this meeting, gentlemen. I don't think I need to remind
you what this is. We had best begin by pooling what information we
already possess on Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Damned little—" Lazare began, but
Belle cut him off.

"You who have been in Paris for the
past few years possess an advantage over me and Sinclair. Thus far
we have only obtained a glimpse of the first consul. Does he often
parade thus through the streets?"

"Frequently," Crecy said. "He believes
such a display gives the citizens a feeling of security in their
government.”

"It works quite well," Baptiste added
in jovial tones. "I know every time I see our brave young general,
I sleep a little more snugly in my bed."

Lazare leaned forward impatiently.
"This is the plan, then? To snatch Bonaparte off the streets in
full view of the populace of Paris? Wonderfully clever. How
brilliant."

Sinclair shifted on his chair. It was
his plan to observe in silence, to have his presence overlooked as
much as possible, but he was beginning to have a bellyful of
Lazare's sarcastic remarks.

"Maybe if you could hold your tongue,
Lazare," he said, his pleasant tone not quite disguising his
irritation, "Belle might have a chance to explain what she has in
mind."

Lazare's attention snapped to Sinclair.
Giving him a hard stare, his hands jerked a knot in the rope with
which he toyed. "And maybe, Englishman, if you want to keep your
tongue—"

"Gentlemen, please. We are not here to
quarrel amongst ourselves." Pacing before the fireplace, Belle
heaved a wearied sigh. She turned back, appearing to gather the
ends of her patience. "Of course I don't intend to assault
Bonaparte in the streets, Lazare. Part of our course of action will
be to determine less public places where he might be
found."

"Perhaps I should get quill and ink and
keep some notes," Crecy offered.

"No," Belie said. "I don't like
anything to be put in writing which could wind up as evidence in
the wrong hands. Besides it is unnecessary. I have an excellent
memory."

Crecy returned to regarding the crumbs
on his empty plate. Did he seem unduly disappointed? Sinclair
wondered. Perhaps Marcellus did not have such a keen memory. A
damned inconvenience if one were eager to pass the details of this
meeting along to Bonaparte.

"Now," Belle continued. "What other
places in Paris does Bonaparte frequent? Where does he go to take
his relaxation?"

"Certainly not to my gaming
establishment," Crecy said with a sigh, "or to anyone else's for
that matter."

"The consul must be given that much
credit," Baptiste added. "He has very few vices."

"It seems to me you give Bonaparte a
little too much credit," Lazare snapped. "I begin to think you
secretly admire the man."

"Oh, I positively dote upon him. After
all, he is the only man in Paris not much taller than I." Baptiste
flashed a wide grin. He was clearly baiting the humorless Lazare
and enjoying every moment of it. An angry flush crept up Lazare's
neck.

Sinclair suppressed a smile. He might
have enjoyed it, too, if only he could be certain that underneath
the jocular manner the little Frenchman was not in earnest with his
praises of Napoleon.

With a quelling frown for both Lazare
and Baptiste, Belle dragged them ruthlessly back to the topic at
hand. "All right. So Monsieur Bonaparte does not care for cards or
dice. What does he like?"

Mostly from the observances of Baptiste
and Crecy, a sketchy portrait of Napoleon emerged. When Sinclair
thought of Bonaparte at all, it was always as a brilliant general
whose bold tactics had made him the scourge of most of the other
armies in Europe. As he listened, he learned of another side to the
man, the hardworking first consul, so absorbed in the business of
government, he spared little time for anything else. Except for an
occasional visit to the theater, Napoleon made few social outings
all but eschewing the fashionable salons and soirees. Most of his
entertaining was done at receptions held at the Tuileries. Even at
supper parties, he barely permitted himself more than twenty
minutes to dine.

After a half hour of such discussion,
Belle heaved a sigh, apparently finding the information far from
encouraging. Massaging the bridge of her nose as though to rub the
weariness from her eyes, she said, "However we decide to proceed,
we will still need certain things. A light coach that can travel
swiftly, very plain and nondescript.”

“I can supply that," Crecy
volunteered.

"Alas," Baptiste said. "I have not as
yet thought of someone to replace Feydeau as your driver. If it
comes down to it, I suppose I can always take on the task
myself.”

Lazure broke his unusual stretch of
silence to glance mockingly toward Sinclair. "Perhaps Monsieur
Carrington knows how to drive a coach. It would give him something
more useful to do than sit in a corner and stare at all of
us."

"I am a fair hand with the reins,"
Sinclair said, returning Lazare's stare. "Enough to avoid an
accident like the one Feydeau—"

Sinclair halted. It didn't take Belle's
sudden intake of breath for him to realize he had just made a
serious mistake.

"How did you know about Feydeau's
accident?" she asked. "Baptiste only informed me of it yesterday
afternoon."

The attention of the entire room was
suddenly focused on Sinclair. Although he did not betray his
consternation by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, he felt his
mouth go dry. Belle's eyes clouded with trouble and not a little
suspicion. Baptiste and Crecy merely looked curious, but Lazure's
gaze sparked with malice, an almost predatory gleam.

Sinclair thought quickly, deciding to
take a grave risk. "Sorry. I must have forgotten to mention it.
Shortly before I met you on the docks at Portsmouth, I received
word from Merchant via Quentin Crawley, about the old man's death,
that we needed to look out for a new coachman."

