Rendezvous (9781301288946) (48 page)

"A hope we seem to have thwarted for
the moment," Sinclair said cheerfully.

He appeared content to draw her back
into his arms, but Belle forestalled the gesture, saying anxiously,
"And Jean-Claude?"

Some of the light went out of
Sinclair's eyes. He stiffened. "He is safe in Crecy's lodgings
behind the gaming house, where we are headed now."

The mention of Jean-Claude drew an
element of constraint between them as it always did. Nothing more
was said until the cart lumbered into the shadows behind the
Palais-Royal.

Baptiste motioned them both to lie low.
Then he returned shortly, signaling that all was clear. He moved to
help Belle down from the cart, her weight almost too much for the
old man's strength. He said nothing. Tears gathered in his eyes,
and he expressed his gladness at her safe return with a fierce
hug.

As she and Sinclair slipped up the back
stairs normally reserved for the workers at the gaining house,
Baptiste returned to attend to the horses and hide the cart. In the
parlor of the lodgings, Belle discovered Crecy nervously pacing.
Never one to wax sentimental, the urbane Marcellus let out a joyous
cry at the sight of her. He pressed exuberant kisses upon both of
Belle's hands.

"I confess, I never believed your
rescue would be possible." Crecy glanced from her to Sinclair. "You
are formidable, monsieur. However did you manage it?"

"We will explain all later, Marcellus,"
Belle said. "Right now, I must see Jean-Claude. Where is
he?"

"In Crecy's bedchamber," Sinclair spoke
up. Reluctantly he led the way. He gave a fleeting thought to the
hellish night he had just spent, worrying, despairing and
feverishly plotting some way to rescue Belle. It had seemed like a
miracle to see her outside the prison gates, to clasp her once more
in his arms. How passionately she had returned his kisses. But
almost in the next breath she had asked about Jean-Claude. Sinclair
feared it was the way it would always be.

He paused outside the bedchamber door
long enough to caution her. "The comte is a little dazed from the
events of last night. Shock, I suppose, and he was slightly injured
in the escape."

"Injured?" Her gaze snapped to his. Did
he imagine it or was there a faint hint of accusation in her
tone?

"I did the best I could," he said
defensively. "I was lucky to get that fool out of the theater
alive. He didn't want to come. I think he wished the mob to
overtake him. I had to hit him."

"I am not blaming you, Sinclair. You
risked your life to save him. You cannot begin to imagine my
gratitude."

Her gratitude felt like a knife thrust
to his heart. Turning away from her, he shoved the bedchamber door
open. Varens was no longer in bed. He sat in a chair, huddled
before the fire, staring into the flames, a vacant shell of a man.
Only when he saw Belle did some spark of animation appear in those
empty eyes.

"Isabelle. You are safe!"

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Thank God." Jean-Claude started to
rise, but his legs were weak. He wobbled and would have fallen if
Belle had not caught him, easing him back into the
chair.

"Sit still," she commanded.
Jean-Claude's face was so pale his only color came from the streaks
of purple along his jaw where Sinclair had clipped him. "I will
fetch you a glass of brandy.

"No." Jean-Claude caught
desperately at her hand. "Do not leave me.
Mon Dieu
, how I have needed you.
Promise you will not go."

Belle hesitated, glancing back at
Sinclair. The rigid set of his countenance could not quite disguise
what he was feeling. He probed her with his eyes as though he
awaited her answer. Yet Jean-Claude clung to her, all his pride
crumbled to dust. How could she simply shake him off?

Casting Sinclair a look that pleaded
for his understanding, she murmured to Jean-Claude, "No, I will not
leave you."

Sinclair compressed his lips. Without
another word he turned and left the room. Never had Belle felt so
torn in two. She wanted to go after him, but Jean-Claude had begun
to tremble, shaking so hard as though seized by an ague.

Sighing, she pried herself away long
enough to fetch brandy and force it between his chattering teeth.
He refused to climb back into bed, so she took a coverlet to him,
tucking it about his legs.

