Rendezvous (9781301288946)

by Susan Carroll

  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.

  Her chief concern for now was what to do in the hours stretching until then, hours to be spent in the apartment, alone with Sinclair.

  Although she had her back to him, she remained conscious of his presence. She knew he sprawled in the chair where Lazare had sat. As soon as the men had gone, Sinclair had made himself comfortable, stripping off his frock coat and cravat. Even without looking at him, Belle retained a clear picture, Sinclair's image imprinted upon her mind, the way his dark head rested against the back of the chair, the cast of his rakehell features for once solemn and thoughtful.

  He was so quiet. Too quiet for Sinclair. What was he thinking? She had no idea. Sometimes she wondered if she ever truly knew what went on in his head. It occurred to her more forcibly than ever how little she knew of her partner.

  Belle frowned as her thoughts shifted back to Sinclair's disturbing remark about Feydeau. Sinclair's explanation had
been plausible enough, and yet it had startled her, his betraying knowledge that she found unaccountable.

  Over the years, Belle had acquired an instinct for detecting when a man was being less than honest. When she had asked Sinclair about Feydeau, she could have sworn Sinclair was lying to her. And all those questions about Paulette this morning. Sometimes Sinclair seemed far more bent upon seeking information about the society than about Napoleon. But why?

  Vague suspicions drifted through Belle's mind as intangible as wisps of smoke. She shook her head as though to clear it. Perhaps once more she was building a case upon trifles. That was the difficulty sometimes. Being suspicious, not trusting, had become second nature to her. It had saved her life upon more than one occasion. But life on the edge as Sinclair described it could be a wearisome affair.

  Hearing Sinclair stirring at last, she turned to face him. He had shifted to the edge of his chair, removed his pocket watch from its fob to examine it, shook it first, then held it to his ear.

  As though feeling her gaze upon him, he glanced up and smiled. When he smiled at her like that, she felt that she knew him very well, his eyes reaching out to encompass her in their warmth, something in his glance establishing a conspiracy between them, a conspiracy of hearts which shut out the rest of the world.

  An absurd thought. Yet she found herself returning his smile, slowly pacing toward the side of the room where he sat. She stood over him, watching as he deftly wielded a tiny gold key, winding his watch. The timepiece bore a look of spartan plainness, the face set with bold black Roman numerals, no scene engraved upon the gold case, yet somehow more elegant for its simplicity.

  "That's a most handsome timepiece," she remarked.

  "A gift from my father," Sinclair said, without looking up from his task. "One of those rare occasions I ever merited his approval."

  It was the first time Belle could ever recall Sinclair mentioning anything about family. Drawing up a stool from in front of the hearth, she settled herself upon it, so close that she could lean upon the arm of Sinclair's chair.

  "You and your father," she asked, "you do not get on well?"

  "Well enough—as long as neither of us speaks to the other."

  He spoke in his usual light fashion, but Belle detected an undercurrent, a hint of regret that perhaps only she could have caught, harboring so many regrets herself.

  As she observed him give the key one final turn, she said, "I never had the opportunity to quarrel with my father. I never even knew who he was."

  Why had she told Sinclair that? she wondered. Perhaps there was something about sitting before a crackling fire on a wet gray day that invited confidences. Perhaps for some odd reason she could not define, she felt it was time Sinclair knew the truth about her.

  "I am illegitimate, the daughter of a Drury Lane actress." She pretended to gaze into the orange-gold glow of the flames, all the while covertly studying him, awaiting his reaction.

  "Well, Angel," he drawled as he reattached the watch to its fob. "I have frequently been called a bastard myself."

  His response provoked a laugh from her, the words so irreverent, so improper, so totally Sinclair. She had just told him her greatest source of shame, the secret that had devastated Jean-Claude Varens, and Sinclair had not raised so much as an eyebrow. Instead he had managed to make her laugh over something that had always caused her pain.

  In that instant she knew what it was about Sinclair that disarmed her. He never judged. He gave her complete freedom to be exactly who she was, nothing more, nothing less. A rather overwhelming gift and a little frightening. She was not sure she was ready to accept it as yet.

  She felt relieved when he turned the subject, although she suspected he might have been doing so to avoid any more discussion about his own past. Picking up the rope that Lazare had been toying with earlier, he said, "I suppose you noticed our friend Lazare's handiwork."

  "The noose? Yes, I observed him fashioning it during the meeting. I expect he thought to unnerve me."

  "Angel—"

  "I know." She cut him off, recognizing Sinclair's warning growl. "You want to tell me again to be careful. I shall. I do assure you that I shall keep Lazare's role in this affair to a minimum."

  Sinclair did not appear satisfied, but he swallowed what he had been about to say. He fiddled with the rope, and the knots Lazare had made easily came undone. Sinclair gave a snort of contempt. "The man appears to be handier with his knife than a rope. Whatever part he plays, I hope if there is any trussing up to be done, you don't entrust it to him."

