Rendezvous (9781301288946) (40 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Crecy's sketch of the theater lay
unheeded beneath Belle's hand. She could scarce remember when she
had stopped speaking, when the study had fallen quiet with her,
Baptiste, and Marcellus simply staring into the fire upon the
hearth.

The wine Crecy had poured out went
untasted, no one of a humor to propose a toast tonight, all three
of them, she sensed, sobered by the realization of what they would
undertake tomorrow night.

She knew that Marcellus had prepared a
little packet, some money, a farewell message to be sent to his
married daughter in Marseilles should the worst happen. And
Baptiste . . . Earlier Belle had watched him close up his fan shop,
lovingly fingering each tool, looking rather wistfully at a design
he had yet to finish.

He had handed her a folded fan then.
"Just a little trinket for you to carry with you tomorrow, mon
ange," he had said. "For luck." Slipping the fan inside her cloak,
Belle had been tempted to tell Baptiste he need proceed no further.
They could manage the enterprise without him.

But he was as determined to go forward
with the new plan as she Out of the four men she at least knew she
had the full support of Crecy and Baptiste, And it was not because
of the money this time—not for any of them.

They all pursued some more intangible
reward. Crecy, perhaps because he had grown weary of playing lord
to a gaming house and wanted his birthright returned; Baptiste,
because he sought peace for himself, for his beloved
Paris.

As for Lazare? Who ever knew what went
on in the dark corners of his mind? Likely his reasons were just
the opposite of Baptiste's—the hope that Bonaparte's removal would
bring back the return of violence and turmoil.

And her own motives? Belle wondered as
she slowly refolded the diagrams and the map. She hardly understood
her own determination. Perhaps Sinclair was partly right when he
had accused her of doing it for Jean-Claude, upending the world to
turn back time for one man.

But how far did she wish for
Jean-Claude's future to concern herself—of that she was no longer
certain. Time was not so easily turned back for her. In the
interval there had been Sinclair.

Belle harbored no doubt of
Sinclair’s reluctance to go ahead with this scheme, his opinions of
their chance of success. Why, then, was he going through with it?
Did it have anything to do with the words he had whispered to her
yesterday?
I have fallen
in love with you
.

What joy such words were supposed to
bring to a woman, not the almost bittersweet ache they had brought
to her, a mingling of fear and guilt. It might well have been
different, if she had never known Jean-Claude, if she had ever
learned to know her own heart. A most strange realization, she
mused, to be having at this time of her life.

She was jolted from her thoughts by the
sound of the clock upon the mantel chiming out the hour.

"Midnight already?" Crecy said, also
bestirring himself. "I wonder what has become of Monsieur
Carrington and Lazare? They certainly are nonchalant about this
business. I wish I possessed such sangfroid."

"I was beginning to wonder about them
myself," Belle said. She did not wish Sinclair to think she was
trailing after him, controlling his every movement as though she
were indeed a possessive wife. But the meeting did seem to have
broken up.

Sinclair had been in a strange humor
all day, moody, most unlike himself. She knew that he did not want
to go ahead with the abduction, but she was beginning to feel that
his reluctance was owing to something more than misplaced
gallantry, his concern for her. Yet what other motive could he
possibly have?

She shoved herself up abruptly from the
desk. Excusing herself, she went to find Sinclair. After the quiet
of the study it took her senses a moment to adjust to the glitter
and noise of the gaming salon.

It seemed strange. While they had been
behind that oak door, planning such a dramatic event, one that
could change the entire course of France—perhaps the world—Crecy's
establishment had gone on heedlessly. Belle wondered if that was
true with most earth-shattering moments in history. The bulk of
mankind simply went on with their lives. To those here tonight,
nothing seemed more important than the numbers on the dice or the
flick of the next card. But this world appeared to have gone on
without Sinclair. He was nowhere to be seen.

Belle summoned the servant who had
taken their cloaks. She found him lingering in conversation with
the doorman, behavior that would have earned them both a sharp
rebuke from Crecy. She asked, "Have you seen a tall, dark,
good-looking gentleman? The one I came in with?"

"Monsieur Carrington?
Oui
, madame," the servant
relied. "He left some time ago."

Left? The information startled her.
Sinclair had said nothing about venturing off the
premises.

"Did he happen to mention where he was
going?"

The servant exchanged an embarrassed
glance with the doorman. The doorman cleared his throat. "I am sure
madame's husband will return soon. If you wish to leave, I can
summon you a cabriolet, or I am sure that Monsieur Crecy will have
his own carriage fetched round for you."

Belle fixed the man with a cool stare.
"Where has my husband gone?"

He tried to bluster his way out of it,
but he quailed before her haughty gaze. "Well, he did ask the
directions to Number 32."

Belle frowned. The address meant
nothing to her. Where in blazes had Sinclair slipped off to which
would cause these two men to squirm so? A suspicion occurred to her
when she thought of one of the chief businesses of the Palais-Royal
besides gaming.

"What sort of establishment is at
Number 32?" she asked.

Their continued reluctance to answer
confirmed Belle's suspicion. "It's a brothel, is it
not?"

"Ah, madame!" The doorman reddened with
acute discomfort.

Belle heaved an impatient sigh with all
this male subterfuge. She commanded a servant to bring her
cloak.

The doorman mopped his brow with
relief. "And I will see to obtaining a coach for
madame."

"I don't need a coach," Belle said,
swirling a cloak about her shoulders. "Just the directions to
Number 32."

"It is at the end of the lower
arcade-but, madame!" The doorman looked aghast. "You cannot think
of going there."

"I am not just thinking of it." Belle
gave him a taut smile. "I fully intend to do so."

