The man bore his usual phlegmatic expression as he studied the distant figures of the soldiers lining up in columns. Never averting his gaze, he continued to address Sinclair. "Such a fine spectacle, don't you agree, Mr. Carrington? But I find the noise a little excessive."
With one of his bland smiles Warburton beckoned slightly with his head for Sinclair to follow him. Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, but she appeared too absorbed by the spectacle to notice his defection.
Edging cautiously away, Sinclair trailed Warburton at a distance. But he thought the ground could have opened to swallow him and no one in the crowd would have paid any heed. At that moment Bonaparte had arrived upon the scene, and all eyes were trained upon him.
The first consul rode down the ranks astride a white horse, wearing a black beaver hat and gray greatcoat, surrounded by the more dazzling uniforms of his staff. The throng of spectators appeared mesmerized.
Sinclair and Warburton drew back further into the gardens of the Tuileries. Standing beneath the stark, sprawling branches of a poplar tree, they feigned an avid interest in the troop inspection taking place.
"So, Mr. Carrington," Warburton said, "how goes your tour of Paris? Rewarding, I trust?"
"Not so much as I would have hoped, Mr. Warburton."
"That is most disappointing."
"I am all but convinced I know the identity of the—er, gentleman we both seek. But proving it! He is quite a slippery devil."
"I suppose I don't have to remind you, Carrington. You are running out of time. According to the message you sent me the other day, Merchant's society plans to make its move in—in what?"
"Two days' time," Sinclair said through gritted teeth. "And you are sure that no word of the plot has reached the Tuileries?"
"As sure as I can be. Oh, we did think our informant had returned to the guardhouse yesterday, but it turned out to be only a wench, come for a lover's tryst. Besides"—one of his rare smiles touched Warburton's lips—"if the plot were discovered, I imagine you and your group would know of it before I did."
"That is what I am afraid of," Sinclair said grimly.
There seemed no more to discuss, and he was prepared to move on, but Warburton asked almost desperately, "And you have learned nothing more, Mr. Carrington? Nothing whatsoever?"
Sinclair hesitated. The one new bit of information he had uncovered appeared to him so vague as to be not worth mentioning. However, when Warburton persisted, he said, "Well, I have questioned the porter at our lodgings. Someone has been seen leaving our building and returning late at night. It was too dark for the porter to remark who the person was beneath the hood of the cloak, but the fellow was familiar with the driver of the cabriolet. I tracked him down just yesterday, but all the cabman could do was give me the address he had delivered his passenger to, somewhere in the vicinity of the Palais¬Royal."
"Then that is something surely," Warburton said eagerly. "Have you checked this address?"
"No, not yet."
Sinclair stiffened defensively at Warburton's incredulous look. "I am supposed to have nothing on my mind, Warburton, other than participating in a certain plot. It is a little difficult for me to get off by myself during the day."
"What about your nights, man? What are you up to then?"
Sinclair compressed his lips. He did not feel that the answer to that concerned either Warburton or the British army. Yet perhaps it did. Perhaps it concerned them greatly that one of their agents was allowing himself to be dangerously distracted.
The truth was Sinclair did not know if he could have absented himself from Belle's side at night even if he tried. He made love to her each time as though it might be the last, for which all he knew it could be. He could not delude himself that this affair was like countless others, that the passion would burn itself out.
It was different with Belle, had been from the first. He had always known that, though even yet he feared to acknowledge how deep his feelings for her ran.
And as for her? What did she feel? He had asked himself that question so many times, asked it now as his gaze tracked toward the crowd of onlookers, toward where she sheltered beneath her parasol, her face shaded from his view, even as her heart continued to be.
He would like to believe she was learning to experience some deeper emotion other than gratitude and desire when he took her in his arms. But, Sinclair thought sadly, he could not delude himself on that score, either.
He realized with some chagrin that while their lovemaking might have distracted him somewhat from his task, Belle remained absorbed with her work, nothing seeming to sway her from her purpose.
Even now, her gaze focused intently upon Bonaparte, only shifting when she bent to exchange some comment with Baptiste about the review.
Bonaparte had dismounted and was barking out maneuvers to the troops in a clear resonant voice, which they executed with precision.
The first consul was more in his element doing this, Belle thought, than he had been mingling with the guests at the reception.
