The Parisians still crowded into the streets as though they owned them, heedless of being crushed beneath the wheels of any passing carriage. But few of the citizens any longer sported the red caps or the tricolor cockade of the Revolution. What she now saw in abundance were indigo blue uniforms.
Soldiers swaggered their way along the Rue St. Honoré, jostling civilians out of their way, cursing, laughing, some even singing at the top of their lungs.
"More signs of Bonaparte's influence," Belle said.
"It gives a fellow a damned uneasy feeling. The last time I saw that much blue it was facing me from the opposite end of the battlefield."
Despite her determination to keep her distance from Sinclair, his words intrigued her. So he had once been in the army, most likely the British.
Before she could pursue the matter further, the carriage drew to a halt before the faded brick building that housed Baptiste Renault's fan shop. Without waiting for the post-boy to come round, Sinclair opened the door himself and leaped to the ground. A disgruntled look crossed his face as his glossy Hessians sank up to the ankle in mud.
"Welcome to Paris, Mr. Carrington," she said dryly.
Grimacing, he turned to help her down. Instead of offering her his hand, he caught her about the waist and swung her clear of the coach, depositing her upon some planking that had been placed to bridge the distance from street to shop. Momentarily she was aware of the tensile strength in Sinclair's arms and other sensations caused by her breasts grazing against the hard wall of his chest, sensations she was quick to deny.
When their coachman whipped up the horses, moving off to seek out the stables, she glanced back the way they had come. "I don't see any sign of the other carriage with Paulette and Lazare."
"I am sure they will catch up with us. No fear of us managing to lose Lazare—" Sinclair broke off, giving vent to a startled oath.
Belle gasped as she saw it, too—the roan horse bearing down upon them in a blur of hard-pounding hooves and galloping legs. Paris boasted no such luxury as sidewalks. She and Sinclair had no choice but to dive to one side, slamming up hard against the brick wall of the shop.
The rider flashed past, missing them by inches, pelting them with spatters of mud churned from beneath the flying hooves.
"Damned idiot!" Sinclair straightened, staring in disgust at his sleeve, which now matched his boots. "Are you all right, Angel?"
Belle took a minute to catch her breath before nodding.
"Then let's get inside," Sinclair said, "before we are killed just trying to alight from our coach."
They had mounted the first step to the shop and Sinclair was reaching for the door when they heard the now distant rider's bellow. "Give way. Clear a path for the citoyen consul."
Belle arrested her movement in mid-step, her gaze flying up to meet Sinclair's. He looked as uncertain as she, caught between anticipation and disbelief. There was more than one man in France who held the title consul. It would be the most incredible piece of luck if she were about to obtain her first glimpse of—
"Bonaparte! Bonaparte!" The cry rose up from the crowded street behind her. Whirling about, Belle saw a troop of four mounted horsemen forging a path through the throng of carts, pedestrians, and donkeys. The first three—two wearing a profusion of gold braid on their military jackets, the third garbed in the more colorful attire of the Mamluke—acted as a vanguard for the fourth rider mounted atop a snow-white stallion.
It was this rider that the children ran alongside and cheered, while humble working women and ladies alike frantically waved their handkerchiefs, and the shouts of the men grew more frenzied.
"Vive Napoleon! Vive la République."
Belle caught hold of the wrought-iron railing along the steps, bracing herself for her first view of the man she had come so far to abduct, that Monster from Corsica, as her countrymen termed First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte.
Her initial reaction was one of disappointment. Garbed in a plain gray greatcoat, he seemed of insignificant stature with a poor seat as well. He rode his horse like a sack of grain, leaning slightly forward to maintain his balance. When he trotted farther up the Rue St. Honoré, only yards separated her from his prancing mount. Situated as she was, partway up the stairs, she obtained a clear but brief view of the profile set beneath the black beaver cockade. Pale as marble, Bonaparte's features held the fierce majesty of an eagle. When he turned slightly to acknowledge the greetings of the crowd, she saw that his eyes burned like live coals. As his mount surged past, she was left with an impression of boundless energy and an arrogant self-assurance.
