She laid her hand soothingly on Jean-Claude's arm. "I understand what you must feel, being deprived of your estates, your home, but—"
"That has nothing to do with it." Jean-Claude glared down at her. "It is Bonaparte, himself. What he is. Do you not see it? He is the dark side of the Revolution."
When she looked at him with incomprehension, Jean-Claude flung his hands wide in an impassioned gesture. "He is the embodiment of all the violence, all the greed, the power hunger that destroyed the fine ideals, the noble purpose and the quest for freedom that the Revolution should have been."
"I will grant you that General Bonaparte is something of a freebooter, an opportunist, perhaps, who took advantage of the circumstances—"
"He is evil incarnate."
Belle tried to reason with him, but saw it was of no avail. Jean-Claude, who had ever thrived on debate, attempting to see all viewpoints, was totally beyond reason. It was as though he had taken all the anger and the bitterness of the Revolution he had never been adequately able to express and had found an outlet for it by settling his hatred on the person of one man. Foreboding coursed through her.
"If you hate the man so," she asked, "why were you at his reception?"
"Because at last I have learned the advantage of playing my enemy's games, disguising my feelings, watching, waiting—" The glazed look in Jean-Claude's eyes made her acutely uneasy. "There is the future of France to consider and my son."
"Yes, Jean-Jacques." Belle seized eagerly upon the boy's name, hoping to snap Jean-Claude out of this strange mood. "Jean-Jacques is the most charming child. Do you intend to bring him over to France to live with you?"
"Not until things are different."
"How different?" Belle asked sharply, now thoroughly alarmed. She knew that the members of her group were not the only plotters to be found in Paris. There had always been other wild dreamers, some of them even highly placed in the French army, hoping to generate another coup, sweep Napoleon from power. A ridiculous fantasy, considering Bonaparte's military skill and his popularity with the people. Surely Jean-Claude could not have fallen prey to any of those fanatics.
"Jean-Claude," 'she demanded. "Exactly what have you gotten yourself involved in?"
"Nothing." He forced a smile. "Nothing that I would wish you to be concerned about. All I can tell you now is that these past few months I have been like a man slowly coming awake from a dream, beginning to know myself for the first time. I am a fool."
"No, Jean-Claude. You—"
He shook his head, gently pressing her hands to silence her protest. "Even worse than a fool, I was a villain of the worst sort. I did France more harm than any of those murderous scoundrels who marched in the streets. "I discovered too late that the careless tossing around of ideas is more dangerous than the blaze of cannonfire. All I did was muse and dream of Utopia, and while I did so, I let them murder my king.”
Jean-Claude raised one trembling hand to cup her cheek. "I failed you as well, didn't I, my Isabelle? I let my pride murder our love."
"You could not help it," she assured him. "After all you had been through—"
"After all I had been through, I foolishly flung away the one precious possession I had left. My Isabelle."
For a moment she thought he meant to catch her up in his arms. How often had she prayed for such a thing. She was surprised at the relief she felt when he didn't. It was just that she was so confused. Her head was reeling.
"You do still care for me, don't you, Isabelle? A little?"
"Yes, of course, I do," she stammered. "A great deal"
Pressing her fingertips fervently against his lips, he said, "Dare I hope that perhaps—" He checked himself with great difficulty. "No, at the moment all I can ask is that you be my friend until after. . ."
"After what?"
"After my prospects improve." He stood up abruptly. "I think it best if we walk back now before I am betrayed into saying something most unwise."
Now thoroughly in control of himself, she could sense him trying to put some distance between them, except for a certain warmth in his eyes.
He had all but declared he had forgiven her, even intimated that his love for her might once more be revived. There had been a time when she would have been contented with much less from him. And here he stood, promising so much more, yet she could feel nothing but alarm.
Jean-Claude had no more notion of how to conduct himself in an intrigue than a babe. He was bound to end in disaster.
