"Disgusting viper," she said. "He dares talk to me of surviving when he made his own way through the Revolution along a path paved in blood. He was one of those who found the guillotine too slow, and organized a plan to have the condemned lined up in front of cannons."
"Disgusting he might be, Angel, but vipers can also be dangerous. Did Fouché see you on trial?"
"He might have, but I doubt it. He had had a falling out with Robespierre at that time and was running for his own miserable life."
"But if he should remember you," Sinclair persisted, "as the woman tried for being the Avenging Angel and rescuing aristocrats—"
"No one could possibly remember me from those days," Belle said. "Do you have any notion what I looked like after weeks in prison? The rats that scurried along the floor of the Conciergerie were more attractive."
Sinclair said nothing more, but his doubts remained. Belle possessed a beauty that no prison pallor could have disguised. Her eyes alone would have been enough to haunt a man's dreams.
All concerns about Fouché had to be set aside for the moment. The double doors at the end of the room were flung open. A hush fell over the room as the assembled company divided into two respectful lines, leaving a path between them.
Josephine Bonaparte made her entrance on the arm of that wily old statesman, Talleyrand. The Creole beauty's braided hair was fixed into place with a shell comb, her graceful form garbed in a silk robe with short sleeves. Her regal bearing attracted so much attention that the man who slipped into the reception room behind her went unnoticed and unheralded.
But Belle's attention riveted upon Napoleon Bonaparte. Attired in a simple uniform, a blue coat with white cashmere breeches, he wore a tricolored sash of silk tied round his waist, his hat tucked under his arm. He appeared far less dashing in contrast to the other military men with their embroidered coats overloaded with ribbons and jewels. And yet his very simplicity made Bonaparte seem so much more the soldier.
Still, it was hard to credit that this unassuming person could be the man whose ambitions set most of Europe atremble, the brilliant general who had spilled his share of English blood. He bore no resemblance to the formidable villain depicted in the British press.
As Bonaparte moved down the line of guests, Belle was struck once more by his sense of restrained energy. She had a clearer view of his face than when he had passed her by on horseback. His skin was of a marble whiteness, his brow wide and high, his smile surprisingly gracious. She could discern none of his remarks until he stood but two persons away from her. Disconcertingly blunt, he put more than one lady to the blush. Pausing before one of the young demoiselles Belle and Sinclair had noticed earlier, Bonaparte remarked to his equerry, "See to it that the fires are banked higher in here. I fear for the ladies' health, as some of them are nearly naked."
A choke of laughter escaped Belle at the pert misses' disconcerted expressions. The sound drew Bonaparte's attention. As he turned in her direction, Belle felt the full force of his eyes, large and bluish-gray. The first consul studied her, appearing not to miss a single detail. It would have been Belle's manner to meet his challenge boldly as she always did Sinclair's raking gaze. But Sinclair enjoyed their silent battles of will. Somehow Belle sensed that such a thing would not serve with Bonaparte, who reportedly liked his women all soft femininity.
As Napoleon approached, she sank into a low curtsy, her eyes cast demurely down.
"And this is?" he asked.
Belle heard the English ambassador's bored voice intone, "Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, newly arrived in Paris, Your Excellency."
Sinclair bowed and murmured his greeting. Stealing a glance upward, Belle noted how the two men measured each other.
Bonaparte commented at last, "You are tall, Monsieur Carrington. You have the build of a cavalry officer."
Sinclair started perceptibly at his words, but he said smoothly, "The build, sir, but not the ability. I have no taste for the soldiering life."
"That is as well." Bonaparte offered him a taut smile. "You would be fighting in the wrong army." He turned abruptly to Belle. "You are possessed of a most beautiful wife. She should provide you with many handsome children."
It was all Belle could do to stifle a small gasp. She was accustomed to dealing with compliments, but none so roughly delivered.
"How many babes have you?" Bonaparte demanded.
