Rendezvous (9781301288946)

by Susan Carroll

  "You don't seem to have found the sticking plaster, Angel." But all traces of his amusement vanished as he stared into her eyes.

  "No," she said, "but I did find this." She held up the list she had found inside his umbrella.

  He struggled into a sitting position. "Oh," he said in a flat voice. The single guilty syllable was as good as a confession. Stark pain ripped through Belle. Until that moment she did not know exactly how much she had been praying for a denial, some logical explanation of the damning evidence against him.

  It cost her great effort to keep her grip steady upon the pistol handle. "I want to know what is going on. Who are you, Sinclair Carrington?"

  He sighed. "I knew this moment had to come, but I had hoped not like this. I had been waiting for the right time to tell you the complete truth. Believe it or not, tonight I had resolved—"

  "That doesn’t matter now," Belle said sharply. "No more attempts at evasion, if you please. I want naught but direct answers, and I want them now."

  "And you will have them, but that pistol is not necessary. I can guess, unfortunately, what you must be thinking, and I don't blame you. But I can explain everything to your satisfaction." He made a movement as though to rise from the bed.

  "No! Stay where you are." Belle drew in a steadying breath. "We played a game similar to this one time before." She felt her throat constrict as she recalled that rainy afternoon their romp had nearly ended by making love. Why did it all seem so long ago?

  "I feel more at ease with you as you are," she concluded. "I don't trust you."

  "Right," he said, leaning back. There was no bitterness or anger in his voice, only a deep sorrow. He half-closed his eyes. "Where would you like me to begin?"

  "You can start by telling me, Mr. Carrington—if that is your real name—exactly who you are working for, for I have a strong notion it is not Victor Merchant."

  "My name?" he said wearily. "My name is Daniel Anthony Sinclair Carr. I am a spy for the British army."

  Sinclair continued, telling his story from the beginning when he had first infiltrated Merchant's organization until the happenings of this evening, catching Paulette and then becoming involved in the brothel fight. Belle did not interrupt, even to interject a question.

  When he had finished, he studied her face for her reaction. The hand holding the pistol had relaxed, although a certain amount of skepticism remained in her eyes.

  "You don't believe me?" he asked. He had been prepared for many things, but not that she would still doubt him after he had told her the truth.

  "I am not sure. The fact still remains that two of the agents marked through on this list met with violent ends."

  "I marked them off as suspects when I learned of their deaths. You said the man Coterin was a fool, more than likely the sort who would be shot in a botched escape attempt. And as for Feydeau, as illogical as it sounds, you must accept the fact that for once the man did not control his drinking. People all have breaking points, times when they do the unexpected."

  "And the question mark by my name?"

  "I made the mark absentmindedly when I was—" He broke off, realization flashing through him. "You thought I had arranged the death of those two men and you were to be next!" Sinclair's hurt was tempered with a sorrowful understanding. They led similar lives, he and Belle. He knew too well the suspicion, the caution that kept one alive.

  He explained patiently, "The question mark meant that, considering your cleverness and daring, I was paying you the compliment of believing you my most likely suspect."

  "Merci, monsieur," she said bitterly. "That sheds entire new light upon your assiduousness in my bedchamber."

  "No! Belle, damn it!" As he lurched forward, all his battered muscles seemed to stiffen in protest. Tired of the awkwardness of his situation, he said, "I am getting up now. If you intend to fire, go ahead."

  Not sparing her another glance, he forced himself to his feet. With a show of deliberate nonchalance, he limped over to examine his face in the mirror. His temple had stopped bleeding, but with his eye nearly swollen shut, the bruises discoloring his jaw, he looked like a prizefighter down for the count.

  When he turned back to Belle, she had laid the pistol on the dressing table and sagged down upon a stool before the hearth with her arms wrapped about herself. She reminded him of the way he had found her that night down by the window, looking so alone, so lost. He wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms, but he knew he couldn't. Likely he would never be able to do so again.

