Then she returned upstairs to keep her vigil with Sinclair. By early afternoon their nerves were stretched wire taut.
"I can't believe Lazare won't be back," Belle said. "It would not be like him to abandon the plot. He despises Bonaparte too much."
"Well, I am going mad, simply waiting here," Sinclair said, fairly pacing a hole in the drawing room carpet. Indeed, this inaction was making Belle nigh insane herself.
"Is there nowhere you can think of that we could find the blasted rogue?" Sinclair asked.
Belle rubbed her temples in an effort at memory. "Well, I do know Lazare does not usually stay here above the fan shop when he comes to Paris. He once mentioned other lodgings."
Sinclair tensed "It would not happen to be above a chocolate shop, would it?"
"Yes, I think he did say something about a confectioner's, but why—"
"Because I have an idea where it is, if I can only find the shop again." Sinclair tugged at her hand, dragging her after him.
It took some doing to locate the shop, but from bits and pieces of what Sinclair remembered, Belle managed to guess at the address. They retraced the route he had taken the day he had followed Lazare, arriving at last to the narrow street with its tumbledown buildings.
"This is it," Sinclair said, glancing up at the rusted signpost.
"It appears to be closed." Belle tried the door and peered through the grimy window into the empty shop.
"That should prove no problem." Sinclair gave a furtive glance about him. The street was nearly empty of pedestrians, those who did pass by looking far too occupied with their own affairs to pay much heed. "Have you got a hairpin?"
Although Belle was astonished by the request, she groped beneath her poke-front bonnet and produced the requested article.
"Stand in front of me to cover my movements," Sinclair said. Belle did as he asked. In a matter of minutes he had picked the lock.
"Is that something you learned at Eton, Mr. Carrington?" she could not refrain from asking.
"Good lord, no. The only thing of practical value I learned there was how to wield a cricket bat." He grinned at her and she could not help giving him a half-smile. It was the closest to their usual banter as they had come since his grim confession.
Even that slight relieving of tension seemed to help as they crept cautiously into the shop.
"I hope we are not caught," Belle murmured. "I would find it rather ironic to end my career being charged with stealing sweetmeats."
"Believe me, Angel," he whispered back, closing the door behind them, "no one would steal this shop's wares. Vilest marchpane I have ever tasted."
Sinclair indicated a curtained doorway behind the counter. "I believe Lazare must have disappeared through there that day. He met someone that I almost mistook to be—" He broke off, casting an easy sidewise glance at her.
"To be who?" she prompted,
"No one of importance. Come on."
Belle had the feeling that was not what Sinclair had intended to say, but she had no chance to question him, exerting herself to keep up with his long strides.
Cautiously Sinclair led the way past the curtain. A pair of rickety stairs wound upward to a landing above. They climbed up them stealthily to find a solitary door at the top.
Belle started to knock, but Sinclair stayed her hand. "If Lazare does happen to be out for my blood," Sinclair said, "I would just as soon not announce our arrival."
Grasping the hairpin, he set to work on the lock and soon set the door to creaking open. Belle tensed, catching her breath, but she peered past Sinclair's shoulder into an empty room.
"This may not even be Lazare's room," she started to say, then stopped as she recognized Lazare's trunk shoved against one chipped plaster wall, the familiar battered portmanteau held closed with a length of thick rope.
The room showed signs of recent habitation. Two dusty glasses along with a bottle drained to the dregs stood propped on an upended crate. The fireplace held a thick coating of ashes.
Sinclair's interest fixed itself upon the trunk. Striding forward, he struggled to remove the rope and began to paw through the contents. It appeared to be nothing more than Lazare's clothing.
"What do you expect to find?" Belle demanded.
"I don't exactly know."
She watched him for a moment, beginning to feel that this was all but another waste of time. Noting another door, she said, "Well, I suppose I can at least see what is in there."
"Just be careful, Angel," Sinclair replied.
