Rendezvous (9781301288946)

by Susan Carroll

  Though why that should be, she could not say. She tried to recall the conversation they had been having when she had drifted off to sleep, but her memories of it were hazy. In the end she dismissed her misgivings as imagination, more pressing matters crowding forward to occupy her mind.

  The promised invitation from Bonaparte arrived that afternoon, setting the date of their supper for a week hence, to be held at his private apartments in the palace of Saint-Cloud, some twelve miles outside of Paris.

  One week, Belle reflected as she smoothed her hand over the crisp sheet of vellum. That did not give her much time.

  The ensuing days passed in a flurry of activity. To avoid any hint of suspicion, she and Sinclair continued to play their role as the typical English couple touring abroad, accepting invitations to some of the salons, being seen walking along the Petite Coblentz at the fashionable hour, exploring the Louvre like the other foreign visitors to gawk at the masterpieces Napoleon had plundered from the nations he had conquered.

  Contrasting to these public appearances were the clandestine meetings with Baptiste, Crecy, and Lazare to finalize the plans for the abduction. These sessions proved long, the arguments many. Lazare favored waylaying the first consul's coach en route, The road to St. Cloud contained quarries where a contingent of armed men might easily be hidden.

  But as Belle pointed out, Bonaparte was no fool. She had gleaned the information that these quarries were always checked before Napoleon set out for St. Cloud. She favored a more subtle approach. Their own men disguised as members of the consular guard would have a greater chance of drawing near to the coach, overpowering the escort before the deception was discovered,

  While the merits of this suggestion were debated at length, Belle frequently found her attention wandering, her gaze tracking toward Sinclair. It was most strange, she thought. Part of her reluctance to succumb to Sinclair's charm had been her fear of the distracting effect it would have on their work. Yet at most, when their eyes met, the warmth of a knowing glance would pass between them. An accidental brushing of his hand upon hers would send a tingle rushing through her veins. But she doubted that any could have guessed from the cool sophistication of their manner that their relationship was anything other than professional.

  By day Monsieur and Madame Carrington presented the image of the well-bred married couple, courteous and dispassionate. Ah, but by night, in Sinclair's arms, in the dark of her bedchamber, that was entirely another matter.

  By the morning of the military review, five days had passed since the reception, and Belle felt able to relax somewhat. Her plan had been adopted in the teeth of Lazare's objections; most of the details had been settled. Work on the light coach to which Bonaparte would be transferred was complete, some reliable men for added force recruited from Crecy's servants, the stitching on the duplicate guard uniforms nearly finished.

  Belle had naught to do but wait and continue to enact her part as the alluring Mrs. Carrington. As she prepared to dress to attend the review, she paused long enough to force open the window casement in her bedchamber.

  The weather had turned unseasonably warm these past few days, the breeze whispering past the curtains seeming more borne of May than October. Belle selected her lightest gown, a high-waisted walking dress of pearl-colored jaconet, the hem bordered with narrow tucks, then summoned Paulette to help her with her hair.

  But the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be found. Belle pulled a wry face. Paulette had been more flighty than usual of late, unreliable. She supposed it might be the weather or the woman's excitement at being back in Paris again. It would not have surprised Belle if Paulette had found herself a lover somewhere.

  Shrugging off her annoyance, Belle scooped up the hairbrush from the dressing table. She had indeed allowed herself to become a pampered dolt if she did not still know how to do her own hair.

  Brushing the strands into an arrangement of soft curls, Belle donned a gypsy hat of straw, bending it into bonnet shape by use of a sky-blue ribbon. Fetching her silk-fringed parasol and a lace shawl, she headed briskly downstairs.

  It did not surprise her to find both antechamber and drawing room empty. Punctuality, at least for social functions, she was rapidly discovering, was not amongst Sinclair's list of virtues. But this particular time, for the military review, she did not intend that they should be late.

  Marching back up to his room, she delivered a thundering summons against his door, but was disconcerted to discover that Sinclair was not in the apartment at all. He surely would have had no place to go at such an early hour. She could not imagine where he might be unless. . .