Over his protests she stalked out into
the night air. The cool breeze did nothing to ease the hot flood of
anger and confusion coursing into her cheeks. She could think of no
reason Sinclair should have wandered off to a brothel—none but the
most obvious.

Her judgment rejected this solution
almost immediately. For all his pose of being a rake, such behavior
seemed most unlike the Sinclair she knew, the Sinclair who had held
her in his arms, told her he loved her.

Yet what do you know of him?
A voice inside her jeered, a voice that sounded remarkably like
Lazare's.
He has a habit of disappearing,
our Mr. Carrington. Where do you suppose he goes?

Trying to suppress the memory of
Lazare's mocking questions, Belle quickened her steps. There was
only one way to gain answers and that was to find
Sinclair.

Belle had no difficulty locating the
correct place. Even without the doorman's reluctant directions, No.
32 was the only apartment on the lower level erupting with such
commotion. Scantily clad women stood about shrieking in the street
while an old lady bellowed for the police, a brassy-haired girl
weeping against her shoulder.

When Belle saw the two uniformed guards
coming, she ducked into the shadows. This was no time to risk being
caught up in a raid, or whatever it was, and find herself getting
arrested. But what about Sinclair? Was he still inside?

Belle crept round to the back of the
place, trying to figure out what was happening. She had just
decided there was a fight in progress within, when she was
startled. A dark object came crashing through the window, rolled,
and came to a halt almost at her feet.

It was a man. The moonlight rimming
down past the trees enabled her to make out the dazed
features.

"Sinclair?" she gasped.

Stunned, he stared up at her for a
moment. "Angel," he said in a bemused voice. He shook his head as
though to clear it, fragments of glass tinkling to the ground.
Leaning upon his umbrella, he attempted to rise. Belle put one hand
beneath his elbow to assist him.

"Have you seen Paulette?" he
asked.

"What!" The question made no sense to
her. Sinclair's forehead was bleeding. She wondered if a blow to
his head was making him disoriented. But at the moment she could
think of nothing else but getting him away from here.

As he struggled to his feet, his vision
seemed to clear somewhat, but Belle found his next remark equally
as confusing. He gave a soft grunt, managing a painful smile
through his split lip. "The devil seems to be after me. Or at least
two of his henchmen."

Belle heard the sash of another window
being thrown up in the building behind them. A mustached soldier
was silhouetted in the opening, brandishing a sword.

"There he goes, Giles. The English
pig!" the man shouted, beginning to clamber out the
window.

"Two new friends of mine," Sinclair
murmured, reeling slightly on his feet. "Giles and Gus."

"I don't think you are in any condition
to continue the acquaintance!" Belle exclaimed. "Let's get out of
here."

Tugging on his hand, she started to
pull him away from the Palais-Royal. Behind the glittering palace
the streets were dark as pitch, only the moon to guide the way, a
fact not much in the their favor, despite the concealing blackness.
It was too easy to trip and fall over the refuse tossed beside the
buildings or lose one's way in the narrow mazelike passages. Belle
saw that she had made a mistake by heading away from the lights and
the other people of the Palais¬Royal, except that the police might
prove as great a threat as the two heavy-footed soldiers charging
behind them.

Belle could easily have outdistanced
them, but in Sinclair's battered condition, he soon drew up,
panting, clutching his side. "Go on, Angel. Get out of here. I can
hold them off."

But Belle wanted none of his heroics.
"This way," she said, yanking him beneath the arch into an inner
court.

Too late she realized she had drawn
them into a trap. Ahead of them loomed a high stone wall
surrounding someone's private garden. The heavy iron gate was
barred from the other side, a pair of-black mastiffs snarling at
them through the bars. The Argand lamp affixed atop one of the
posts only served to light their presence as though they had been
caught in a flood of sun.

Belle snatched Sinclair's umbrella from
his grasp and tugged frantically at the handle.

"What are you doing?" he
asked.

"Trying to get out your
swordstick."

Sinclair looked at her blankly. "What
swordstick?"

"Why, I always assumed . . ." Belle's
voice trailed off in the sickened realization that she indeed held
in her hands nothing but a common umbrella.

Sweat and blood trickled down
Sinclair's face. He dashed it aside with the back of his hand. "Do
it my way, this time, Angel." He shoved her farther into the
shadows of the wall. "It's me they are after. When you see your
chance, get the devil out of here."

She had no opportunity to argue. One of
the soldiers loomed at the entrance of the court, moonlight
revealing the murderous snarl on his weasel-like features. Sinclair
didn't wait for him to take the offensive. He charged forward,
tackling the man and dragging him to the ground.

The entrance to the court was cleared,
but the possibility of flight never entered Belle's mind. Tossing
Sinclair's umbrella. aside, Belle slipped her hand beneath her
cloak and tugged at the jeweled ornament affixed to her bodice,
drawing forth a sharp stiletto from the sheath sewn into the
gown.

As Sinclair and the soldier
locked in a death struggle, the Frenchman screamed,
"
A moi, Auguste!
"

It took the second soldier but a moment
to come running to his comrade's aid. Auguste raced forward, his
sword arcing as he prepared to run Sinclair through the back. Belle
rushed at the soldier. He heard her approach in time to turn, but
not to deflect her blow.

She drove the knife deep into his
shoulder. He emitted a shriek of pain, then staggered back,
dropping his sword. The other large man now had Sinclair pinned
beneath him, his hands going for Sinclair's throat. Belle snatched
up the fallen sword and crept toward the battle, but Auguste with a
furious grunt had ripped the knife out of his flesh. He stepped in
between her and the struggling men, wrenching the sword from his
companion's scabbard. Auguste approached her with an ugly
scowl.