  He approached as close as he dared, saying in a gentle voice, "I won't have you believing that I bedded you in order to get you to betray yourself, to give information. This assignment has been pure hell for me. I have wanted you from the first with my blasted conscience getting in the way."

  "How inconvenient for you."

  "I never made love to you until I was certain you were not the spy."

  "Why didn't you tell me the truth then? When were you planning to do so? On the way to the theater? Oh, by the bye, Angel, one of your members is a Napoleonic agent, so tonight you are likely leading your people into a trap."

  "I was planning to tell you this evening, would have told you days ago except—"

  "Except for what?"

  Except that he had been afraid of losing her. No, how could he tell her that? How did one lose what one had truly never had? He started to rake his hand through his hair and winced when he grazed his wound. "Even though I was certain you were not the spy, you have told me more than once you have no strong interests on either side. What loyalties you have belong to individual people. If I had ferreted out the spy and it turned out to be someone like Baptiste . . ." He let the suggestion speak for itself.

  "Baptiste, of course," she murmured. "All that time I thought you were being kind to my old friend, spending so much time with him, you were merely seeking information."

  "No! And yes," Sinclair admitted reluctantly. "I have grown to like and respect Baptiste, as much as I have grown to hate this assignment. But I don't know if I could have behaved any differently. Too much was at stake, too many lives at risk because of the information Paulette was passing, the lives of British soldiers, even my own brother."

  Sinclair's voice trailed off as he searched Belle's eyes for some sign that she understood. But with a sinking heart all he noted were the lines of her face becoming more rigid, all her old barriers being slammed into place.

  "What I find most unforgivable," she said at last, "is the way you let me rattle on and on about honesty, about how there was no pretense or deceit between us."

  "God, Belle, you don't know how much I wished that had been true. I was wrong to let you go on believing in me, but it seemed like the one edge that I had over your memories of Jean-Claude—the freedom from pretense, that you and I are so much alike. We share the same world while—"

  He was interrupted by her expression of blazing scorn. "Still trying to deceive me, Mr. Carr? It won't serve. You see, I take great pains to keep myself current with the world. Not only do I read the military dispatches in the paper, but the society columns as well.

  "That stiff-necked old martinet you described as your father, he is General Daniel Carr, is he not?"

  "You have heard of him?"

  "Who has not heard of the famous general, the youngest son of the Duke of Berkstead? That, I believe, makes you the Honorable Mr. Daniel Sinclair Carr." She pronounced his title with a kind of savage sarcasm.

  "I don't hold your birth against you, Belle," he said. "Don't hold mine against me."

  The quiet reproof in his eyes defused some of her anger, causing her to look away. She rubbed the back of her neck, wishing Sinclair would stop talking, simply leave her be. Never had she felt such a weight of emptiness settling over her heart, not even during those dread days immediately after Jean-Claude had left her. She was so tired. She wished she could just let go of everything, yet even now she was forced to act.

  Somehow she got to her feet. "Non
e of this disagreement between you and me is of any importance. What I have to do now is try to think."

  "There is not much to think about," Sinclair said. "Paulette has escaped. She may even now be relaying her information. We all must be out of Paris by first light."

  "You may go. Paulette cannot be any danger to your precious army now. You have accomplished what you came for."

  Sinclair flinched at her harsh words, but he said, "I go nowhere without you."

  "I intend to stay. My business here in Paris is not finished.”

  "You cannot possibly still be thinking of going ahead with the abduction—"

  "No, Mr. Carrington. I am not that big of a fool. But I cannot leave without making some attempt to discover what has become of Paulette. If there is any chance at all she has not yet gone to Bonaparte, I must try to stop her."

  "Are you mad? Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be?" He took a step toward her almost as though he wished to shake sense into her head. Belle drew herself erect, defying him to touch her. He stopped just short, but she read the steely determination in his eyes.

