Lazare stepped forward. The two men greeted each other, although no move was made to clasp hands. Lazare appeared his usual insolent self, but it was obvious the stranger was nervous, all his movements furtive He started to gesture toward something, but to Sinclair's frustration, a slow-moving diligence lumbered up the street, cutting the two men off from his view.
The outside passengers clung to the top of the stage, looking as miserable as Sinclair felt. He waited impatiently for the heavy vehicle to rattle on past.
Lazare and the stranger had vanished. Sinclair, however, did not feel unduly concerned. There was only one place they could have disappeared to that quickly—within the confectioner’s shop.
Hesitating for only a moment, Sinclair slogged his way across the street and cautiously approached the shop. Sheltering deep beneath his umbrella, he risked a glance through the dirty latticed pane. Except for a slatternly woman behind the counter, the shop was empty.
But that was impossible. The stage had blocked Lazare from his view for but a moment. There was nowhere else the two men could have gone but inside.
Tired, chilled to the bone and tormented by the feeling that he was close to discovering something, Sinclair decided to take a grave risk. Closing his umbrella, he turned the knob and boldly entered the confectioner's shop himself.
The shop bell tinkled dismally. The silence of the narrow wooden room seemed thickened by dust. The establishment appeared as though it had been untroubled by customers for months, let alone being used for a rendezvous by a Napoleonic spy. Even the proprietress bore a most laconic expression.
She roused herself enough to wipe her hands on her grimy apron and say, "Good day, monsieur. And how may I serve you on such a cold, damp afternoon?"
"It is that, indeed," Sinclair said, rubbing his hands briskly and flashing his most charming smile. The woman was as impervious to it as if she had been blind. She clearly waited for him to make his selection and leave her in peace.
Feigning an interest in the shop's wares, Sinclair studied the rows of marzipan, chocolates, mushrooms of sugar, and multicolored sugar almonds. Even with his sweet tooth, none of the confections displayed in the midst of such filth tempted him, but he took his time selecting some marzipan, giving himself an excuse to linger. His gaze tracked toward a curtained door at the rear of the shop.
"This foul weather appears to be keeping your customers away," he remarked to the woman.
"That's right," she said as she wrapped up his purchase. "Haven't seen nary another soul all day."
"How strange. I thought I saw two gentlemen precede me into the shop." Sinclair studied the woman's dull eyes carefully.
She did not flick so much as an eyelash as she replied, "Alas, I wish it were so, monsieur. I shall be a pauper at this rate."
With a taut smile she accepted Sinclair's money and handed him his purchase. Sinclair accepted it and nodded graciously. Perhaps he had made a mistake. But if Lazare had not ducked in here, it was obvious Sinclair had lost him. There was nothing for him to do but try to retrace his steps.
In the corridor behind the curtained door, Lazare heard the bell's chime as Sinclair left the shop. After a pause the proprietress thrust her head past the curtain to announce, "He's gone, monsieur."
"So I heard, madame."
"Another of your creditors, Monsieur Lazare?"
"Just so, madame."
"Well, I didn't let on you'd come in."
"For which I am most grateful, madame." Lazare forced an ingratiating smile.
The proprietress shrugged. "As long as you pay me the rent for the rooms upstairs, your other debts are nothing to me." With that she lowered the curtain, retreating back into the shop. Lazare turned toward the flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above, his smile fading into a savage frown.
Of course the old bitch would get her rent money, as long as it suited him. Even though he was ostensibly living in the garrets above Baptiste's fan shop, he had need of these rooms here, far from Isabelle's observant eye, a convenient place to receive a certain visitor she must know nothing about for the present.
As for Sinclair Carrington, the Englishman was becoming a damned nuisance. If Lazare had not happened to spot him across the street, Carrington might have discovered far too much about Lazare's secret dealings.
For his vengeance to be complete, Lazare needed Belle alive until the end of this affair. But Carrington was another matter. The next time the English dog was so unwise as to go traipsing alone through the city streets, it might be well that he meet with an accident. Paris could prove to be a very dangerous city.
