Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  Judging that they had been in each other's company long enough, Sinclair suggested they return to the salon. Any longer an absence might draw unwanted attention.

  As the two men reentered the reception area, they drifted apart, Sinclair's thoughts already no longer with Warburton. The under secretary's remarks had raised a new problem for him. If he did expose Lazare in time, should he permit Belle to go ahead with Merchant's mad scheme? Could she succeed in abducting the most important man in France—perhaps in all of Europe?

  He glanced about the crowded reception chamber. Both Belle and the first consul were conspicuous by their absence. He experienced a growing sense of unease as he consulted his watch.

  He would give her five more minutes. If she was not back, the abduction plot, the British army, and Bonaparte could all be damned. He didn't care if all of Paris sneered at him for a jealous husband. He was going after her.

  "And over there"—Bonaparte tapped his finger against the window's night-darkened pane—"is the house where I once watched the mobs break through the fence to get at the king." He indicated the outline of a distant building beyond the iron fence surrounding the Tuileries Gardens. "It was a very hot summer's day."

  Belle remembered it well herself. August tenth. She had not been there to witness the event, but the word had spread fast about the mob descending upon the king's palace, the king and his family forced to flee for protection to where the assembly sat. But Belle’s concern had not been for the fate of the gentle King Louis. She had been terrified that the unreasoning mob might also attack the assembly, of which Jean-Claude had been a member.

  "The king was too soft. He should have ordered his Swiss guard to fire. He could have scattered that rabble." Bonaparte mused. "It is not enough to inhabit the Tuileries. One must remain here."

  The consul's eyes darkened with ferocity. "But just let the mob ever try to come here again—"

  He left the threat uncompleted, but a chill coursed through Belle. From the hour's conversation they had shared, she sensed that for all his unexpected charm, this Bonaparte knew how to be ruthless to his enemies. If her plan failed, despite his seeming admiration for her beauty, she knew she could expect little mercy.

  His fierce expression faded as quickly as it had come. "I fear I have absented myself from the reception too long. These affairs are a boring nuisance, but necessary. One who governs should not be aloof. In any case, I fear I have wearied you with my discourse."

  Belle assured him this was not the case. He was a fascinating talker, extremely gregarious. It had not been difficult to draw him out, elicit his most decided opinions on art, history, and literature. He had not much use for novels, declaring them fit reading only for chambermaids, but he was fond of music, and most especially the theater.

  In fact, he was willing to talk to her of anything, as long as it concerned matters of no real importance. Belle detected a certain hint of male patronage in that he would never burden a woman's mind with anything beyond her comprehension such as military or political matters.

  Still, he had behaved in a gentlemanly fashion, and Belle could not deny that she had enjoyed the hour spent in his company. But she felt no further along with finding a way to accomplish her purpose in coming to Paris.

  She had no choice now but to allow him to conduct her back to the reception salon. Before they crossed the threshold, he surprised her by stopping suddenly, placing his hand on her arm. She noted the whiteness of his fingers not much larger than her own.

  "I should like to see you again, madame," he said in his usual direct fashion. "Would you sup with me some evening?"

  Before she could reply, he added, "Alone."

  Belle did not pretend to be coy or to misunderstand his meaning. She had to lower her lashes to conceal her elation. A supper alone with him, presumably without his guards in attendance. Her heart pounded so violently she feared he would hear it.

  "I should like that," she said. "My husband frequently goes out to enjoy the gaming houses in the Palais¬Royal, but I have no taste for such."

  "Nor have I." He raised her hand to his lips and saluted it with a brusque kiss. "I shall send my valet Constant to you to settle the date."

  Belle hoped he mistook the excited flush mounting into her cheeks as gratification at this mark of his favor. But she saw she need not have worried. His attention had already been claimed from her by the reception salon. He surveyed the crowded chamber with satisfaction.

  "The Due de Nanterre has finally put in his appearance," Bonaparte said, nodding toward an elderly gentleman. "Many of those stiff-necked emigres have been accepting my invitation to return. They finally see that France can be better rebuilt through me than a doddering Bourbon king. When the Comte de Egremont arrives, I shall count this evening a complete success."