  Belle smiled. "If anything in that line becomes necessary, I could do it myself. I tie a very wicked knot."

  Sinclair said nothing, casting a skeptical glance at her hands. She could tell he was assessing the softness and whiteness of her fingers, then drawing his own doubtful conclusions. This hint of male arrogance sent a prickle of annoyance through her.

  "Believe me, Mr. Carrington," she said. "If I ever tied your hands together, you would not get them undone very quickly."

  "Care to wager on that?" A wicked sparkle appeared in his eyes.

  "No," she retorted, "for I fear any wagers made with you would not involve money."

  "But what have you to fear?" He favored her with the most maddeningly superior grin. "If milady is so sure of herself.”

  He dropped the rope in her lap. She should have laughed off his remarks and let it go at that. But she had never, from the time she was a little girl, borne sense enough to back down from a dare.

  Sinclair clasped his hands together in front of him and docilely held them out to her. Slowly Belle picked up the rope.

  "Oh, no," she said. "I would never make it that easy for someone I had captured. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind you."

  He did as he was told, but with such a smirk on his face, Belle resisted the urge to give the rope an extra hard tug as she began knotting it about his wrists. Frequently she had found one could judge the strength of a man by his hands. Sinclair's tanned fingers were long and well formed, the tips slightly calloused. She could feel the tautness of the muscle coming down from his forearm and took great care to make the knots tight, well secured.

  "There." She stood back, admiring her handiwork. "I would likely bind your ankles as well, but since I don't have another rope, this will do for demonstration purposes."

  He cast a patronizing look over his shoulder. "If you wish, I will pretend to have my ankles tied." Stiffening his legs together, he took a slight hop forward.

  “Step back and give me a little room. After capturing me, I would assume you went on your way, pursuing your nefarious schemes."

  "Consider me gone." Belle dipped into a mocking curtsy. She moved back to the doorway, hands propped on her hips, waiting to see what he would do next.

  Sinclair dropped to his knees and rolled to one side. Belle watched him flex his shoulders back, straining to move his arms past the hard curve of his buttocks, then down over his legs in an effort to draw his hands up in front, It was rather an incredible maneuver, considering Sinclair's muscular build and the tightness of the shirt and waistcoat restraining him. He appeared to be quite limber, but from the beads of perspiration dotting his brow and the set of his lips, Belle could tell the movement was not performed without some pain.

  She had never intended the foolish game to go that far. "Sinclair—"

  "Quiet," he said through clenched teeth. "I need to concentrate."

  Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and with a final strain that seemed likely to dislocate his shoulders, he succeeded in getting his arms behind his knees. With one fluid motion, he eased his bound hands around his feet, then drew them up in front of himself, struggling to a sitting position, a triumphant expression on his flushed features.

  "Very good," Belle said grudgingly. "But now what? I wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave a knife behind or any sort of a candle for you to burn through the rope."

  "Then I shall just have to do it th
e hard way." Raising his hands, he began tugging at the knots with his teeth. Belle folded her arms over her chest, watching him in confident silence. There was no way he was ever going to undo her knots in that fashion. None whatsoever.

  It took him less than ten minutes. He leapt to his feet with a self-satisfied flex of his back muscles and dangled the undone length of rope before her eyes. The chagrin must have shown upon her face for he laughed and said, "There was nothing wrong with your knots, only your choice of rope, Angel. It wouldn't seem so, but this thick hemp is far easier to undo than say a silken cord from a robe. Never let your captive dictate his own bindings."

  "I shall strive to remember that.”

  With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he fingered the rope and advanced upon her. "Now it's my turn."

  "Oh, no." She shook her head firmly. But he continued to stalk toward her. Belle backed away. Slowly, but relentlessly, he pursued her around the chair. Belle suppressed a ripple of laughter.

  "Behave yourself, Mr. Carrington," she said in as stern a tone as she was capable of. "I would never permit my enemy to tie me up."

  "What would you do to stop me?" he asked in tones of silken menace. He had her nearly backed up against the bookcase, twin devils dancing in his eyes. Well, Belle thought, if he insisted upon pursuing this game of pretense, she was going to make up a few of her own rules.

  She startled him by snatching an object from the shelf behind her. It was only the end of an unlit candle, but she brandished it at him.

  "I would draw forth my concealed pistol." With her thumb she feigned cocking the ‘weapon’. "Now you must stop or I will blow a hole in your chest."

  She was not certain if Sinclair would acknowledge the imaginary pistol. His lips twitched with amusement. Still clutching the rope, he raised his hands, such an expression of deceptive meekness upon his face, she did laugh.

  It was all so absurd. She did not know why she was enjoying it so much. Maybe because so many times she had enacted this scene in deadly earnest. There had never been any place in her life for frolic or lightsome behavior. And maybe it had something to do with the undercurrent of challenge that had existed between her and Sinclair from the very beginning. She became suddenly aware of how her heart thudded, of a stirring in her blood.