  "You are coming with me now, Belle, even if I have to take you by force."

  "Don't you understand anything?" she cried. "Oh, certainly, it would be easy for you and me to flee this disaster. Our lives are not centered here. But what about Crecy and Baptiste?"

  Although the set of his jaw remained stubborn, she could tell her words were giving Sinclair pause.

  "Baptiste has already risked enough with nothing but a failed plot to show for it," she continued passionately. "To be exiled from Paris—I believe it would kill him. I won't see him make such a sacrifice. Not without making some attempt to prevent it."

  She and Sinclair squared off for a long moment. He was the first to concede. "All right, Angel, what do you want to do?"

  "Find Paulette." She was gathering up her cloak. "I intend to start by going back to that brothel—if you haven't burned it to the ground—and ask some questions."

  "I will go with you."

  "I doubt you will be welcome there. I will have a much better chance if I go alone. Paulette may even still be hiding there."

  Sinclair regarded her with folded arms. "And what do you expect me to do?"

  In his condition Belle thought the best he could do was gain a few hours' rest, but she knew he was unlikely to do so. After thinking a moment, she asked, "Is it possible you could contact your friend Warburton at this hour? If he and your other agent keep as close a watch upon that guardhouse as you say, it is possible they will know if Paulette has been there."

  Sinclair appeared to turn this possibility over in his mind, and nodded in agreement. He seemed far from pleased at the prospect of letting her venture off on her own, but after gruffly ordering her to take care, he turned to go.

  Yet as he stalked toward the door, he paused to look back. "I only want to tell you one more thing, Belle. I did not lie when I said I love you."

  She froze, trying to steel herself against the low-spoken words, yet they stirred her all the same, touching upon a memory. Her heart constricted when she recalled what it was. Sinclair's words were almost an echo of her plea to Jean-Claude so long ago.

  She turned away, not wanting to understand the misery her rejection was inflicting upon Sinclair at this moment, not wanting to, but understanding it all too well.

  She heard the door open behind her, and somehow she could not let him go like that. She whipped about. "Sinclair?"

  He stopped. She could almost hear his breath still. "Yes?"

  She drew in a deep breath, but her pain at his deception was yet too raw for her to do more than confess, "About the pistol. It wasn't loaded."

  He offered her a sad smile before exiting. "I never really thought it was, Angel."

  Dawn found Belle's eyes gritty from lack of sleep, her limbs aching from exhaustion, and she had accomplished nothing. Paulette appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth. Some judicious bribes at the brothel to the sleepy-eyed femmes earned her only the knowledge that Paulette had slipped out during the fight and had never come back.

  Most of Belle's time had been wasted listening to Madame Margot bemoaning the recent events. "One of our best chambers ruined by fire," the elderly dame had wailed, "to say nothing of the brutes we had tromping through here, wild-eyed Englishmen, loutish soldiers, scarred rogues—"

  "Oui, Madame," Belle said soothingly, making her escape from these vapid outpourings as soon as she could. The visit to the brothel having proved useless, she made her way to Crecy's. At least she could alert him to the danger and solicit some of his servants to join in the search.

  The morning had considerably advanced by the time she made her way back to the apartment. Gray and overcast, the day was an accurate reflection of her spirits. Dragging herself down to the apartment's tiny kitchen, she brewed a cup of tea while she attempted to decide what to do next.

  She had just sagged down at the wooden table when a footfall alerted her to Sinclair's return.

  "Belle?" he called.

  "In here," she replied wearily.

  He appeared shortly in the doorway, looking as exhausted as she, a stubble of beard rimming his jaw, a heavy circle under his one eye, the other now darkened to a shade of purple. At least the swelling had gone down. His dark hair spilled over his brow, concealing the cut on his forehead. When he collapsed down on the chair opposite her, the instinct to reach across and reach for his hand was strong. With great difficulty, she hardened herself against the impulse.