"None so far." Sinclair struggled to hide his amusement. "We are but newly married."
"See that you get some soon."
Bonaparte's words touched Belle on the raw, an unexpected thrust at her own private grief.
"I would be only too pleased to follow Your Excellency's command, if in my case the doctors did not deem it impossible." The quiet rebuke in her voice was obvious.
Appearing disconcerted by his blunder, the first consul nodded and moved on. As she watched him retreat, Belle could have slapped herself. What an opportunity she had lost. The admiring light in Bonaparte's eyes had vanished. She had obviously made him feel like a boorish idiot.
What the devil was wrong with her? She knew far more adept ways of turning aside his blunt remarks. Instead she had let herself be betrayed into being brutally honest. Once she had been far better at concealing her feelings.
Flushing with chagrin, she scarce dared look at Sinclair. He had good cause to be aggravated with her clumsiness, but his eyes reflected only concern.
"What a wonderful beginning," she muttered. "I shall have to go after him and apologize."
"The man should apologize to you, Angel. He was damned impertinent."
Yes, but she was the one hoping to ingratiate herself with Bonaparte with a view to arranging his abduction, not the other way around. Belle refrained from reminding Sinclair of that fact, lapsing into a dour silence.
Her spirits did not improve as the evening wore on. Bonaparte, making his rounds of the guests, took great care not to come near her again. Although it was far from being the end of her plans, Belle could not help reflecting how much easier her task might have been, if only she had managed to exert a little charm.
"Why don't you join Madame Bonaparte's circle?" she suggested to Sinclair at last. "Perhaps you can glean some information from her that might be useful. I have not proved to be much help."
"Belle." Sinclair's tone was warm, admonishing.
"Away with you," she said. "There is nothing more ridiculous than a husband hanging upon his wife's sleeve. You will have all the men of Paris saying I have you under the cat's paw."
He gave her a wry grin. With some reluctance he moved off to obey her command. Belle unfurled her fan before her face and continued to brood over her error. What had happened to her customary sangfroid? Ever since her return to Paris, her emotions seemed far too near the surface. It was as though the carefully constructed barriers around her heart were beginning to crumple.
She began to find the reception room unbearable. The heat, the crush of people, the endless chatter started the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. When she noticed Fouché about to close in on her again, she felt unequal to dealing with him. Seeking escape, she slipped out the main door. If nothing else, she might at least glean some notion of the layout of the palace.
But she soon dismissed any idea of attempting the abduction from the Tuileries as absurd. Although she was permitted to wander the corridors, the members of the consular guard appeared everywhere, discreetly following her movements with their eyes.
She did not find herself alone until she reached a dimly lit hall ornamented with busts set upon pedestals. Most of them depicted classical figures: Brutus, Cicero, Hannibal, Alexander, but a few represented more modern statesmen, Frederick the Great, Washington and Mirabeau.
She paused before the last statue, absently returning the figure's vacant stare of stone. A low voice came from behind, startling her.
"That is Julius Caesar, possibly the greatest general who ever lived, in my opinion."
Belle spun about to
find Napoleon Bonaparte watching her, barely a yard away. Was he now further annoyed to find her wandering in a part of the palace where she did not belong? His grave expression told her nothing.
"I beg your pardon, sir," she said. "I daresay I should not have wandered in here."
When he did not reply, she made a stiff curtsy and attempted to slip past him.
"Stay," he said, then softened the command with an added, "Please. It is I who must ask your pardon for the distress I caused you earlier. Madame, can you forgive a soldier's blunt manners?"
Belle expelled a long, slow breath, her thoughts racing. Could it be that she was being offered another chance? This time she must weigh her remarks far more carefully.
"The fault was mine, sir," she said, "for being so foolish. I am not usually oversensitive, but some things I have not found easy to bear. I should not blame you if you held me in contempt. Being such a bold soldier yourself, you must—"
"Madame, there is as much courage in bearing with a sorrow of the heart as in facing a battery of guns."