  She had noted that Sinclair found time each day to stop below to pass a few minutes with Baptiste in his lodgings or the fan shop, a fact that pleased Belle. Once accustomed to being surrounded by a large family, she knew that Baptiste was often lonely, the gregarious little Frenchman always glad of any company, ever proud to display his crafts. Despite Baptiste's initial wariness of Sinclair, she sensed that a liking had developed between the two men.

  Likely that was where Sinclair was now. If she hurried down, she could visit with Baptiste herself for a moment, and they would still have time to attend the review.

  Hastening below, she again met with disappointment. A placard bearing the word closed had been placed in the shop's front window. That was as odd as Sinclair's unexplained absence, Belle thought. Today was the decadi, a proclaimed holiday. But Baptiste had ever ignored the Revolutionary calendar, the decree that every tenth day should be treated as a day of rest.

  Frowning in puzzlement, she went round to the back of the building where Baptiste had his lodgings behind the shop. She half-feared again to meet with no answer, but the door swung open at once with her first knock.

  "Oh! Baptiste, you are here. Is Sinclair with—" She broke off in surprise as she obtained a better look at her old friend. This was Baptiste as she had never seen him before. Gone were the much-darned brown clothes and the leather apron. Dressed in an old-fashioned, but immaculate green frock coat, he had knotted a modest white cravat and black tie about his throat. In one work-worn hand he carried a gray felt hat trimmed with silk cord, his straggly salt and pepper hair smoothed back in neat waves.

  "Why, Baptiste! You look trés beau."

  He blushed at her compliment, the red spreading from the tip of his nose across his leathery cheeks. He shrugged. "It is nothing, only the habillement I wear to mass."

  "But it is not Sunday. What is the occasion?"

  "Did not Monsieur Carrington inform you?" Baptiste regarded her in rather anxious fashion. "You see, I was telling him but yesterday afternoon that I had never taken the time to attend any of Bonaparte's reviews. They are acclaimed as quite the spectacle. And if our plan succeeds, this could well be the last, so. . .” He trailed off, staring humbly down at the brim of his hat.

  "So Monsieur Carrington suggested you accompany us?" Belle asked with a smile.

  "If you have no objections, mon ange."

  "Of course I do not object. But where is Sinclair? Have you not seen him this morning?"

  When Baptiste answered in the negative, she frowned, the first stirrings of unease beginning to niggle at her.

  "Are you sure he is not yet upstairs?" Baptiste asked. "Perhaps he lingers in the bath."

  Belle shook her head. "No, he has definitely gone out. Both his cloak and umbrella are missing." She had noted some time ago, that rain or shine, Sinclair rarely stirred without his umbrella, an unusual affectation for an Englishman. She could only suppose that he carried it for protection, likely having a swordstick concealed in the handle as many gentlemen were wont to do.

  "Do not look so worried, mon ange," Baptiste said. "I am sure he will return in good time. I wish to check the shop once more to make certain the doors are secured, then I will meet you out front to search for him if you wish."

  Belle agreed absently. Moving away, she had already decided to check the apartment herself one more time in the event that
Sinclair had returned while she talked with Baptiste.

  As she started up the outer stairs, she was relieved to hear a footfall on the landing above her that seemed to pause just outside the apartment door.

  "Sinclair?" she called out eagerly.

  "I fear not," a silky French voice drawled.

  She heard the scrape of a boot as a tall masculine form emerged from the shadows above.

  "Oh. Larare," Belle said in flat tones of disappointment. She froze in mid-step. He continued to saunter down the stairs, taking each one with a slow deliberation, those cool blue eyes of his fixing her like ice picks.

  Belle experienced a strong urge to retreat, although she could not have said why. These past days Lazare had kept to his pledge of not giving her any trouble. Aside from his usual brand of insolence, he seemed to acknowledge her position as leader, carrying out whatever commands she gave in his own grudging fashion.

  Yet she still did not relish the prospect of a tete-a-tete with him, something she had managed to avoid thus far.

  His lips thinned to a sneer. "What, ma chére Isabelle? Never tell me you have misplaced the estimable Monsieur Carrington?"