No mean adversary would this Napoleon Bonaparte be, she surmised. But rather than being dismayed at the thought, it sent a tingle through her blood at the prospect of the dangerous challenge before her. She felt somehow stronger, more in control of herself than she had since experiencing the shock of Jean-Claude's intrusion back into her life.
Even after the cheering had died away, she still quivered with excitement as she turned to face Sinclair. She felt unreasonably delighted to sense he felt it, too. As Sinclair stared after Bonaparte's retreating figure, there was a spark in his green eyes, even though when he glanced down at Belle, he ruefully shook his head.
"We both have to be quite mad," he said in low tones. "The people in this city acclaim that man like a demigod. If we are caught trying to—"
"We won't be caught, Sinclair," she whispered back, clutching at his arm. "He can't always be parading in their midst, surrounded by his entourage."
Sinclair merely raised his brows before offering her a strangely wistful smile. "At least I can thank Monsieur Bonaparte for one thing. He appears to have jogged your memory. You finally have recalled my name. Ever since we left that blasted ship, you have Mr. Carringtoned me nigh to death."
His half-teasing, half-serious complaint doused some of her excitement. She slowly withdrew her hand from his arm, remembering her vow to keep a wall between them. But at the moment she could not seem to lay her hands upon so much as a single brick. She experienced an uncomfortable vision of her recent behavior from Sinclair's point of view.
"Have I truly been that much of a shrew?" she asked.
"Not shrewish, merely distant, as though you had retreated to another world.”
"I am sorry. I don't usually inflict my partners with such—such womanish moods." She had to swallow a large measure of pride before she could continue. "I fear I have always been something of a fool over Jean-Claude Varens, but I assure you I have recovered myself. You won't be treated to any more such scenes as took place in the cabin."
"Good God, Angel. You don't have to apologize to me for having bad dreams." His eyes held that expression of warm understanding, his smile soft. "I have never been one for the stiff-upper-lip attitude. When you are around me and something hurts you, feel free to go ahead and swear."
She felt herself returning his smile and half-reached out to take his hand.
"And you don't have to be afraid to touch me, either," he added.
"Yes, I do. Your touch seems to have an unaccountable effect on me."
"A bad one?"
"No, merely one I'm not prepared to deal with," she admitted frankly. "I am taking enough risks on this mission without hazarding anymore."
She tried to meet his gaze levelly, but looking into Sinclair's eyes could be as dangerous as touching him. She was quick to turn the subject.
"We should hardly stand here on the steps all day. They are accustomed to more curious sights here in Paris, but I fear eventually people will begin to stare. Come inside and meet Baptiste Renault, my one true friend in Paris."
Sinclair sketched an elaborate bow and opened the door for her, motioning her forward. As she passed beneath the portal, he gazed down at the top of her head, the soft blond curls haloing her perfect features. He felt as though he and Belle had at last reached some sort of an understanding, but the final line was the same. She had rejected him again.
He was not so
conceited as to believe that every woman would fall at his feet. He had met with his share of rebuffs, but they had never mattered. He had simply moved on to find a more interested partie.
He could not possibly be yearning for a woman he had heard cry out in her sleep for another man, a woman who might be the very spy he had been sent to betray. He could not be that big of a fool, could he? Sinclair refused to answer that question, refused to examine his own feelings any further. Like Belle, there were some risks he was not prepared to take.
Realizing that while he had been consumed with such troubling thoughts Belle had already vanished into the shop, he followed her inside, closing the door behind him.
The interior would have been dark, the towering houses across the narrow street cutting off much of the sunlight, had it not been for the glow of dozens of candles. Looking about him, Sinclair realized he had stepped into a sort of workshop, the smell of glue and parchment heavy in the air. Four rough-hewn tables were covered with fans in varying stages of completion, some of the parchment newly stretched out on half circle hoops while others lay complete, spread out to dry.
Sinclair had never paid much heed to ladies' fripperies before. But he knew enough to recognize first-rate craftsmanship. Handles of wood, ivory, or mother-of-pearl were carved with an intricate delicacy. The classical scenes depicted upon the leaves of silk were miniature works of art.
