The young guard who released Belle was far more courteous than the gruff turnkey. Her bedraggled appearance did nothing to daunt the admiring gleam in the youth's eye. He followed her through the gate into the bustling street beyond the prison's outer walls.
"Is madame all alone?" he asked sympathetically. "Have you no friends to meet you?"
Oh, she had friends all right, Belle thought, but none, she trusted, so fool as to come seeking her here. Aloud she thanked the guard for his concern, saying, "I will manage well enough on my own."
Her words seemed belied the next instant. She was jostled off balance, nearly tumbled into the mud. The culprit was one of the city's wood peddlers, his hat brim pulled so far down over his long straggling gray hair that it was a wonder he could see a thing.
"Watch where you are going, you old—" But the young guard had no opportunity to complete the insult. With a movement remarkably spry for one of his years, the old man straightened, leveling the guard with one blow of his powerful fist.
Belle gaped in astonishment. She had barely recovered from her surprise when she was seized roughly about the waist. The wood peddler flung her into the back of a passing hay cart. Leaping up beside her, he growled out a command to the driver.
"Allez! Allez! Vite."
More startled than hurt, Belle struggled to sit up, but as the cart lurched into movement, she was slammed back down again. She heard outcries and curses from the startled pedestrians as the cart began a wild plunge through the streets.
The wood peddler tumbled down beside her. Belle met him, ready to defend herself as best she could. Nails bared, she went for the man's face hidden beneath its layering of beard. He caught her wrists in a strong grip, forcing them down.
"Be still, Angel. It's me."
Shorn of its French accent, the resonant voice was achingly familiar. The next instant the peddler boldly crushed his mouth against hers, all lingering doubts of his identity melting away before the heated fury of his kiss.
Belle ceased her struggles, clinging to Sinclair, returning his embrace, his graying wig coming away in her hand.
When he drew back, the beard had gone askew as well, Sinclair's hunter-green eyes twinkling wickedly at her. "Now do you know me?"
"Mr. Carrington," she murmured. "And to think I was beginning to feel as if I had not paid enough heed to the wood peddlers of Paris."
But the teasing words caught in her throat, her heart too full as she drank in the sight of him. The cart rattled on at a wild pace, jolting and bruising her with every bump, but she did not care enough to even ask where they were going, content to hold Sinclair fast, to feel the reassuring strength of his arms around her.
She buried her face against his shoulder. "Sinclair, I thought I would never see you again."
"There was no chance that I would allow you to be rid of me that easily, Angel."
He sought her lips again. At that moment the cart careened around a corner, slamming them against the side and nearly dumping the load of straw atop them.
Belle groaned. "What madman is driving this thing?"
Sinclair struggled to a sitting position and called out, "Baptiste. I don't believe we are being followed. Draw rein."
It took several shouts for the old man to hear him, but he sawed back on the harness at last, settling the horse into a respectable trot. Baptiste risked one look back at Belle, his crooked smile beaming from beneath his own battered hat.
"What on earth?" A half-choked laugh escaped her. Sinclair settled back beside her, pulling off what remained of his disguise. "Sinclair, what is all this? What were you and Baptiste doing outside the prison?"
"Trying to get in, of course. Something a little more subtle than being arrested. I figured that even a prison must require wood for fires in the guardroom, and then once inside—"
"You thought to rescue me from the Conciergerie? Have both you and Baptiste run mad? And to think it was my one consolation that at least you had better sense than that."
"Not where you are concerned, Angel." The warmth of his gaze caused her heart to race. "I will admit I was not looking forward to the challenge. It was most convenient when they brought you out to the gate. By the way, what were you doing out there?"
"I was being set free."
"What!"
"I have an official pardon from Bonaparte for saving his life."
Sinclair looked considerably chagrined. "You mean I hit that innocent-looking guard and nearly broke our bones in this cart for nothing?"
"Not precisely," Belle said. "I have a feeling that even Bonaparte cannot be that generous. I think he hoped that I would lead him to the rest of you."