But he's not exactly your responsibility anymore, is he? a surprisingly irritable voice inside her demanded. Haven't you got enough to contend with? Yes, but she would never forgive herself if she let anything happen to him.
Still, there seemed nothing she could do but fall into step beside him as they wended their way back across the bridge
"Sinclair will be wondering what has become of me," she remarked.
At the mention of Sinclair a shadow crossed Jean-Claude's face. "Sinclair," he repeated, as though the very way she had pronounced his name had dealt Jean-Claude a blow. "The other night at the reception you told me—"
He stopped himself, stiffening his jaw resolutely. "No, I won't ask you any more about him. We will pretend he does not exist. He does not matter."
Belle nearly protested she could pretend no such thing, that indeed Sinclair did matter. But she kept silent, not wishing to shatter the tentative peace between them.
She permitted him to escort her back across the bridge, but back on the quay she saw no sign of Sinclair. Jean-Claude refused to take his leave of her.
"I could scarce leave you here unescorted with no male protector."
Belle heaved an impatient sigh. Sinclair would have sensed at once her need to be alone, that she was capable of shifting for herself. It seemed to have never occurred to Jean-Claude to inquire after her manner of life during these intervening years. He simply assumed she had continued to live like a lady. He might no longer be a day-dreamer, but he was still as impractical.
The critical thought startled her. She suppressed it and after much firm insistence persuaded him to go. As Jean-Claude took his leave of her, she could not forbear making one last attempt to draw him out.
"You worry me. I fear you are in some sort of trouble. I don't think it was wise for you to return to Paris."
"If it eases your mind," he said, "I plan to leave very soon, in a few days' time."
"That would be for the best," she urged. "You should go back home."
"If only I knew where that was." He gave her a sad smile and looked deep into her eyes one last time. Then he brushed a hard kiss against her brow. Turning abruptly, he vanished into the crowd thronging the quay.
"Damn!" Belle muttered as she stood staring after him. It was as though the solid ground she had forged for herself all these years had been swept from beneath her feet. She had never had any doubts that she would know what to do if Jean-Claude came back into her life and opened his arms to her.
And now she stood cursing him. It was not that she did not still care for him. Indeed she did, too much. Cared for him and ached for him as well. He needed her now more than ever, although he might not know it himself.
But in the interval there had been Sinclair, a man who at last had broken through the barriers she had constructed around her heart, who had taught her how to live again. She could not delude herself that Sinclair only fulfilled a need of her flesh. Their relationship went much deeper than that. There had been a bond, an understanding between them from the very beginning.
But was that love? It was very different from the feeling she had cherished for Jean-Claude for so long. She rubbed a hand over her throbbing temples.
Only one reality remained crystal clear to her. Jean-Claude was deeply unhappy, more tormented than she had ever seen him. If only there was something she could do to help him now, something that would at last truly make up for that ancient hurt she had inflicted upon him.
He belonged back at Egrem
ont, with his treasured books, watching his little son romp in those quiet gardens, sheltered once more behind the high walls of the chateau of his ancestors. She could not turn back time for Jean-Claude, but if only she could restore him to his own.
Perhaps she might have accomplished that if she had succeeded with her plot to abduct Napoleon. With the monarchy returned to France, all the dispossessed nobles would likely have their estates returned.
But these were all absurd speculations. With her own carefully laid plans in ruins, she might as well leave Paris herself. She scarce saw much reason to keep her rendezvous with Bonaparte unless perhaps to lay the groundwork for a future plot.
Why did the damned man have to change the site of their engagement to the theater? Belle all but tossed her head with contempt. As if she had ever had much use for French theater. The stage had been so heavily censored since the days of the Revolution, the sentimental and preachy tripe that remained was scarce worth the bother. And she doubted if conditions had improved much under Bonaparte's strict regime.