The workroom was a hive of quiet activity. Several women were painting fans with fairylike strokes; a young man was busy with the stretching, while an older man deftly wielded a shaving iron upon a piece of tortoiseshell.
When Sinclair and Belle entered, the work abruptly ceased, curious eyes turning in their direction. Sinclair waited to take his cue from Belle, but she was silent, her attention focused on the older man.
This individual got slowly to his feet, and Sinclair was startled to see how short he was, a regular gnome, scarce coming up to Belle's shoulder. The craftsman's features even seemed elflike, the bulbous nose too large for his florid face, the chin pointed, the salt and pepper hair straggling over his forehead.
He regarded Belle calmly through eyes of chocolate brown possessing the twinkle of youth, although the pockets of lined flesh beneath them spoke more of the wisdom of age.
"Bonjour, madame, monsieur," he said. "And how may I serve you? I usually do not require beautiful ladies to come into my workshop. I would be happy to display my wares in the convenience of your home."
"No. I have not come about a fan." Belle's voice sounded odd to Sinclair, strangely suppressed. He noticed a gleam in her eye as she continued, "We are Monsieur and Madame Carrington. We have come about the apartment to let above stairs."
"But of course." The gnome bowed, rubbing his hands together. "Please to come this way." He motioned Belle and Sinclair toward a doorway at the side of the shop. Pausing only long enough to glance back at his workers and command, "Back to work, mes amis. Vite, vite!" He slipped through the door, moving with a light spring to his step.
Sinclair allowed Belle to precede him, concealing a slight frown. This was not precisely what he had been expecting, but Belle appeared unperturbed. Doubtless her friend Baptiste awaited them upstairs.
The little man led them into a small foyer, from which a narrow flight of stairs yawned upward, The gnome spoke in a loud voice, clearly meant to carry back to the workroom. "I am sure you will find the apartment most satisfactory, Madame Carrington. It belongs to a charming actress, Mademoiselle Fontaine, and her lover, but she likes to have the lodgings sublet when she is touring in the provinces."
His voice died away. As soon as the connecting door to the workshop was closed, the man underwent a startling change. He no longer faced Belle with that obsequious deference. His face broke into a crooked smile which infused his ugly countenance with an unexpected charm.
"So, mon ange," he said, stretching out his hands to Belle. "You have come back to Paris at last!"
"Baptiste." Her voice was filled with warmth as she stepped forward, flinging her arms about the gnome's neck. Watching the two of them embrace, Sinclair blinked, trying to assimilate the fact that this droll little man was the agent Baptiste Renault, whose aid he and Belle had come to seek.
Mentally he reviewed all the information he had managed to glean about Renault thus far. He and Belle had apparently worked together during the Revolution, smuggling dozens of people proscribed out of Paris. Although he had been arrested once, somehow Baptiste had managed to be one of those few who had survived all the twists and turns, the changes in government that marked the Revolution.
And Sinclair knew one thing more. This was the man Belle had described as her one true friend in Paris. Watching her as she returned Baptiste's fierce hug, Sinclair thought he had never seen Belle relax her guard so much, for one moment looking radiant, unreservedly happy. He felt a twinge of envy that this Baptiste could inspire such an expression upon Belle's face. But Sinclair immediately brought himself up short. He was indeed in a bad way if he was starting to feel jealous even of this older odd-looking man.
When their enthusiastic greeting showed no sign of abatement, Sinclair coughed discreetly to remind them of his presence.
Belle swung around to face him, her eyes still glowing, Baptiste's arm entwined about her waist. "Sinclair, allow me to present to you, Baptiste Renault, the most skilled fan maker in all of Paris."
"The world, mon ange," Baptiste interrupted.
"And the most modest. Baptiste, this is Sinclair Carrington, Victor's recent recruit" Smiling at Sinclair in slightly mocking fashion, she added, "And for the moment my husband."
"Ah, a role for which I envy him." Baptiste sighed. "Having adored you these many years."
"Bah, you smooth-tongued rogue. You never adored aught but your precious fans and your horrid Paris."