  Bonaparte's last remark brought an abrupt end to Belle's mood of elation, driving the blood from her cheeks. "The Comte," she faltered.

  "Egremont. Jean-Claude Varens."

  "You expect him here tonight?" How Belle kept her voice steady, she did not know.

  Bonaparte angled a curious glance at her. "You know him?"

  Belle concealed her dismay behind her fan. "I met him in London once."

  "He emigrated to England. I am glad a man of such ancient family now chooses to resume his life in France." Despite his expressed pleasure, the consul's brow was marred by a frown. "Except that he is a divorced man. Did you know that?"

  "I—I—no, I didn't."

  "Apparently he separated from his wife during the Revolution, as so many men did. I suppose divorce was bound to come under our legislation, but I think it a great misfortune that it should become a national habit. What becomes of husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers, yet unable to forget one another?"

  Belle shook her head, glad to see that he did not expect an answer to his impassioned speech. Her throat had become so constricted she doubted she could have given him one. She felt grateful to see Sinclair approaching, although he was not looking quite calm himself.

  "Ah, Mr. Carrington," Bonaparte said. "I have enjoyed the company of your lovely lady. As you see, I have brought her back to you."

  "Excessively gracious of Your Excellency." Sinclair's voice carried a hard edge to it. For one playacting the jealous, suspicious husband, Belle feared he was doing too good of a job.

  But Bonaparte looked more amused than annoyed by Sinclair's scowl. He extended an invitation to both of them to attend his upcoming military review and then moved off and was soon seen to be deep in conversation with Talleyrand.

  Sinclair glowered after the first consul before shifting his gaze to Belle. "What the devil has Bonaparte been saying to you? You look pale as a sheet."

  "Nothing," Belle lied. "It all went splendidly. I am to have supper with him. It is only I have developed the most dreadful headache. I would appreciate leaving now."

  Sinclair favored her with a hard stare, but he asked no further questions, much to Belle's relief. She wished for nothing but to retrieve her cloak and be gone as quickly as possible. She felt herself to be a coward, but knew she could not endure the prospect of encountering Jean-Claude again, not here.

  Leaning upon Sinclair's arm for support, she permitted him to guide her through the press of people, but once more her luck was out. A familiar slender figure blocked the doorway, his somber black attire and melancholy air seeming out of place amidst all the gay chatter.

  Belle felt her heart sicken within her. Sinclair halted with a sharp intake of breath. "Varens. What the devil—" His gaze shifted to Belle. "You knew, didn't you? You knew he was due to arrive."

  Belle abandoned any further attempt at pretense. "Yes, Bonaparte mentioned it to me just a moment ago."

  "What in blazes is Varens doing here? I assumed he had retired to his estates in the country."

  "So did I." Belle's mind reeled in disbelief as she watched Bonaparte approach Jean-Claude. The comte greeted the first consul with obvious reluctance.
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  "Belle, there is something I need to ask you," Sinclair said, his voice low, urgent. "Does Jean-Claude know Lazare?"

  Belle dragged her eyes from Jean-Claude long enough to frown at Sinclair, astonished by his peculiar question. "Of course not. Lazare came into my life long after Jean-Claude and I were divorced."

  "But is it possible that Jean-Claude met Lazare somewhere on his own? I never mentioned the matter before, but there was a moment aboard the packet boat when I had the impression they knew each other."

  "Lazare is not the sort of man Jean-Claude would know." Belle scarce knew why her reply came so sharp. Sinclair's suggestion sounded harmless enough on the surface. Why then did she feel as though he had slandered Jean¬Claude's honor? She passed her hand wearily over her brow. "I would truly appreciate it if you would summon our carriage. I just want to get out of here."

  Sinclair appeared as though there was much more he would like to have said, but he nodded, giving her shoulder a compassionate squeeze. As he hastened off to fulfill her request, Belle had a strong urge to lose herself in the crowd.