  "No," she said coldly, not about to display any of her anxiety before Lazare's sarcastic gaze. "Sinclair has simply gone out. When I heard you on the stair, I hoped it was him returning. We do have the review to attend this morning."

  "Ah, yes, one of Bonaparte's infamous military displays. It would be a thousand pities if Monsieur Carrington did not return in time.”

  Belle did not like the smile that accompanied Lazare's words. He seemed to be taking a kind of sly amusement from the situation.

  In no humor to be baited by the Frenchman's blunt wit, she said nothing more, but turned and made a dignified exit, to stand outside, observing the morning bustle of pedestrians and carriages thronging the Rue St. Honoré, peering anxiously for some sign of Sinclair.

  To her annoyance, Lazare followed her. He lounged in the open doorway, paring the dirt from beneath his nails with his knife. The sunlight accented the angel-white tint of his hair and flushed his scar a shade of dull angry red.

  "Monsieur Carrington, he has a habit of wandering off, does he not?" Lazare asked as though making idle conversation.

  "I am sure I don't know what you mean," Belle said.

  "It is just that I have noticed each day he has an errand that takes him somewhere, n’est pas?"

  Belle had not given the matter much consideration. At other times she had been much too occupied herself to keep track of the length of Sinclair's brief absences. But now that she thought about it, she supposed that Lazare was right.

  "Now, where do you imagine he goes?" Lazare purred.

  "Out for a walk, to make a purchase, I don't know," Belle said. "Since I am not in truth his wife, I don't keep him on that tight of a leash."

  A hint of irritation crept into Belle's voice, although she determined to ignore Lazare and whatever he was attempting to insinuate about Sinclair. The Frenchman had a penchant for making mischief. It seemed as necessary to him as breathing.

  "Very much the man of mystery, our Monsieur Carrington," Lazare continued to muse, rubbing the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. "Have you ever found that strange, Isabelle? I have. After all, we all know a little something of one another, yet we know next to nothing about him."

  Although Belle kept her features impassive, she tensed. How like Lazare to hit upon the one fact that did yet disturb her about Sinclair. As intimate as she and Sinclair had become, his background did remain closed to her. When he took her in his arms, touched her heart with that look of soul-deep understanding, she could tell herself she knew Sinclair well enough. That his reluctance to discuss his own past did not matter and yet. . .

  "Merchant considered Sinclair suitable enough to employ him," Belle snapped at Lazare. "That is sufficient for me,"

  "Is it? For moi, I am afraid not. I have never placed that much faith in Merchant's judgment. Now, this Carrington—" Lazare wagged the tip of his knife at her. "He never seems to show that much enthusiasm for the little project that has brought us all to Paris."

  "I don't ask for enthusiasm, just efficiency."

  Once more she had to admit to herself that Lazare spoke true. At all their meetings Sinclair remained silent, never putting forth any suggestions, though Belle was certain his mind equaled her own when it came to weaving plots. Sinclair had been reluctant from the first, yet he had undertaken the mission. His lack of enthusiasm signified nothing. All the same, Belle wished that Lazare would take himself off. His voice was beginning to affect her like the rasp of a file on an iron bar.

  She glanced once more up the street, annoyed to feel her foot begin to tap out a rhythm of nervous impatience.

  "Maybe Carrington has lost his nerve," Lazare said softly. "Maybe he has simply gone off and does not intend to come back."

  "I hardly think so." She spun about to glare at Lazare. "Do you have nothing better to do than stand here jawing at me?"

  Lazare ignored her tirade. His teeth glinted as he continued inexorably, "Maybe you will find yourself a widow again. Maybe I will have to take over Carrington's role

  "That will not be necessary, Lazare."

  The sound of that familiar resonant voice flooded Belle with a welcome sense of relief. She caught a glimpse of Lazare's stunned expression before she turned to face Sinclair.

  "Sinclair, where have you. . ." Her words trailed off in dismay as she took in Sinclair's appearance, his hair wildly disheveled, dirt smudging his cheek, the capes of his garrick torn and smattered with mud, the curly-brimmed beaver hat he gripped in his fist smashed beyond recognition.