As she slipped through the door, Sinclair tapped the lid of the trunk. It had a strangely hollow sound. Using his pocket knife, he began to pick at the wood. It splintered easily, revealing a compartment behind.
Excitedly, he slipped his hand inside and drew out a packet of papers. Straightening, he carried them over to one of the apartment's narrow windows, taking advantage of what meager light filtered past the filthy panes.
The first document appeared to be some sort of communication Lazare had been in the process of writing to Merchant.
“When you read this, you will know your orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of Carrington. Tonight will see the finish of the rest of it. Isabelle Varens . . .”
As Sinclair scanned down the rest of the page, he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.
"Angel, I found something you had better look at right now. Belle?"
From within the next room Belle groped through the near darkness of what she guessed to be a bedchamber. The heavy curtains had been pulled so tightly closed as to render the room but a mass of shadows.
Banging into the end of the iron bedstead Belle moved carefully toward the window. The curtains smelled of mildew and damp. When she flung them back, a flood of dim gray light entered the room. Turning, she prepared to better examine her surroundings, her gaze focusing upon the bed.
She let out a strangled gasp. A woman lay upon the bare mattress, her dark curls tumbled over the pillow. She fixed Belle with a vacant glassy-eyed stare, a bright slash of red about her neck.
But it was not Paulette's familiar red ribbon. It was blood.
Dimly Belle was aware of Sinclair calling her name from the other room but she could not seem to avert her gaze from Paulette. The French woman's features were frozen in a waxen image of horror. Involuntarily Belle's hand crept to her own throat.
Steeling herself, she stepped closer. There was no doubt that Paulette was dead. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear.
Lazare's signature, Belle thought grimly. Staring down at the woman who would have betrayed them all, Belle supposed she should have felt a righteous satisfaction. But after her initial horror, she experienced nothing but pity. Poor foolish, greedy Paulette.
Sinclair's voice came more insistently. "Belle? Are you all right in there?"
She slowly pulled the sheet over Paulette's face. Then she turned to rejoin Sinclair.
He stood just inside the door, frowning as he perused a document in his hand. He did not see the shadow that stealthily slipped into the room, creeping up behind him.
"Sinclair?" Belle cried. "Look out. Behind you!"
Her warning cry came too late. Sinclair turned, but not in time to escape the full force of Lazare’s cudgel crashing down on his head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Belle rushed across the room, flinging herself in Sinclair's path to prevent him from falling headlong and smashing against the hard edge of the window ledge. The papers he had been clutching in his hands fluttered to the ground.
The weight of his inert form crashed against her, dragging her with him to the floor. His head lolled back against her shoulder, his features so white, so still, a terrible fear slashed through Belle. She had seen men killed outright by such a blow as Lazare had dealt Sinclair.
Struggling, she eased herself from beneath Sinclair's unconscious form, lowering him as gently as she could.
"Sinclair?" she breathed. She was aware that Lazare towered over her. Cursing, he kic
ked aside the papers that Sinclair had been reading. Belle ignored him, concern for her own safety forgotten. With trembling fingers, she explored the base of Sinclair's throat. As she felt the faint but steady threading of his pulse, relief coursed through her.
"Still alive?" said Lazare. "What does it take to rid me of this English dog?"
With a furious hiss Belle turned, starting to rise, but she was stopped cold by the barrel of Lazare's pistol pointing into her eyes.
"Don't." He growled a low warning. "You have never been a stupid woman, Isabelle. Now is not the time to begin."
She froze, glaring up at him. "Damn you, Lazare. What sort of game are you playing?"
"My own and the prying Monsieur Carrington is very much in my way. Those fools, Giles and Auguste! Twice they had the chance to dispose of him. Twice! And they failed me both times. Now I must attend to the matter myself."
A surge of panic rose in Belle. She had seen that nigh-crazed look in Lazare's eyes before. Instinctively, she moved to position herself in between him and Sinclair's helpless form.
"Stay still!" His hand tightened upon the pistol.
"Why do you want to kill Sinclair?" she asked, making a futile attempt to reason with him. "He is one of us. He—"
"He's an English spy."