  Her pride rebelled, and in the end she placed herself so that inevitably, she must fall under Jean-Claude's gaze. He had just finished speaking to Napoleon and was stepping farther into the room.

  He blanched at the sight of her, the shock obviously greater to him. She at least had been forewarned. But Jean-Claude was quick to recover. Looking right through her, he prepared to turn in the opposite direction.

  Anger flashed through Belle. Did he think she was going to keep letting it be that easy for him? She had allowed him to brush her off in Portsmouth. Napoleon's words echoed through Belle's mind-husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers to each other. But she and Jean-Claude were not strangers. She had to acknowledge that fact; so should he.

  With a quick movement she placed herself in his way. "Monsieur le Comte," she said, sweeping him a brittle curtsy.

  He started, the muscles in his face working, making a great effort at keeping his features impassive. "Madame Carrington."

  "How astonished I am to see you here in Paris. I thought you had gone back to Merevale." She had not meant her remark to be an accusation, but somehow it came out that way.

  "Egremont is no longer mine, madame," Jean-Claude said "Although the first consul has been gracious enough to pardon emigres, lands were only returned if they had not been sold off. Unfortunately for me, that was not the case." He could not disguise his bitterness or his pain.

  "Jean-Claude, I am so sorry. I didn't know." She touched his hand, but he flinched from her.

  "Still so unforgiving?" she cried. "How long, Jean-Claude? I know I once did you a great injury, but how long will you continue to curse me for it?"

  "I believed we had settled that issue years ago, madame." The coldness in his voice struck deep into her heart.

  "Nothing was ever settled," she said. "You refused to listen to me."

  His gaze skated past her to the door. "Your husband awaits you, madame. You'd best be going."

  Belle gritted her teeth, beset by a desire to lash out, to hurt him as he was hurting her. "Sinclair is not my husband. I only live with him."

  Jean-Claude's eyes widened with shock.

  "You should not be so surprised," she taunted. "What more would one expect from the lowborn bastard of an actress?"

  He flinched, and Belle knew that she had drawn blood at last, but she took no satisfaction in it. Blindly she turned, seeking the door and the support of Sinclair's strong arm.

  White-lipped, Jean-Claude watched her go. He saw Carrington wrap Isabelle's cloak about her, noted with agony the tenderness conveyed in the simple gesture. Carrington, her lover. The knife Belle's words had plunged in Jean-Claude twisted. Despite all the bitter recriminations he spoke against her in his heart, he did not want to believe that she was capable of playing the harlot in any man's bed.

  Whore? It was not a word he could bring himself to apply to Isabelle. In spite of her background, her deceits, he knew that some part of her remained innocent, untouched.

  There had been such longing, such genuine sorrow in her lovely face when she had reached out to him a moment ago. He rubbed his hand where she had caressed him, her touch so butterfly soft. He thought he would have given anything not to have pulled away.

  It would have been better had he never seen her again. Better still if he had not returned to France at all, trembling once more on the brink of events that portended to sweep beyond his control.

  And yet he had a debt to repay, to his ancient family name, to his son's heritage, to the gentle king whom Jean-Claude had failed. In a future so fraught with danger and uncertainty, he had no business to be thinking of Isabelle at all.

  But her image persisted, her words echoing through his mind. "Sinclair is not my husband." Isabelle had not married again. No matter what else she had said in the heat of her anger, one fact remained. She had bound herself to no other man. Despite the bleakness that was his life, for the first time in years, Jean-Claude Varens felt a thread of hope.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The ride back from the Tuileries was accomplished in silence. Belle retreated deep within her hood, still deeper within the confines of herself.

  When they reached the apartment, Sinclair saw that she meant to bid him good night in the antechamber and turn to go upstairs without another word.

  He gently caught her arm. "Belle, please stay a moment. I'd like to—"

  "I know. We have much to discuss. I want tell you all about what happened with Bonaparte. But I am so tired. We can talk about everything in the morning."