His solemn answer surprised her, a surprise that she could not quite conceal.
"Do I astonish you, madame?"
"Yes, you are quite different from what I had been led to expect."
"No doubt by your British papers. I forbid their circulation here in France. The lies they spread. They make me out a gorgon with two heads, do they not? Come, tell me."
With a slight smile Belle said, "Well, I have heard mothers warning their children, 'Baby, baby, he's a giant. Tall and black as Raven steeple. And he dines and sups, rely on't, every day on naughty people.' "
Bonaparte looked nonplussed, and for moment Belle feared she had gone too far. Then to her relief, the first consul flung back his head and laughed.
"And what about you? Are you a naughty person, Madame Carrington?"
Touching her fan to her cheek, a wicked arch of her brows was the only answer Belle gave.
Napoleon's mouth widened into a smile, warmth firing his stern gaze as he stepped closer. "I confess that I have not a high regard for your country, madame. I thought naught came from London but pestilence, all the great evils of the world. But 1 might be persuaded to change my mind.”
Sinclair lingered on the fringes of the laughing crowd surrounding Madame Bonaparte. Although the Creole had smiled upon him, and he was given enough encouragement to wend his way to her side, Sinclair's heart was not in the task.
He had been aware of the moment when Belle had slipped out of the room, and his gaze had followed her anxiously, knowing how distressed she was, although she sought to conceal it. He had also observed Bonaparte going after her, realizing the implications as did half the room, judging from the smirking faces.
Sinclair found himself prey to a ridiculous range of emotions, jealousy and suspicion as to her motives warring with fear for her safety. With sly glances cast toward him, the role of complacent husband became difficult to play. Despite the fact he would likely make an idiot of himself, the urge to charge after her was strong and only increased as the minutes ticked by and she did not return.
Taking a restless step, Sinclair backed into a young man dogging his heels. Sinclair curtly begged his pardon and started to brush past him.
The man coughed diffidently. "Mr. Carrington?"
"That's correct." Although he smiled politely, Sinclair made another attempt to evade the man.
"Warburton's the name. I am under secretary to the ambassador."
He looked like one, Sinclair thought. Modestly dressed, with nondescript features, Warburton was the sort of fellow one would forget five minutes after meeting him.
"It was I who arranged for your invitation to the reception," Warburton said, modestly lowering his eyes.
So this then was the agreeable person Baptiste had bribed. Sinclair swallowed the urge to retort that he hoped Warburton had put the money to good use.
"Most kind of you," he said, making another effort to slip past the man. But for one so timid-looking, Warburton was persistent.
"I particularly wanted to meet you, Mr. Carrington. You see, we have a mutual friend. Colonel Darlington."
Sinclair halted, glancing sharply at Warburton. Of a sudden the man appeared not so meek, his eyes knowing.
"Indeed?" Sinclair said in cautious tones. "Myself, I have not heard from the colonel in some time."
"I have. Quite recently. The colonel is most concerned over the sad state of English coastlines, erosion, that sort of thing, the changing shoreline." The under secretary flashed a bland smile. "Still, with accurate maps, I suppose one might gain a good idea of the damage to be inflicted."
"Yes, if such maps were available," Sinclair said, never taking his eyes from Warburton's face.
"They seem to be everywhere these days. Some have even turned up here in Paris." He met Sinclair's stare without flinching, and in the pause that ensued, Sinclair realized that they understood each other clearly.
"It is very stuffy in here," Warburton said, still smiling. "Perhaps we could step out through those windows into the garden for a breath of air."
Sinclair nodded. "I could do with a smoke."
Nothing more was said until they emerged through the window, the chili of the autumn night striking Sinclair. He welcomed it after the heat of the reception room, even more so for the fact that the brisk temperature kept all the other guests inside. The garden was a mass of rustling shadows except for the dim lighting provided by a suspended Argand lamp. Sinclair moved the glass lantern aside long enough to light his cheroot from the glowing wick. He offered a cigar to Warburton, who refused.