  "Any luck?" she asked, although his downcast expression gave her the answer.

  He shook his head. "Neither Warburton nor the other agent has seen any trace of her. Not that she couldn't have somehow slipped past them and already be inside the Tuileries. But they promise to keep as close a watch as they can and intercept her if they see her."

  Sighing, Belle stared into her teacup, but she made no move to taste the bitter brew, merely warming her hands upon the steaming china. After long thought she said, "I doubt if Paulette made it to the Tuileries. If she had, we would likely have soldiers thundering at our door by now."

  "Then where do you think she has gone? Does she have other friends in Paris?"

  "I have no idea. It should be rather obvious I didn't know the woman that well. But Crecy's men are searching the vicinity of the Palais-Royal. I told Marcellus to do nothing more until he hears from me."

  Sinclair nodded. He shifted upon the chair as though seeking a more comfortable position. Belle did not miss the way he flinched, one hand going surreptitiously toward his ribs. Despite her lingering anger with him, she could not help feeling a stab of remorse and empathy. He had taken the devil of a beating last night with no chance to rest and recover.

  Silently she pushed her cup of tea across the table to him. He flashed a grateful look, but said, "No, thank you, Angel, I am not that close to death's door as to be drinking that."

  "I'd offer you something stronger, but there's not much here. Thinking that we would be gone, I told Paulette to clear most everything out."

  The mention of the woman's name brought them back to the problem.

  "So what do we do now?" Sinclair asked. "I gather you learned nothing of any use at Madame Margot's?"

  "Only that she will never let an Englishman cross her threshold again," Belle said, forcing down a swallow of the tea. "Nor any soldiers or men with—"

  She broke off, startled by the recollection of some of the elderly woman's meanderings. Had her mind simply been too numb at the time to take heed, or was she reading too much significance into a certain fact now?

  "Men with scars," Belle mused aloud.

  "What was that?" Sinclair asked.

  "Madame Margot. She said something about a man with a scar lurking in her parlor."

  Some of Sinclair's fatigue appeared to be forgotten. "Lazare?" he asked eagerly.

  "Lazare is certainly not the only man with a scar to be found in Paris, yet he did leav
e the meeting shortly after you did." Belle frowned. "But it makes no sense. Why would Lazare be there? I cannot believe he had anything to do with Paulette's business. He hates Bonaparte far too much to have had a hand in that."

  "That may be true, but I have had my suspicions of Lazare all along," Sinclair said. "I never mentioned it last night, but I am almost certain those two who attacked me were the same men who nearly ran me down in the street. I think they were paid to do so."

  "By Lazare?"

  "I don't know, but I would wager my last farthing that he knows more about what went on in that brothel last night than anyone else does."

  Belle shoved to her feet, her resolution returning. "Then perhaps it is time he shared that information with us."

  Sinclair also stood, a steely look of anticipation in his eyes. "I shall be only too happy to flush the rat down from his garret for questioning."

  Belle scowled, moving to intercept his retreat from the kitchen. The last thing she wished for was any more brawling. But Sinclair seemed to bear no more sense than most men in that regard.

  She need not have worried, however, about the upcoming confrontation. Lazare was not in his garret apartment. The porter furnished the information that Lazare had not returned last night.

  "People have a nasty habit of disappearing in this city," Sinclair grumbled. Belle did not have the energy to set off on another wild chase, so she persuaded Sinclair to wait awhile for Lazare's return.

  In the meantime, it occurred to her she had yet to warn Baptiste what had transpired. Again, she met with frustration. She had forgotten that after Baptiste closed up shop the night before, he had told her he meant to spend the day with an old friend.

  She knew well what he meant by that. Likely Baptiste was out strolling the streets of his Paris, visiting all his old haunts as though this might be the final time. Belle prayed that it was not. Since she had no way of tracing him, she had to content herself with slipping a carefully worded note under his door, warning him not to go to the theater that night.