  Sinclair frowned. From her shuttered expression, he knew that ‘everything’ was not likely to include Jean-Claude Varens. He found something strange about the Comte's sudden reappearance and was still disturbed by the possibility of a link between Varens and Lazare.

  But one glimpse of Belle's pale face and Sinclair couldn't bring himself to mention the man's name again tonight. Her shoulders sagged with fatigue, her eyes beset by a kind of defeated weariness that appeared to run soul deep.

  He stepped aside and permitted her to retreat up the stairs. As he watched her solitary figure trudge toward the shadows of the landing above, Sinclair was reminded curiously of Chuff, how he had held his younger brother's hand to help him brave the hobgoblins waiting in the dark. Sinclair wished he could do the same for that proud, lonely woman as she vanished up the stairs to battle with her own demons.

  He cursed, consigning Jean-Claude Varens to the bottom of the Seine. Astonishing what havoc that stiff-necked nobleman could wreak upon Belle. When Sinclair had returned to the reception salon with her cloak, he had seen her speaking to Varens.

  It had been obvious that they quarreled. Belle had been angry, but the anger had been quickly replaced with devastation. Sinclair could not understand it. Bold enough to flirt with a dangerous man like Bonaparte, capable of snapping out commands to a half-mad dog like Lazare, and yet Belle could be crushed by one unkind word from Varens. What hold did that somber man possess over her?

  Sinclair could think of only one—love, the once and forever kind. For all her cool exterior, Belle was an intensely passionate woman. When she chose to love, it would be for always, and Jean-Claude just happened to be the man who had stirred those feelings inside of her.

  "I came into your life years too late, Angel," Sinclair murmured sadly.

  Belle had told Paulette not to wait up, but the woman hadn't listened. She bustled about the bedchamber full of questions about the reception. Had Belle met Napoleon? What had happened? Did Belle have any more idea of what her plans were?

  Belle was of no humor to answer questions or to listen to Paulette's bright chatter. As soon as the woman helped Belle out of her gown, Belle dismissed her to her own bed. Paulette’s eyes narrowed with annoyance, then her mouth twisted into a smirk. "But of course, chérie. If there are any other services you want performed, you can always summon Monsieur Carrington."

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nbsp; Belle did not reply to this pert comment, all but shutting the door in Paulette's face. She leaned up against the barrier listening to Paulette retreat down the hall. Then she exuded a wearied sigh. Her mind felt numb from the bewildering whirl of events that had taken place that evening. She could not allow herself to think about any of it.

  Belle pushed away from the door and, with motions that were instinctive, gathered up her gown. She smoothed out the folds, then put it away and returned her slippers and chemise to the wardrobe drawer before donning her nightgown. After removing the pearl netting, she brushed out her hair with rhythmic strokes, then rearranged the things on her dressing table until they lay with their customary mathematical precision.

  It was as though by restoring order to the room, she hoped she could restore order to her mind as well, but it was not working. A montage of scenes from the reception whirled through her brain: the heat of Sinclair's gaze as he had handed her from the carriage, the uneasiness of being questioned by Fouché, the brief interlude with Napoleon, her sense of triumph which had faded with the sight of Jean-Claude, the grim confrontation that had followed, Sinclair's tormenting question, "What the devil is he doing here in Paris?"

  How she longed to be able to answer that, even if only for herself. That reception at the Tuileries was the last place she would have expected to encounter Jean-Claude. Had he come to plead for the return of his estates, or to seek his fortune with the new government? Neither action sounded like the proud Comte de Egremont. Jean-Claude had ever been a man of principle. Although he supported some goals of the Revolution, he had remained fiercely loyal to the Bourbon kings. To think that he might at last be capable of sacrificing his notions of honor brought Belle real pain. The Revolution had robbed him of so many of his dreams, and she had helped. She had always been able to console herself that at least Jean-Claude had been spared his pride.

  A shiver coursed through her, and she noticed that the fire on the grate was dying, a chill settling over the room. She must abandon these miserable thoughts and seek out her bed. Time to face what she most dreaded, the extinguishing of the candles.