"It would have been convenient if you
had passed the information on to me," Belle said.

"Between one thing and another, it
simply slipped my mind."

A derisive snort came from Lazare.
Belle did not look quite satisfied, but after a lengthy pause, she
said, "I suppose it is not that important."

She turned back to discussing
Bonaparte, and the tense moment passed. But Sinclair did not relax.
He was going to have to be much more careful. The attention of the
others was centered on Belle. Except for Lazare. He continued to
regard Sinclair with a smirk and a lift of his brows.

Almost as if he knows, Sinclair
thought, then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. There was no
reason why Lazare should. Sinclair had been extremely careful to
conceal his identity. His recent gaff was simply making him
edgy.

With some difficulty he forced his
thoughts away from Lazare, trying to concentrate on what Belle was
now saying.

"I need to get closer to Bonaparte,
observe him for myself. Baptiste, is there any chance that a
certain Monsieur and Madame Carrington might be able to attend one
of those receptions you mentioned earlier?"

"I anticipated you might ask
that,
mon ange
."
Baptiste's smile was a trifle smug. "It so happens one of my
customers is Madame Josephine Bonaparte. The lady is a husband's
nightmare, a tradesman's dream. She spends with great liberality. I
delivered five new fans to her at the Tuileries only last
week."

What a convenient way that would be of
passing along information, Sinclair thought, and without rousing a
shade of suspicion.

"Would Madame Bonaparte invite an
unknown couple to the palace at her fan maker's recommendation?"
Crecy objected.

"Of course not, imbecile," Baptiste
said. "But visiting the palace gives me access to many other
people, people who handle the invitations, people who understand an
honest bribe."

"And how soon could you secure us such
an invitation?" Belle asked.

"Would tonight be too soon?" Baptiste
produced a square of gilt-edged vellum from his pocket. He handed
it to Belle. She slit the seal with her fingernail. Even Lazare
craned his neck with curiosity as she examined the paper's
contents. Her lips parted in a brilliant smile.

"You are as much a wizard as ever,
Baptiste."

Belle crossed the room to Sinclair.
"Well, Mr. Carrington, I trust you brought along your finest
evening attire. It would appear we are going to the
palace."

With a forced smile, Sinclair accepted
the invitation she handed to him. He could not get over the ease
with which such a thing had been obtained. A little too easy
perhaps? He was beset by a feeling that from this moment on, he had
best walk with great care. Like traversing a field set with hidden
snares, one misstep could bring him to disaster.

Still musing over the invitation,
Sinclair did not notice the meeting was breaking up until the other
men rose to take their leave.

"But stay one moment more, gentlemen,"
Baptiste said. He bustled out of the drawing room only to return
bearing a tray laden with a flagon of wine and glasses. "Tonight we
take the first step in our perilous venture. I think it only right
we drink a toast to its success."

Crecy smacked his lips in approval of
the suggestion as Baptiste poured out the wine. Belle regarded him
with amused indulgence. Only Lazare appeared inclined to refuse,
but he finally accepted a glass with his customary bad
grace.

"Monsieur Carrington?" Baptiste
beckoned Sinclair to join them.

The five of them stood before the
hearth in a solemn circle, raising their glasses. The wine sparkled
blood-red in the firelight's glow.

"To our success, gentlemen," Belle
said.

"May we all come through unscathed,"
Crecy added, "safe from the embrace of Madame
Guillotine."

"If we fail, we need not worry about
that, my friend," the irrepressible Baptiste called out. "The
people of Paris would tear us to pieces long ere we reached the
scaffolding."

On this grim note they clinked glasses
and drank. As Sinclair sipped his wine, he studied the others—one
of whom he was certain was not sincere. One who had toasted,
smiled, and drank was secretly planning to betray them
all.

The toast finished, they all returned
their glasses to the tray. It disturbed Sinclair to note that
Belle's glass alone remained nearly full. She had barely tasted the
wine.

She stood by Sinclair's side as the
other men gathered up their hats and cloaks. Crecy was the last to
exit, bowing himself out, expressing his thanks for their gracious
hospitality.

Sinclair had to suppress an urge to
erupt into laughter. Crecy's words spun the most ludicrous illusion
as though he and Belle were indeed an ordinary married couple, on
an ordinary afternoon, bidding their callers farewell.

Yet one glance at the chair vacated by
Lazare abruptly ended any illusion and equally any desire to laugh.
Lazare had left his rope behind. It was fashioned into a perfect
noose.

CHAPTER NINE

With the others gone, a silence settled
over the drawing room, the rain beating out a monotonous rhythm
against the window. Belle glanced out at the slate-colored sky. Not
a hint of the sun. The rain was likely to continue all day—typical
Paris weather as she remembered it, the city forever washed in
gray.

Watching the rivulets trickle down the
panes of glass, she reviewed the morning's events. The meeting had
gone well enough, she judged. She had maintained a reasonable
amount of control over Lazare, as much as anyone could. But she was
glad he had no share in what was to take place tonight.

At last she would meet Bonaparte face
to face—the plot would begin to take form. From this night on,
there could be no turning back from the course she would set into
motion. A shiver—part fear, part anticipation—coursed through
her.

But first there was the interminable
dreariness of the afternoon to be gotten through. She was not the
sort of woman to spend an entire day preparing herself for an
evening's event. Time enough to worry about her appearance whenever
Paulette returned.