With this pleasing thought, some of the tension in Lazare's shoulders relaxed. He started up the stairs, but before he could reach his room, a slender figure melted out of the shadows, regarding Lazare through worried eyes.
"Is anything wrong, monsieur?"
Lazare raked a contemptuous glance over the nervous figure of his guest.
"No, not at all." Lazare's teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. "Nothing that I cannot take care of, Monsieur Varens."
CHAPTER TEN
The iron gates stood guarded by the towering statuary, the famed winged horses of Coysevax, each ridden by a figure of Mercury. Tonight the myth-born sentinels seemed almost benign, the gates flung back to admit the stream of elegant equipages inching their way past the tree-lined square toward the Tuileries.
But Belle shifted away from the coach window that framed the brilliance of the distant palace beyond the iron bars. Drawn against her will, she peered out the opposite side of the carriage toward the shadowy darkness of the square. The stark branches of the trees bent gently with the wind, the stone pavilions appearing silvery in the moonlight. Lush fountains sprayed wreaths of water with a peaceful hush.
The Place de la Concorde, Baptiste had told her the square was now called. To those who knew no better, the name would seem apt. But in Belle's mind it would always be the Place de la Revolution.
The guillotine was gone now. Even the scaffolding had been torn down. So many lives lost, so many innocents swept from the face of the earth, and nothing marked the place other than a handful of brittle autumn leaves being swirled by the night breeze.
Belle had only attended the executions once. What a fool she had been! She had thought to find some way of rescuing victims from the very steps of the scaffolding. Donning a tricolored cockade, she had mingled with the crowd at the Place de la Revolution. But she had seen almost at once such a scheme was hopeless. The press of spectators was too great, the guards leading the tumbrils too many.
She had tried to retreat then, but it had been too late. Caught up in the eager crowd, she had been pushed and shoved, until she found herself at the base of the scaffolding. She had had no choice then but to remain. With her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, she had uttered a silent prayer for each unfortunate as he mounted the steps. She had never looked up, but she never had to. There was no escaping the sounds; the dull thud of the board being fixed into place, the deadly hiss of the blade and the merciless cheers of the crowd. And the blood that had spattered the hem of her gown.
"Angel?"
She dragged her gaze from the carriage window to meet Sinclair's concerned eyes.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. He had leaned forward from the seat opposite, his hand reaching out to cover hers. For the first time she realized how rigid she held herself.
"No." She drew in a steadying breath, relaxing her muscles."I was woolgathering, that's all."
She could not tell whether he accepted this explanation or not. But he withdrew his hand, leaning back. His touch had called her back to the present. She did not look out the window again, but focused her concentration upon Sinclair and the night ahead of them.
He looked magnificent in his black evening clothes and white silk waistcoat, his dark hair swept back, his cravat tied with his customary careless grace. The only ornament he wore was a heavy ruby ring, which flashed against his tanned fingers. He could hav
e been a gentleman bent on a night of carousing at some discreetly fashionable gaming hall or a courtesan's salons, equally as well as prepared to attend this sort of government reception. He could take his place anywhere by right of a kind of arrogance, that cheerful ‘take me as I am or be damned’ aura that Belle envied him.
She wondered again where he had spent the afternoon. He had been gone a long time, or had it only seemed that way to her, ever alert for his return? She had been bathing when she heard him stirring about in the room next to hers, but she had not seen him until she stood in the antechamber ready to leave and be handed into the carriage.
She had expected a certain awkwardness between them. After all, the man had nearly made love to her on the drawing room floor, but any constraint was dispelled by Sinclair's remarking that since his afternoon's jaunt, he was now thoroughly familiar with all the sorts of mud to be found in Paris. She had laughed, and once more they were at ease with each other. Indeed, Belle was finding it difficult to imagine ever being estranged from Sinclair for long.