"How do you know that?"
Lazare's lips curved into a taut secretive smile. "That doesn't concern you. All you need understand is that I don't like being spied upon. Though I suppose I should thank the British pig for one thing. Without him, I would never have known of the Beauvais slut's treachery."
"Yes," Belle whispered, a sickening image of Paulette's mutilated body rising to her mind. "I have seen what you did with her."
"It was necessary. Someone had to stop her, although I never desired to have the slut in my bed. But I've had no time to do aught else with her."
His eyes glazed over and some of the tension seemed to go out of him. Belle tried to gauge her chances of leaping at him, disarming him. No, she would never have the strength to subdue him without a weapon.
"Get that rope over there from off the trunk," he suddenly commanded. "I want you to truss up Carrington."
"I don’t see the necessity of that," she snapped. "You've made quite sure in your cowardly fashion that he will be of no threat to you."
Lazare shifted the pistol to the region of Sinclair's heart. "I can make sure in far more permanent fashion unless you do as I tell you."
"You may intend to kill us both anyway," she flung back, desperately trying to avoid carrying out the command, scarce breathing for fear her defiance would drive Lazare over the brink.
"Oh, no, ma chére amie, Carrington may live for the present. And as for you and me, we must go."
"Go?" she repeated numbly. "Go where?"
He shot her a mocking look. "How short your memory has grown. You must make all haste to array yourself for your assignation with Bonaparte."
Belle stared at him. Was he mad enough to think she intended to go on with the plot after all of this, indeed that she would go anywhere in his company?
He appeared to read some of her thoughts, for he said, "We will not abandon our mission now, will we, Isabelle? Not with Carrington and Mademoiselle Beauvais so nicely taken care of."
"And if I refuse?" Belle asked quietly.
"Then I will show you how large a hole can be made in a man's chest at this range. Now go get that rope."
Belle hesitated, but only for a moment. She had no choice but to obey. Lazare stood far too close to Sinclair to risk further defiance. She must think, try to play for time.
Slowly she edged toward the rope Lazare indicated, the length of hemp that had held closed his battered trunk. Keeping close watch upon her, Lazare bent long enough to scoop up the papers Sinclair had dropped. He stuffed them in the pocket of his greatcoat.
They looked like letters, Belle thought. What had Sinclair read in them that had made him call out to her with such urgency only moments before Lazare had entered the apartment? Did they hold the key to why Lazare so desperately wanted to destroy Sinclair? Belle did not believe his simple explanation that he hated being spied upon. That should not bother a man who had nothing to conceal from the rest of their society.
Lazare continued to stare down at Sinclair with such a look of contempt and hatred, Belle feared anything she might do would prove of no avail. But Lazare appeared able to keep his more turbulent emotions in check, merely saying, "Hurry. Make haste. And make sure you do a thorough job."
Belle picked up the rope, no longer able to delay returning to Sinclair's side to carry out the order. Her gaze flicked to the cudgel Lazare had dropped, but she rejected the notion almost immediately. She might not be able to move quick enough in these cramped quarters. Her best chance of saving Sinclair was to pretend to cooperate with Lazare and draw him away from these lodgings.
As Belle handled the thick length of rope, she could almost hear Sinclair's voice that long-ago rainy afternoon in the apartment, his laughing comment, "Never let your captive dictate his own bindings. The thick heavy kind is easiest undone."
A hope stirred inside her. If she could get Lazare away from here, if Sinclair regained consciousness, she had no doubt he would be able to free himself. It was a forlorn hope, but all that she had.
As she struggled to pull Sinclair's hand behind his back, she noticed a scrap of white trapped beneath his body—one of the letters that he had been reading. It had escaped Lazare's notice. As she wound the rope about Sinclair's hands, she deftly slipped the scrap of vellum up her sleeve.
Looping the rope about Sinclair's wrists, she tried to make it as loose as she dared.
"Tighter," Lazare snarled. "I know you can do better than that."