His shivering finally stopped and he
gratefully caressed back a stray lock of her hair. She must look
like a woman who had been carted to hell and back. But Jean-Claude
noticed no signs of her own fatigue and mental distress. He never
had, she thought with an unexpected stab of resentment.

Grabbing up the brandy, she sloshed
some of it into the glass for herself, downing it in one gulp. That
Jean-Claude noticed. He watched her with pained
surprise.

This was not the time for accusation,
Belle knew, but she could not refrain. "How could you do it,
Jean-Claude? How could you permit someone like Lazare to drag you
down to such depths, persuade you to attempt something so against
everything you have ever believed in?"

"I don't know." He gripped his hands
tightly together, bowing his head. "It is only that all my life I
have ever talked, never acted. I thought with that monster
Bonaparte gone, I could restore France, somehow make amends, and
Lazare offered me the opportunity. It was only as I stood there
upon the stage looking straight into Bonaparte's eyes that I
realized I couldn't do it."

Silent tears tracked down Jean-Claude's
cheeks. "I failed, Isabelle. I failed again." He covered his face
with his hands. "I am so ashamed, I can scarce bear to have you
look at me. How you must despise me for the coward that I
am."

Belle stared at his bowed head. She
almost wished she could despise him when she thought of the
disaster that his cooperation with Lazare had brought crashing down
upon all of them. Yet even now her heart flooded with pity for this
poor, desperate man.

Putting her arms about him, she cradled
his head against her. "Hush. Hush, my dear. You failed only because
you are a gentle man, far too gentle for the madness of this
world."

Soothing him as though he were a child,
she calmed him again. By the time she had managed to restore some
measure of his dignity, she felt ready to drop with
exhaustion.

"What shall we do now, Isabelle?" he
asked at last, looking up at her.

"Crecy will help us to flee Paris—" she
began.

"I don't mean that. I mean afterward. I
feel so lost, now, without a purpose. How shall I continue on with
my life?"

"I don't know," Belle said, drawing
away, unable to offer him any further comfort. The dramatic events
of the past few days were beginning at last to take their toll upon
her. She felt so drained.

"Is there any hope that you and
I—"

"Please, Jean-Claude," she said
wearily. "I can give no thought to the future just now. I am so
tired."

"Of course. I am an inconsiderate
fool." He managed to rise to his feet. "You too must
rest."

Belle nodded. She wanted nothing more
than to seek out Sinclair, but she feared he might be angry with
her for remaining with Jean-Claude. She bore not the strength to
deal with that just now. Allowing Jean-Claude to lead her to the
bed, Belle collapsed onto it. He drew the coverlet over
her.

"I should go. It is not proper for me
to be here like this with you. Since we are no longer
married."

His words caused a ripple of genuine
amusement to course through her, an amusement, she thought with a
pang, that only the irreverent Mr. Carrington could have
appreciated.

"Do as you think best," she mumbled to
Jean-Claude, burrowing her head beneath the covers.

Drawn up to the table in the parlor,
Crecy and Baptiste plotted the details of smuggling Sinclair and
Jean-Claude out of Paris. Moodily, Sinclair stared out the window,
wishing he could be gone now. It was raining again. Belle was
right. It was forever raining in this bloody city.

"We shall keep to the original plan,"
Crecy said. "The route through the Rouvray Forest. Instead of
Bonaparte hidden in the false compartment beneath the seat, we
shall have Monsieur Varens. Sinclair can disguise himself as a
postilion, and Isabelle we shall garb as a boy. She makes a most
attractive youth. At the crossroads I will have my men meet you
with fresh horses."

Baptiste nodded, frowning slightly. "My
only concern is that Lazare also knew of this plan."

"Bah!" Crecy snorted. "We have seen the
last of that villain. You may be sure he is miles from Paris by
now. He ever had a knack for preserving his own skin."

"That is true." Baptiste looked
reassured. He turned to Sinclair. "You approve of this plan,
monsieur?"