The playbill plastered over there on the wall of the quay was a prime example. The Dutiful Wife—likely an overdone drama about a virtuous and doubtless patriotic French lady wrongly suspected by her husband. After he ends by killing her, he would discover the truth and be so remorseful. And the playbill promised the lead role would be enacted by none other than the renowned Monsieur Georges Carribout.
And, God help the theater owner, Belle thought with scorn, if for any reason the said Monsieur Georges failed to appear. She knew these emotionally charged Frenchmen. Their fury that day at the Bastille would be as nothing if denied their favorite actor. Likely there would be a riot and the theater would be thrown into a state of utter confusion—
Belle broke off, catching her breath. A state of utter confusion. The words triggered something in her mind, an idea, a daring idea that seemed to burst inside her head like the shattering of a skyrocket.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Sinclair coming up behind her until he touched her lightly on the shoulder. With a startled gasp, she spun around.
"Belle?" He frowned, staring down at her. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He peered at her more closely. "Are you all right?"
Well might he ask that. Belle knew that she was trembling, but with excitement.
"Yes, I am," she breathed. "You see, I know how we can abduct Bonaparte.”
Beyond the gauzy curtain of Belle's bedchamber window, the sun set over Paris, stippling the sky with rose, mauve, and gold, the colors bleeding together like an artist's canvas left in the rain.
Yet as he stood moodily near the window, Sinclair remained impervious to the sun's glorious display, only aware of the shadows lengthening between him and Belle.
She sat at her dressing table, rearranging the bottles of lotion, hair ornaments, and other toiletry articles as though she could find no pattern of order that suited her.
Both of them had lapsed into a discontented silence. They had been arguing for the better part of the afternoon over Belle's newest plot for the abduction. Yet Sinclair sensed that it was not in truth Bonaparte who fueled this quarrel, but rather another solemn gentleman whose name each of them was reluctant to mention.
"Your plan will never work, Belle," Sinclair muttered for about the tenth time.
"How can you be so all-fired certain?" She snatched up a brush from her dresser, venting her frustration upon the soft tangle of her curls. "It is no more risky than the old plan, and you appeared willing enough to go along with that."
"That one had some chance of success. This one is pure madness."
Belle slammed the brush down. She drew in a steadying breath before she spoke in a voice almost too taut with control. "I will present my plan to the others, see what they think, but I am sure they will agree with me. If you are still so strongly opposed after hearing what they have to say, why, then, you are free to go. I don't need you."
"I am fully aware of that," Sinclair said in flat tones, yet still not able to disguise some of the pain her words dealt him.
She glanced around at him quickly, some of her anger appearing to dissolve. Heaving a deep sigh, she pushed herself away from the table. "I am sorry, Sinclair. I did not mean that."
She crossed the room to his side. After a moment's hesitation she placed her palms lightly against the flat of his chest. A smile crooked her lips. "It is only that you can be so damnably stubborn, Mr. Carrington."
"So can you, Mrs. Carrington." Although he half-returned her smile, he forced himself to remain unyielding beneath her touch. "I thought you had agreed to abandon this impossible task. I wish I knew what really happened to make you almost desperate to go through with it again."
"I told you. I saw that playbill. It gave me the idea to—"
"I wonder." Sinclair regarded her through narrowed eyes. "Or did it have more to do with something he said to you today?"
He could feel the sudden tension in the soft hands that rested against his chest.
"I suppose," he said bitterly, "you will tell me it is none of my concern what Varens wanted of you."
Her hands fell away from him. She took a step back. "He wanted nothing. Only to apologize for his behavior at the reception—that is all."
"Was it? I feared that perhaps the noble idiot finally realized what he had thrown away when he let you go."
Her indignant glance should have stopped him, but he had gone through far too many agonies of jealousy and suspicion while waiting for Belle's return. He feared if he did not release some of it, he would explode.
"Perhaps Varens is the reason for your sudden eagerness to make your plan work at all costs. You are no longer thinking of a little cottage in Dorsetshire, are you, Belle? Maybe it has occurred to you that with Bonaparte gone, Varens might get his estates back and you could be his countess again. And you expect me to risk my neck to help you."