Gritting her teeth, she complied. Sinclair seemed so cold, so still, but she had to pull the knots snug with Lazare's narrowed eyes tracking her every move. With his free hand, Lazare tugged a dirty tricolor scarf from around his neck and flung it down at her.
"Gag him with this."
"He won't be able to breathe," Belle protested.
"He'll breathe less easy with a pistol ball through his lungs. Gag him, Isabelle. Now!"
With a heavy sigh, Belle forced the scarf between Sinclair's lips. As she did so, she detected a slight fluttering of his eyes. Dear God, he showed signs of stirring to life. Relief mingled with terror. She had no idea what action that might provoke from Lazare. She risked an anxious glance up at the Frenchman, but he appeared to have noticed nothing.
She stood slowly, trying to shield Sinclair's face from Lazare's sight as much as possible. But he shoved her aside.
"Adequate," Lazare said, regarding Belle's handiwork with a satisfied grunt. "Now let us be going. I understand the first consul does not like to be kept waiting."
He grabbed her roughly by the arm, pressing the muzzle of his weapon against the base of her spine. "I trust there need be no reminders of what will happen if you are tempted to call out for help once we gain the street."
"I am as eager to get on with our mission as you," she lied. Her chief desire was to get Lazare from this room. She had seen Sinclair shift his head.
As she marched toward the door, it occurred to her that this might be the last time she ever saw Sinclair, and she dared not even glance back. Her anger and her unwillingness to forgive his deception now seemed so incredibly foolish, so petty. Why did one always see matters with such appalling clarity when it might be too late?
As Lazare shoved her out onto the landing, it was as though he sensed some of her feelings, for he taunted her, "This is so touching, Isabelle. All this concern you have shown for Carrington. One might suppose you had fallen in love with the man."
One might indeed suppose that, Belle thought, a lump rising to her throat.
But then Lazare smiled and said something that drove all other thoughts out of her head.
You have proved to be distressingly inconstant, ma there. What about Jean-Claude?"
The dark
ness that seemed to be suffocating Sinclair's senses was lifting, bringing forth a throbbing pain that felt likely to split his head in twain.
He would have been grateful to sink back into the peaceful realms of oblivion, but some sense of urgency nagged at him, denying him the release.
And then there were the voices, Belle's and Lazare's. But what they were saying seemed to make little sense:
". . . be going . . .first consul kept waiting . . .as eager to get this mission over as you."
Belle was going somewhere with Lazare. Sinclair needed to cry out a warning, to tell her she should not. Yet when he moved his lips to speak, something thick and dry pressed against his tongue, felt like it was choking him.
He heard a click as though a door had been closed. With great effort he forced his eyes to open. Even that caused his head to swim with pain, made him feel as though he would be ill. He fought down the sensation of nausea, fought to stop the room around him from continuing in a dizzying whirl.
Gradually he could bring the room into focus, but he stared blankly at the fading plaster walls, unable to place his surroundings. If only the throbbing in his head would cease so he could think. If only he could move. He realized with another sharp stabbing pain that his arms were bound behind his back and the thickness suffocating him was a gag.
What the devil had happened! Although the pain shooting through his head threatened to spin him back into blackness, Sinclair forced himself to concentrate.
He and Belle had gone to find Lazare. Yes, that was where he was—Lazare's lodgings above the confectioner's shop. He and Belle had been searching the place. Belle had gone into the other room while he had examined the trunk and found the letters.
The letters! Memory came back to Sinclair in a searing flood. Those writings that had clearly revealed to him Lazare's treachery—even worse, the treachery of that damned Merchant, who had sent them on this mission. And Jean-Claude Varens! Sinclair's suspicions about the fool had been right all along. Lazare had the idiot duped, was using him in an effort to destroy Belle.
Sinclair had to warn her. He groaned softly, remembering that had been what he had been about to do when she had cried out to him. He had caught the barest glimpse of Lazare when—Sinclair flinched, the dull pain in his head telling him clearly what had happened next.
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