Sinclair inhaled deeply, then said, "Perhaps now you will explain yourself more clearly, Mr. Warburton."
"I, too, have been commissioned into service by Colonel Darlington."
"I gathered that or we wouldn't be talking now. The colonel told me I could expect to find an ally here in Paris."
"More than one, sir. Another of our agents is also present on these grounds. He works here as a gardener. It was he who discovered that a very accurate accounting of the warships in Portsmouth naval yard has been passed to the enemy, along with some maps drawn of coastline around that area."
"And this was a recent acquisition?"
"Passed this very afternoon. At a meeting held in the guardhouse."
“Did this gardener agent see the spy who brought the information?" Sinclair felt his stomach knot. He almost dreaded Warburton's answer.
"No, the informant was cloaked and hooded, the meeting brief, broken off when the guard was summoned by a courier demanding admittance at the gates. Our man could not draw near enough to hear clearly, nor could he follow the informant without rousing suspicion. We didn't even know what was passed, except that later our agent had the opportunity to overhear when the material was passed along to the first consul's secretary."
"What time did the meeting with this hooded figure take place? Do you have any idea?"
"I know precisely. Quarter past one."
"Quarter past one! Are you certain?" Sinclair could not conceal the excitement in his voice.
"Yes, I am. Is the time important?"
Not to you, Mr. Warburton, Sinclair thought, or the British army. But to Sinclair Carrington it was as though the world had been lifted off his shoulders. At quarter past one Belle had been in the apartment with him, staring out at the rain.
Sinclair wanted to fling back his head and shout his relief aloud. He had the urge to laugh and astonish the solemn Mr. Warburton with a hearty slap on the back. He could have embraced the fellow except there was someone else he would far rather embrace instead.
Sinclair contented himself with a broad grin. "Well, you gentlemen seem to be doing an excellent job of settling this affair. I scarce see what you need me for."
Warburton shot him a reproachful glance. "There is the small matter that this counteragent supplying the information has still not been identified. We had rather hoped you would start doing something from y
our end."
"I have a notion who your man might be, but I have no proof as yet." Sinclair thought of how Lazare's whereabouts at the crucial time were unaccounted for, to say nothing of Lazare's furtive behavior later in the afternoon. Some of Sinclair's relief at discovering Belle's innocence evaporated as a grim fact occurred to him. As long as the real counteragent remained unchecked, she, as the leader of this plot to abduct Napoleon, stood in more danger than anyone. The thought sobered Sinclair at once.
"Was any other information passed?" he asked Warburton.
The under secretary looked puzzled by Sinclair's abrupt demand.
"The group I have infiltrated is plotting to abduct Bonaparte,” Sinclair explained. "Was there any hint of that in the message passed today?"
Warburton frowned. "Not as near as we could tell."
Sinclair found the man's answer far from satisfactory and not a little strange. If Lazare was the counteragent, what was he waiting for? Perhaps for Belle to finalize the details so that the information he passed would be specific?
“It would be a good thing if this counterspy could be stopped before he does decide to lay information about the plot," Warburton said.
Sinclair heartily concurred.
"I say, Carrington. Do you think there is any chance Merchant's group could succeed in their endeavor?"
Sinclair shrugged. Between trying to detect the counteragent and worrying it might prove to be Belle, he had not given the objective to capture Napoleon much serious consideration.
"If the counteragent could be stopped," Warburton said, "and you could still bring about the abduction of Bonaparte, I do not think either the army or the diplomatic corps would raise any objections about your participation in such a maneuver."
"How very generous of them, I'm sure," Sinclair said wryly. He dropped his cheroot and ground it out beneath his heel. "I trust you will find a way to keep me posted of any further developments here at the palace."
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