  "What happened to you?" she asked.

  "I went out to find a tobacconist," Sinclair said, "when I was nearly run down by two soldiers on horseback."

  While Belle exclaimed, taking Sinclair's arm to assure herself he had not been hurt, she thought she heard Lazare mutter a low curse. But when she glanced his way, his head was ducked down as he slid his knife back into its sheath.

  "You should be more careful where you walk, Carrington," Lazare grunted.

  "I was being careful enough. Those two had to have been blind not to see me."

  Lazare shrugged. "Ah, well, you know these soldiers. They think they own the streets of Paris. A pity they ruined your pretty coat, but it could have been your head."

  So saying, Lazare turned and lurched back into the building. Sinclair stared hard after him. "Now, why do I get the feeling that our good friend Lazare is disappointed it was not my head?"

  "Never mind him," Belle said, making a brisk attempt to brush some of the dirt from Sinclair's sleeve. Although relieved to have him returned unharmed, her mind was already racing ahead. "I am glad to see you back safe."

  "Are you, Angel?" Sinclair glanced down at her, his look becoming warm.

  "Certainly. Have you entirely forgotten about the review?"

  "Ah, yes, Bonaparte. And to think I imagined your joy to see me was entirely for my own sake."

  Although Sinclair spoke in his usual jesting fashion, she thought she detected a flash of hurt in his eyes. She would have liked to reassure him in a most intimate manner, but Baptiste joined them just then and she had no choice but to urge Sinclair upstairs to quickly change his coat.

  The sunlight flooded the Place du Carrousel, glinting off the bayonets as the troops marched into place for the review, their colorful regimental flags snapping in the breeze.

  Flanked on either side by Sinclair and Baptiste, Belle unfurled her parasol to shield her face. Baptiste's height placed him at a disadvantage when some taller gentlemen moved in front of him, but he craned his neck, leaning to one side straining eagerly for a view as the soldiers maneuvered into position. Belle noted with some amusement that his enthusiasm was little different from the small boys who stood at the vanguard of the crowd gathered outside the gates, pressing their faces against the bars.

  Sinclair, however, observed the en
tire proceedings with folded arms, a half-frowning expression upon his face. Belle supposed that one could not expect an Englishman to be much diverted by a display of French military might.

  "You do not seem to be much impressed, Mr. Carrington," she murmured to him in a low voice.

  "This is not the way I would choose to spend such a fine morning, watching a parcel of saber rattling."

  She arched one brow. "We are a little surly today, are we not?"

  "What do you expect, recollecting that the entire purpose of this expedition is to escort my wife here to flirt with another man. I am acting out the part of the jealous husband."

  "And you do it so well, sir," she teased, "though I doubt you have much to fear from Monsieur Bonaparte this morning. He will be fully occupied."

  Sinclair smiled, but said nothing. He made greater effort to appear more himself, but the truth was, he was worried. He had accomplished little these past five days, for all his subtle questioning, attempting to delve deeper into the backgrounds of Baptiste and Crecy, trying to keep a close watch upon Lazare.

  Sinclair felt that Lazare almost mocked him with the correctness of his behavior. On the surface Lazare appeared to be working as industriously to achieve the abduction as any of them, and yet something in the Frenchman's manner left Sinclair continually uneasy. His mistrust of Lazare had grown to the point of superstition, where he had all but fancied the miscreant had had something to do with his own near accident this morning.

  That, Sinclair reluctantly conceded, had to be absurd. If there was anyone Lazare wished to harm, it was not himself. It was Belle whom Sinclair frequently caught the fellow watching like an adder about to devour its prey, waiting, always patiently waiting. But for what? That was the question that tormented Sinclair.

  "Mr. Carrington?"

  Lost in his own thoughts, Sinclair scarce heard the voice speaking his name above the blare of the military band. "Good morrow, Mr. Carrington."

  Sinclair felt a nudge against his arm. Glancing around, he discovered that George Warburton had edged his way through the crowd and now stood at Sinclair's side.