Deeply engrossed in the orderly demonstration, Baptiste murmured, "It is a great deal different than in the old days, eh, mon ange? I can remember the time when the gathering of a crowd such as this would have raised a knot in my stomach."
Belle remembered all too well. A crowd could so easily turn into a mob bent upon violent and vengeful purposes. Yet as she gazed about her, she too felt the difference Baptiste spoke of. Even the throng that clustered against the gates seemed remote from that unruly crowd who had once overrun the Tuileries. Everywhere there was a new sense of order, which seemed to emanate from the short man in gray with his booming voice.
Bonaparte might not be an impressive figure on horseback, but rapping out commands to his troops was another matter. Belle turned to gauge Sinclair's impressions and was surprised to find him gone.
Searching about for him, she saw him some little distance away, in earnest conversation with a quiet-looking man Belle did not recognize.
Belle frowned. Something in Sinclair's manner made her feel as if the man was an acquaintance, but Sinclair had said he had never been to Paris before, that he knew no one. Was this a friend from England perhaps?
When Sinclair finally rejoined her, she asked casually, "Did you chance upon an old crony of yours?"
Sinclair replied easily enough. "No, that was only a fellow I met at the reception the other night, a secretary or clerk or some such to the ambassador. Boring chap, but it seemed rude to cut him."
"Oh, I see," Belle said, but she didn't. Why did she once more have that uneasy feeling that Sinclair was not telling her quite the entire truth? Perhaps it was the way his eyes, ever bold, skated away from making contact with hers. And yet what reason would he have to lie? She felt guilty herself for being so suspicious. She was worse than a jealous wife thinking her husband had acquired a mistress. It was only that she had made herself so vulnerable, given so much of herself to Sinclair, if she should once more be proven a fool . . .
Suppressing such thoughts as best she could, she realized that the review had come to its end, the troops filing off. If Bonaparte had remarked her attendance or even recalled inviting her, he gave no sign of it. He mounted his horse and rapidly rode away.
But as the crowds began to disperse, Belle was approached by a dapper little man. In a low voice he introduced himself as Napoleon's valet, Constant. With a low bow he slipped her a note with the Napoleonic seal holding it closed before turning and vanishing back through the gardens as quickly as he had appeared.
Sinclair glanced at the paper with a jaundiced eye. "Another billet-doux, I suppose?"
"We will know soon enough when we return to the apartment." She gave him an arch smile and proceeded to outline her plans for the rest of the afternoon. "I think we should go over the details of the plan one more—"
But she was interrupted by a heartfelt groan that issued from both Baptiste and Sinclair at once.
"Have mercy, mon ange," Baptiste pleaded. "Th
is plan—we could recite it in our sleep. Such a beautiful day to spend in the stuffy apartment. Surely you could spare an hour. It is so rare that I take a holiday. I thought to treat you and Monsieur Carrington to a petite repast at a small café that I know."
"What an excellent notion," Sinclair was quick to agree.
"Out of the question—" Belle began, but Sinclair and Baptiste exchanged a glance past her. She found herself firmly seized by one man on either side and propelled forward.
"I think I am the victim of a conspiracy," she grumbled, but her resistance was only token. To say truth, she felt in something of a holiday mood herself. Perhaps it had something to do with the stirring notes of the brass band, the warmth of the sun on her face, or even more the warmth in a certain wicked pair of green eyes. In any case, she gave over all resistance, allowing herself to be whisked away by Sinclair and Baptiste.
The Café D'Egalité was a modest establishment, not far from the river, its rough-hewn walls giving the impression that it had stood nearly as long as the Seine flowed. The aroma of spirits and fresh-brewed coffee hung in the air so strong it might have been steeped into the woodwork of the tables. A placard hung on the wall, slightly askew, proclaimed, "Here we still honor one another with the title of Citoyen."
Even this obviously half-forgotten reminder of revolutionary days was enough to curtail Belle's pleasure in the café's quaintness. As though sensing her stiffen, Baptiste suggested they occupy one of the tables in the small garden. The day was certainly warm enough.
While Belle ordered bavorosie and Baptiste his wine, Sinclair opted for some "genuine English beer."
"I thought you did not like beer," Belle said as she stripped off her gloves.
"I don't." Sinclair sighed. "But the waiter appeared so proud to be able to offer it, how could I disappoint the poor fellow?"