"A hope we seem to have thwarted for the moment," Sinclair said cheerfully.
He appeared content to draw her back into his arms, but Belle forestalled the gesture, saying anxiously, "And Jean-Claude?"
Some of the light went out of Sinclair's eyes. He stiffened. "He is safe in Crecy's lodgings behind the gaming house, where we are headed now."
The mention of Jean-Claude drew an element of constraint between them as it always did. Nothing more was said until the cart lumbered into the shadows behind the Palais-Royal.
Baptiste motioned them both to lie low. Then he returned shortly, signaling that all was clear. He moved to help Belle down from the cart, her weight almost too much for the old man's strength. He said nothing. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he expressed his gladness at her safe return with a fierce hug.
As she and Sinclair slipped up the back stairs normally reserved for the workers at the gaining house, Baptiste returned to attend to the horses and hide the cart. In the parlor of the lodgings, Belle discovered Crecy nervously pacing. Never one to wax sentimental, the urbane Marcellus let out a joyous cry at the sight of her. He pressed exuberant kisses upon both of Belle's hands.
"I confess, I never believed your rescue would be possible." Crecy glanced from her to Sinclair. "You are formidable, monsieur. However did you manage it?"
"We will explain all later, Marcellus," Belle said. "Right now, I must see Jean-Claude. Where is he?"
"In Crecy's bedchamber," Sinclair spoke up. Reluctantly he led the way. He gave a fleeting thought to the hellish night he had just spent, worrying, despairing and feverishly plotting some way to rescue Belle. It had seemed like a miracle to see her outside the prison gates, to clasp her once more in his arms. How passionately she had returned his kisses. But almost in the next breath she had asked about Jean-Claude. Sinclair feared it was the way it would always be.
He paused outside the bedchamber door long enough to caution her. "The comte is a little dazed from the events of last night. Shock, I suppose, and he was slightly injured in the escape."
"Injured?" Her gaze snapped to his. Did he imagine it or was there a faint hint of accusation in her tone?
"I did the best I could," he said defensively. "I was lucky to get that fool out of the theater alive. He didn't want to come. I think he wished the mob to overtake him. I had to hit him."
"I am not blaming you, Sinclair. You risked your life to save him. You cannot begin to imagine my gratitude."
Her gratitude felt like a knife thrust to his heart. Turning away from her, he shoved the bedchamber door open. Varens was no longer in bed. He sat in a chair, huddled before the fire, staring into the flames, a vacant shell of a man. Only when he saw Belle did some spark of animation appear in those empty eyes.
"Isabelle. You are safe!"
"Yes," she said quietly.
"Thank God." Jean-Claude started to rise, but his legs were weak. He wobbled and would have fallen if Belle had not caught him, easing him back into the chair.
"Sit still," she commanded. Jean-Claude's face was so pale his only color came from the streaks of purple along his jaw where Sinclair had clipped him. "I will fetch you a glass of brandy.
"No." Jean-Claude caught desperately at her hand. "Do not leave me. Mon Dieu, how I have needed you. Promise you will not go."
; Belle hesitated, glancing back at Sinclair. The rigid set of his countenance could not quite disguise what he was feeling. He probed her with his eyes as though he awaited her answer. Yet Jean-Claude clung to her, all his pride crumbled to dust. How could she simply shake him off?
Casting Sinclair a look that pleaded for his understanding, she murmured to Jean-Claude, "No, I will not leave you."
Sinclair compressed his lips. Without another word he turned and left the room. Never had Belle felt so torn in two. She wanted to go after him, but Jean-Claude had begun to tremble, shaking so hard as though seized by an ague.
Sighing, she pried herself away long enough to fetch brandy and force it between his chattering teeth. He refused to climb back into bed, so she took a coverlet to him, tucking it about his legs.
His shivering finally stopped and he gratefully caressed back a stray lock of her hair. She must look like a woman who had been carted to hell and back. But Jean-Claude noticed no signs of her own fatigue and mental distress. He never had, she thought with an unexpected stab of resentment.