Her throat constricted. "I don't expect anything from you—ever again." Whipping away from him, she strode to the door that connected their bedchambers and yanked it open. "I think you had better go."
"Right." He marched toward the door, but when he reached the threshold, he hesitated. He glanced down at Belle, her face so pale, the set of her jaw so obdurate, yet the misery roiling in her eyes matched the turmoil he felt in his own soul.
Ever cool in his relations with women, he was not accustomed to these gnawing feelings of anger, the suspicion that he was behaving like an ass.
"Oh, hell." He expelled his breath in an explosive sigh. Prying her fingers from the knob, he eased the door closed. He gave her a rueful smile. "We have really gotten our parts down well, Angel. We are even starting to sound married."
His remark choked a reluctant laugh from her. When he held out his arms, she cast herself into them. He strained close, burying his face against her hair.
"I told you once that I did not mind about Varens, but he is not just a memory anymore, is he? And I am very much afraid—" Sinclair drew in a deep breath and then took the plunge. "I have fallen in love with you."
"Oh, Sinclair." She gazed up at him, earnestly scanning face. "I wish that I could tell you how I feel, but I am so confused. Nothing is clear to me anymore."
Her arms tightened about his neck, and she rested her head wearily against his shoulder.
"It's all right, Angel. You don't have to try to say anything. We agreed from the beginning, no promises, no forevers. But no matter how things turn out between us—" Sinclair felt his jaw tighten as he pleaded, "Don't go back to Varens. He's bad for you, Belle. You don't belong in his artificial world of dreams. You are too strong, too real for that."
"I am not planning to go off with anyone," she said. "He has not even asked me. But there was some truth to what you said earlier. I would like to see him regain his estates, at least some part of what he has lost. But that is not my only reason for wanting to go ahead with the plan against Bonaparte."
"Forget Bonaparte. Forget Varens," Sinclair groaned.
He forced her face up to his. "For this one last night, just be mine."
He crushed her mouth beneath his in a kiss that was hard and long, only breaking off to continue the feverish caress along the soft white column of her throat. He felt Belle stiffen with surprise, resistance at first of this fierce onslaught, only to give way with a burst of passion that matched his own.
They clung, kissed, tumbled to the bed, and embraced in a manner that was little short of desperate. The tenderness, the playful skill that had always graced their previous couplings was gone. Sinclair bore but one determination. If he could drive Jean-Claude from Belle's heart with the ferocity of his loving, he would do it. And she responded eagerly, her own desire as savage as though equally determined to forget.
Yet when they at last lay spent in each other's arms, they experienced none of the usual glow of satisfaction. Belle drew away from him, and they rested side by side, without touching. And when their eyes met, it was clear that Jean-Claude was yet very much with them. Nothing had been resolved.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By day the Palais-Royal appeared nearly the same as it had for the generations when it had been owned by the D'Orleans family. The gardens were a place of great charm with rows of lime trees and broad expanses of lawn. The quadrangle structure itself stretched upward in a series of galleries, connected on the ground floor by a colonnade done in the neoclassic style. But the palace that had once sheltered the household of a duke with claim to royal blood was now broken into a series of small businesses and apartments.
In the bright sunshine it was a whirl of activity, one of the favorite shopping spots of Paris with its collection of restaurateurs, confectioners, florists, milliners, hair-dressers, watchmakers.
But by night the gardens rustled with shadows, the shops were all shuttered, and the denizens of the upper floors stirred to life, the Palais becoming a hive of the most respectable vice to be found in Paris. The galleries boasted a seemingly endless array of gambling salons, to say nothing of the discreet apartments of those women known as the femmes du monde, their daring low-cut gowns replacing those demure muslin of the ladies who had strolled about shopping in the afternoon. These bold creatures lay claim to the gardens, lingering in the shadows of the colonnades along with the cutpurses and scores of other rogues.
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