He appeared completely relaxed as their coach finally crept past the gates, drawing closer to the palace itself. The Tuileries was ablaze with light. Time appeared to have been turned back to the days of the glorious Sun King, Louis XIV, for whom the palace had been built. Moonlight skimmed over the palace's massive seven stories, revealing to Belle that the scars to the woodwork and the broken windows had all been repaired as though the angry mob had never dared storm this majestic dwelling.
As the carriage drew to a halt in front of the palace, the coach door was opened by a footman, but Sinclair leapt down to hand her out himself. As she placed her gloved hand within his, their eyes met, and although the smile Sinclair gave her was casual, his gaze was not. She knew then that she had been fooling herself to think that either of them could forget what had happened in the drawing room. The awareness of something begun and not finished crackled between them.
Although the contact of his hand upon hers was fleeting, it was enough to quicken her blood, adding to the excitement she already felt at the prospect of meeting Napoleon. Anticipation mingled with a sense of danger as she entered the palace.
Within the antechamber to the reception hall, other arrivals were already removing their cloaks, handing them off to servants garbed in blue and gold livery. Belle and Sinclair found it difficult to move forward for a party of chattering young ladies. Despite the autumn chill, the demoiselles were attired in gowns of thin muslin cut in the Grecian style, the sheer fabric clinging to nubile young bodies, making it obvious they wore nothing underneath but pink tights.
Sinclair paused in the act of helping Belle off with her cloak, too much the male not to avail himself of an interested stare.
"The latest fashion in Paris, Mr. Carrington. Do you approve?"
"That all depends." Sinclair shifted his gaze back to Belle, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Do you intend to adopt it?"
"Alas, no, I am supposed to be a proper English lady on this journey, remember?"
"More's the pity." Sinclair sighed. But his teasing expression vanished as he slipped the cloak the rest of the way from Belle's shoulders.
He had seen Belle's beauty in many guises, but tonight she appeared an ethereal vision, a queen stepped from the pages of legend, a Helen of Troy. Her womanly curves were accented by a high-waisted gown of white silk, gleaming beneath an overtunic of silvery gauze, with a long train sweeping behind. Gloves drawn up to the elbow emphasized the slenderness of her arms. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, the soft curls wisped about her cheeks and forehead, a netting of tiny pearls winding mistlike through the golden strands.
"On second thought," Sinclair murmured in her ear, "forget the Paris fashions. I will settle for the proper English lady."
"You are too kind, sir." Although she acknowledged his compliment with a mocking smile, the color heightened in her cheeks. Gracefully gathering the train of her gown over one arm, she linked her other arm through Sinclair's, resting her hand lightly on his coat sleeve.
As they joined the line moving into the reception room, Sinclair glanced down at her with a swelling of pride. Absurd, he thought. He behaved as though she belonged to him. But in a sense tonight she did. To the world about him she was Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, his wife. He could see the curious, half-envious stares of the other women, the open admiration of the men.
Did Belle realize the sensation she caused? There was no way of telling from the proud, unconcerned lift of her chin. On one level Sinclair believed that she did, not out of vanity, but with an almost cynical acceptance, regarding the men who ogled her as foolish. But he doubted that Belle would ever really appreciate what havoc her beauty could wreak upon a man's heart.
As they stepped inside the reception room, Belle felt tempted to reach for her fan. The press of people, the fire banked high in the great marble fireplace, the glow of candles shining off the bright yellow cast of the walls gave her the feeling of having walked into a blaze of sunshine. Obviously neither the first consul nor his lady had yet made their appearance through the huge double doors at the opposite end of the room. The guests milled about talking, giving Belle the leisure to observe a crowd no less brilliant than the glittering candelabra.
The ladies appeared in a profusion of diamonds, feathers, and silks, their cheeks rouged with the Parisians' unashamed regard for cosmetics, which made Belle feel pale as a ghost by comparison. As for the gentlemen, dashing uniforms weighted with medals mingled side by side with crisp evening coats and the more fantastic wasp-waists of those French dandies known as the Incroyables.