Grabbing up the brandy, she sloshed some of it into the glass for herself, downing it in one gulp. That Jean-Claude noticed. He watched her with pained surprise.
This was not the time for accusation, Belle knew, but she could not refrain. "How could you do it, Jean-Claude? How could you permit someone like Lazare to drag you down to such depths, persuade you to attempt something so against everything you have ever believed in?"
"I don't know." He gripped his hands tightly together, bowing his head. "It is only that all my life I have ever talked, never acted. I thought with that monster Bonaparte gone, I could restore France, somehow make amends, and Lazare offered me the opportunity. It was only as I stood there upon the stage looking straight into Bonaparte's eyes that I realized I couldn't do it."
Silent tears tracked down Jean-Claude's cheeks. "I failed, Isabelle. I failed again." He covered his face with his hands. "I am so ashamed, I can scarce bear to have you look at me. How you must despise me for the coward that I am."
Belle stared at his bowed head. She almost wished she could despise him when she thought of the disaster that his cooperation with Lazare had brought crashing down upon all of them. Yet even now her heart flooded with pity for this poor, desperate man.
Putting her arms about him, she cradled his head against her. "Hush. Hush, my dear. You failed only because you are a gentle man, far too gentle for the madness of this world."
Soothing him as though he were a child, she calmed him again. By the time she had managed to restore some measure of his dignity, she felt ready to drop with exhaustion.
"What shall we do now, Isabelle?" he asked at last, looking up at her.
"Crecy will help us to flee Paris—" she began.
"I don't mean that. I mean afterward. I feel so lost, now, without a purpose. How shall I continue on with my life?"
"I don't know," Belle said, drawing away, unable to offer him any further comfort. The dramatic events of the past few days were beginning at last to take their toll upon her. She felt so drained.
"Is there any hope that you and I—"
"Please, Jean-Claude," she said wearily. "I can give no thought to the future just now. I am so tired."
"Of course. I am an inconsiderate fool." He managed to rise to his feet. "You too must rest."
Belle nodded. She wanted nothing more than to seek out Sinclair, but she feared he might be angry with her for remaining with Jean-Claude. She bore not the strength to deal with that just now. Allowing Jean-Claude to lead her to the bed, Belle collapsed onto it. He drew the coverlet over her.
"I should go. It is not proper for me to be here like this with you. Since we are no longer married."
His words caused a ripple of genuine amusement to course through her, an amusement, she thought with a pang, that only the irreverent Mr. Carrington could have appreciated.
"Do as you think best," she mumbled to Jean-Claude, burrowing her head beneath the covers.
Drawn up to the table in the parlor, Crecy and Baptiste plotted the details of smuggling Sinclair and Jean-Claude out of Paris. Moodily, Sinclair stared out the window, wishing he could be gone now. It was raining again. Belle was right. It was forever raining in this bloody city.
"We shall keep to the original plan," Crecy said. "The route through the Rouvray Forest. Instead of Bonaparte hidden in the false compartment beneath the seat, we shall have Monsieur Varens. Sinclair can disguise himself as a postilion, and Isabelle we shall garb as a boy. She makes a most attractive youth. At the crossroads I will have my men meet you with fresh horses."
Baptiste nodded, frowning slightly. "My only concern is that Lazare also knew of this plan."
"Bah!" Crecy snorted. "We have seen the last of that villain. You may be sure he is miles from Paris by now. He ever had a knack for preserving his own skin."
"That is true." Baptiste looked reassured. He turned to Sinclair. "You approve of this plan, monsieur?"
"It sounds fine to me," Sinclair said with little interest. He hardly noticed when the two men left the salon to alert Crecy's staff as to the time of the upcoming departure.
Sinclair tried to think no longer of what might be passing between Belle and Jean-Claude in that bedchamber. It seemed a long time before anyone emerged, and then it was the comte.