Baptiste grinned. At last disengaging himself from Belle, he stepped forward. "Forgive me, monsieur. I forget myself. You must blame it on my excitement at seeing Isabelle again." He offered Sinclair his hand, his skin as dry and thin as the fan parchment, but his grip surprisingly strong.
"A pleasure to meet you at last, Monsieur Renault." Sinclair addressed the Frenchman in his native tongue.
Baptiste studied him, and Sinclair had the uncomfortable sensation of being sized up at a glance. He could not tell what the man's verdict was, but he nodded toward Belle, saying, "He speaks passable French for an Englishman."
"Merci du compliment, monsieur," Sinclair said wryly. He returned Baptiste's stare, attempting to do a little sizing of his own. The genial little Frenchman looked neither ruthless nor daring enough to be any sort of spy, let alone one playing a dangerous game of double dealing. Yet Sinclair would not have dismissed Baptiste as a suspect by his appearance alone. The chief thing that seemed to disqualify Renault was that according to Belle, the fan maker rarely ever strayed far from Paris. If he were passing information about the English coastline to Napoleon, he would have to have an accomplice.
Sinclair's gaze strayed to Belle, her apparent closeness to Renault giving rise to all manner of unpleasant thoughts. He was glad to relinquish them for the time being as Baptiste clapped his hands together briskly and said, "Bien, so it appears the three of us will have much to discuss, but not here, not now. You are tired from the journey, yes? I will show you upstairs. Come along, then."
The steps were narrow, poorly lit, and of such an alpine steepness that Belle and Sinclair moved cautiously for fear of a misstep. They were quickly outstripped by Baptiste, apparently well accustomed to the climb. His stream of chatter floated back down to them.
"I still live in the rooms behind the fan shop. Madame Fontaine's place, the apartment you will have, takes up the second and third floor. These stairs can be reached through the fan shop or the outer door, which has a porter on duty. He is a good fellow and will run errands for you."
Baptiste paused before an oak door on the first landing, fumbling through a ring of heavy keys attached to the belt beneath his
apron. The steps twisted at a sharp angle, continuing upward to the next floor.
"Is anyone living in the apartments above us?" Belle asked.
"A retired shoemaker and his wife." Baptiste clucked his tongue in disgust as he tried first one key, then another. "But you need not worry about them. They keep to themselves. They will take no heed of your comings and goings."
"And the garrets?"
"At the moment empty. When Merchant wrote to say that he was also sending along Lazare-" Baptiste fairly spat the name. “I assumed that you would not wish him sharing your quarters, I thought that the garret would do well enough for the likes of him.”
"I can see that you are a gentleman of great discernment, Monsieur Renault," Sinclair said.
Baptiste flashed him a grin, then grunted with satisfaction as he found the right key at last. Turning the knob, he shoved the door open, bowing Belle and Sinclair past him with a sweeping gesture.
As soon as Belle stepped across the threshold, she was beset by a cold draft and that musty smell of rooms left too long closed. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered—not so much from the chill in the air, but a shiver of reminiscence as she studied her surroundings. The actress Mademoiselle Fontaine's apartment held all the garish glitter of a stage set with its high ceilings and neo-Greek cornices. The crystal chandelier would have appeared too ostentatious for a king's palace, let alone an apartment. The outer room was a combination antechamber and dining room, the walls hung with Indian cloth, the scattered chairs covered in crimson corded silk of Tours.
As Belle moved farther into the room, her footsteps seemed to strike out a lonely echo upon the black and white tiled floor, and she could almost feel herself dwindling into a child of ten again. The place reminded her depressingly of the sort of chambers and furnishings her actress mother had chosen those fortunate times when Mama had acquired herself a rich benefactor. Jolie Gordon never had known the difference between the lavish outlay of money and real elegance. She would have fancied herself quite the grand lady with such an establishment. But even at such a tender age Belle had known better and so had the tradesmen who had waited upon Mama, outwardly so polite as they vied for her custom. Only Belle had noticed their thinly veiled sneers and blushed with shame.
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