Perhaps it was not the same august assemblage that had once graced the halls of a king. Here and there Belle caught snatches of vulgar language, the odor of doubtful linen, a glimpse of muddy shoes, which never would have been tolerated at Versailles, but this was still the respectable world of Paris.
The world that she had once sought to belong to as Jean-Claude's wife. But she had never been quite at ease, ever aware of being the actress's daughter from Drury Lane, always waiting to be found out. So many years had passed since then, but so little had changed. She crept into their midst, still the imposter.
Belle snapped out of her musings as she realized she and Sinclair were being approached by the English ambassador. He introduced himself and as they were supposedly there according to his auspices, Belle favored him with a gracious smile. His lordship must have been quite accustomed to his staff selling invitations to unknown English travelers. His interest in them was polite, but distant.
As the ambassador moved on, Sinclair whispered in her ear, "You look ravishing tonight, Angel. But I fear that gentleman's stares over there are a little excessive. Do you know him?"
Following Sinclair's nudge, Belle casually fixed her attention upon a lean man standing in the shadow of one of the chamber's massive pillars. The fellow studied her from beneath an unprepossessing shock of yellow hair, his wan skin appearing stretched too tautly over sharp features.
"Fouché!" Belle tightened her grip on Sinclair's arm. At his enquiring gaze, she explained in low tones, "He was Napoleon's minister of police up until a few months ago. He is believed to have been dismissed because Bonaparte feels secure enough to deem Fouché's services no longer necessary. The on dit is that Fouché would give a great deal to prove Monsieur Bonaparte wrong."
"Marvelous," Sinclair said through gritted teeth. "The former minister of police. And now he is coming this way."
"So he is." Belle fluttered her fan before her eyes. "Keep smiling, my dear husband."
She would have wagered that no other man in the room looked more relaxed or gracious than Sinclair, only she herself aware of the tension that stiffened his arm, perhaps because she felt that same tension knotting in her stomach as Joseph Fouché edged toward them through the press of people.
Fouché pulled up short, snapping into an ingratiating bow, but Belle noted his eyes never wavered from her face. Ferret-like eyes, she thought, repressing a
shudder. She had never liked the cast of them.
"Forgive my impertinence, madame, monsieur," Fouché said. "May I make so bold as to present myself—Joseph Fouché."
"Sinclair Carrington," Sinclair replied easily, "and my wife, Isabelle."
"Isabelle. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady." Fouché compliment seemd as insincere as his smile."I must confess that it was the sight of you, madame, that rendered me so bold. As foolish as it may sound, I have the feeling we have met before."
Belle's heart thudded, but she met Fouché’s speculative stare. "I do not believe so, monsieur."
There was finality in her tone, but Fouché was not so easily dismissed. "But such beauty one does not forget." He stroked his chin, his eyes narrowing. "In Paris, I believe, during the Revolution—"
"No one with any wisdom lived in Paris during the Revolution, monsieur."
"I did." Fouché’s manner of strained geniality vanished for a moment. "You look so extraordinarily like an unfortunate lady I saw summoned to face charges of treason before the Revolutionary Tribunal."
"Ridiculous, monsieur," Sinclair growled. "This is the first time my wife has ever been to Paris."
Belle affected to lay a soothing hand on Sinclair's arm. "Please, my dear. I am sure Monsieur Fouché intends no offense. It would not be unusual if I did resemble at least one of those wretched people. It is my understanding that half of Paris was called to trial before that court."
"Not quite so many as that, madame, but most who were did not survive to talk about it."
"And some," Belle retorted before she could stop herself, "possessed the uncanny ability to survive no matter what the cost."
Fouché's pale skin washed a shade of dull red, his lips giving an angry twitch. "Well, it would seem I was quite mistaken. Your pardon for having disturbed you, madame."
He bowed stiffly and stalked away. Sinclair vented his breath in a manner that was part curse, part a sigh of relief. Belle discovered that her hand was shaking, but more from anger than alarm.
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