He still looked worn, but his features were composed. What soothing words had Belle uttered, what promises had she made to restore Jean-Claude? It tormented Sinclair to imagine the scene.
"Isabelle is resting," Varens said. "She is exhausted."
I daresay she would be after pouring out all her strength into you. But Sinclair choked back the sneering words.
He kept facing the window, hoping Varens would possess the sense to leave him alone, but it seemed the comte had a short supply of that commodity.
Varens spoke slowly, as though he had no wish to address Sinclair, but felt compelled. "I needs must express my thanks, monsieur, for your rescue of Isabelle."
The Frenchman spoke as though she belonged to him. Perhaps that was the harsh truth Sinclair had to face. She did, always had and always would.
"Your thanks are unnecessary," he snapped. "She didn't need to be rescued."
"The fact remains that while I lay helpless, you hazarded your life to see that she was safe."
"I still don't want your thanks," Sinclair said. "I didn't do it for you."
"I am aware of that," Jean-Claude said stiffly. "You must at least accept my gratitude for what you did for me at the theater. I would be a dead man now but for you."
"Don't remind me," Sinclair said through gritted teeth. Blast the man. Could he not stop these heroic speeches and go away before Sinclair hit him again? "I could not care less whether you live or die. If I helped you for any reason, it was because of a little boy named John-Jack, whom I took great pains to convince that his Papa would come home. I don't like lying to children."
Jean-Claude looked rather humbled by the mention of his son.
"As to any other motive—" Sinclair broke off, seeing no reason why he had to confess that he had also done it for Belle, that he could not bear to see that haunting look of unhappiness return to her eyes, even if it meant surrendering her to Jean-Claude.
"Whatever your motives," Jean-Claude persisted, "I could not rest easily until I discharged my debt of gratitude." As though it cost him great effort, Jean-Claude extended his hand toward Sinclair.
Sinclair supposed he should be equally magnanimous and take it. But was it not enough he had rescued the man likely to take Belle away from him? He was damned if he could endure being thanked for it into the bargain!
"Go to the devil, Varens," he said. Ignoring the comte's outstretched hand, Sinclair strode from the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Moonlight spilled down upon the crossroads, its silvery light silhouetting the coach and four halted where the paths met. Belle alighted from the carriage's interior, her breath coming in
a cloud of steam. Crossing her arms over her breast, she burrowed her hands beneath the cape of her garrick. Her masculine attire with its layering of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches afforded her more protection from the chill than any of her gowns, yet she still felt the sting of the cold. The damp whisperings of autumn hung in the air tonight, the promise of winter not far behind.
All about her the Rouvray Forest loomed, acres of woodland, thick with trees, the rustling leaves like sinister voices on the night wind. Belle had never liked the place, with its legends of highwaymen, robbers, and dark ancient deeds. Not far from the carriage stood the Croix Catelan, a weatherworn and mutilated pyramid, a memorial to the poet Arnauld de Catelan, who had been savagely murdered on this spot centuries ago. A dying oak hovered nearby, its gnarled branches like skeletal fingers stretched out in a plea for mercy, the soughing of the trees a whisper of despair.
Belle shivered. This rendezvous point was bad enough in the daytime. The thick underbrush afforded far too many places for concealment, leaving one always with the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. But this was where she and Baptiste had always met over the course of the years when involved in a mission together, it being the farthest he would venture from Paris, the closest she would come.
Glancing about her, she saw that both Baptiste and Sinclair had leaped down from the coach and gone round to the horses' heads. Baptiste stood soothing the restive leader while Sinclair talked to him. Sinclair fell silent as she approached, her steps made a little awkward by the unaccustomed stiffness of the Hessian boots she wore.
"No sign of Crecy's men?" she asked.
Sinclair backed up to consult his pocket watch by the light of one of the carriage lanterns. "It is too early yet."
"We arrived in good time," Baptiste said, stroking the leader's nose. "We came through the barrier much more easily than I had expected. The customs officer did not even ask to search the coach. It was much more difficult during the Revolution, I promise you.”
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