"It sounds fine to me," Sinclair said
with little interest. He hardly noticed when the two men left the
salon to alert Crecy's staff as to the time of the upcoming
departure.

Sinclair tried to think no longer of
what might be passing between Belle and Jean-Claude in that
bedchamber. It seemed a long time before anyone emerged, and then
it was the comte.

He still looked worn, but his features
were composed. What soothing words had Belle uttered, what promises
had she made to restore Jean-Claude? It tormented Sinclair to
imagine the scene.

"Isabelle is resting," Varens said.
"She is exhausted."

I daresay she would be after pouring
out all her strength into you. But Sinclair choked back the
sneering words.

He kept facing the window, hoping
Varens would possess the sense to leave him alone, but it seemed
the comte had a short supply of that commodity.

Varens spoke slowly, as though he had
no wish to address Sinclair, but felt compelled. "I needs must
express my thanks, monsieur, for your rescue of
Isabelle."

The Frenchman spoke as though she
belonged to him. Perhaps that was the harsh truth Sinclair had to
face. She did, always had and always would.

"Your thanks are unnecessary," he
snapped. "She didn't need to be rescued."

"The fact remains that while I lay
helpless, you hazarded your life to see that she was
safe."

"I still don't want your thanks,"
Sinclair said. "I didn't do it for you."

"I am aware of that," Jean-Claude said
stiffly. "You must at least accept my gratitude for what you did
for me at the theater. I would be a dead man now but for
you."

"Don't remind me," Sinclair said
through gritted teeth. Blast the man. Could he not stop these
heroic speeches and go away before Sinclair hit him again? "I could
not care less whether you live or die. If I helped you for any
reason, it was because of a little boy named John-Jack, whom I took
great pains to convince that his Papa would come home. I don't like
lying to children."

Jean-Claude looked rather humbled by
the mention of his son.

"As to any other motive—" Sinclair
broke off, seeing no reason why he had to confess that he had also
done it for Belle, that he could not bear to see that haunting look
of unhappiness return to her eyes, even if it meant surrendering
her to Jean-Claude.

"Whatever your motives," Jean-Claude
persisted, "I could not rest easily until I discharged my debt of
gratitude." As though it cost him great effort, Jean-Claude
extended his hand toward Sinclair.

Sinclair supposed he should be equally
magnanimous and take it. But was it not enough he had rescued the
man likely to take Belle away from him? He was damned if he could
endure being thanked for it into the bargain!

"Go to the devil, Varens," he said.
Ignoring the comte's outstretched hand, Sinclair strode from the
room.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Moonlight spilled down upon the
crossroads, its silvery light silhouetting the coach and four
halted where the paths met. Belle alighted from the carriage's
interior, her breath coming in a cloud of steam. Crossing her arms
over her breast, she burrowed her hands beneath the cape of her
garrick. Her masculine attire with its layering of coat, waistcoat,
shirt, and breeches afforded her more protection from the chill
than any of her gowns, yet she still felt the sting of the cold.
The damp whisperings of autumn hung in the air tonight, the promise
of winter not far behind.

All about her the Rouvray Forest
loomed, acres of woodland, thick with trees, the rustling leaves
like sinister voices on the night wind. Belle had never liked the
place, with its legends of highwaymen, robbers, and dark ancient
deeds. Not far from the carriage stood the Croix Catelan, a
weatherworn and mutilated pyramid, a memorial to the poet Arnauld
de Catelan, who had been savagely murdered on this spot centuries
ago. A dying oak hovered nearby, its gnarled branches like skeletal
fingers stretched out in a plea for mercy, the soughing of the
trees a whisper of despair.

Belle shivered. This rendezvous point
was bad enough in the daytime. The thick underbrush afforded far
too many places for concealment, leaving one always with the
feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. But this was where she and
Baptiste had always met over the course of the years when involved
in a mission together, it being the farthest he would venture from
Paris, the closest she would come.