Offering him a half-amused smile, Belle glanced about the garden which boasted no more than five tables, all of the others being vacant. The only others present were two elderly gentlemen playing at jeu des bagues at the opposite end of the garden. She decided she might just risk a glance at the note from Bonaparte.
Breaking the seal, she scanned the contents. The opening amused her somewhat.
“Since the night of the reception, your beauty fills my memory. My thoughts have been only of you.”
This was yet another side to the blunt Corsican soldier. Who would imagine he could be such a romantic. It was the sort of infatuated nonsense she might have expected to have received from a boy like Phillipe Coterin, But as she scanned farther down the page, her smile faded,
"Damn!" she said.
Sinclair paused in the act of raising the flagon to his lips. "What's amiss?"
By way of answer she simply handed the note to him.
"The white curves of your soft, sweet—" Sinclair began to read aloud.
"Not that," she interrupted sharply. "Read the closing paragraph."
Belle could tell when Sinclair had found the crucial part, for one of his eyebrows jutted upward.
"Well, what is it?" Baptiste cried. "Or do you both mean to slay me with this suspense?"
"Bonaparte has canceled his supper with Belle," Sinclair said. "He leaves Paris within the week for an extended tour of the provinces."
"Nom de Dieu!" Baptiste exclaimed. He shook his head. "Quelle catastrophe! Why, once he is out of Paris on a ceremonial tour, there will be no getting near the man. He will constantly be surrounded by his entourage and adoring crowds."
Belle bit ruefully down upon her lip. "I know."
"And so the note is his farewell?" Baptiste asked. "He makes no further mention of seeing you again, mon ange?"
"Not at an intimate supper. But by way of consolation, he offers a discreet meeting in one of the boxes at the Theatre Odeon to attend the current performance."
"Ah, but of course." Baptiste nodded. "The general is most fond of drama. He often attends incognito."
"It doesn’t matters if he comes disguised as a Turk," Sinclair said. "I would defy anyone to arrange the abduction of a man from so public a place as a theater."
He tossed the note down upon the table. "So that's the end of that."
An unexpected modicum of relief had been mingling with Belle's disappointment. But Sinclair's almost cheerful acceptance of their failure acted strangely upon her.
"What do you mean—the end?" she demanded.
"I mean that you cannot go any further with this scheme, which was absurd from the start."
Although she acknowledged the situation as hopeless herself, Sinclair's complacent dismissal of the mission, all the work and planning she had poured into it, irritated her. Of course, he had never been very enthusiastic about the assignment, she recalled. She was not the only one to remark the fact. Lazare had said something very similar only this morning.
Of a sudden some of Lazare's other comments came back to her, seeming to whisper in her ear, seep through her like subtle poison. He has a habit of disappearing, our Monsieur Carrington. Where does he go each day?
Belle turned over in her mind things about Sinclair that had always disturbed her: his knowledge about Feydeau, his conversation with the strange man at the review, most of all his evasion of any questions regarding his past. Could it be that- No, Belle refused to consider the possibility that the man who loved her so tenderly each night could be plotting against her.
Sinclair must have other less sinister reasons for rejoicing that the plot must be abandoned. He had oft teased her about her ambition to use the money from this mission to retire from the business to Derbyshire. Perhaps some of his teasing had been in earnest, fathered by a secret wish to keep her working with him. Perhaps he was glad that she would not now be paid. Or his relief could be stemming from some arrogant male notion of protecting her, a lack of faith in her ability to see the abduction to a successful conclusion.
Whatever the reason for his resistance, it stirred her stubborn pride to life.
"The assignment has become more difficult," she said, "but I still do not find it impossible."
Sinclair cast her a look, part indulgence, part impatience. "Belle, give it up. You have done your best, doing all that Merchant could require. I would be the first to tell him so."
"I am not worried about Merchant," she snapped. "But when I am hired to do a job, I finish it."
"Just as you did in the affair with Coterin?" he reminded her with a skeptical smile.
Belle bristled. "That was different." In that instance she had chosen to deviate from her task, but she would be damned if she would be forced to give up by simply a lack of daring and resolve.
"You were reluctant from the start," she accused Sinclair. "If you didn't wish to take any risks, I don't know why—"
"Risk," Sinclair snorted. "This would be suicide."
"All I have to say is that if you are going to change your mind, it would be better if you had not accepted in the first place."
"I beg you, mes enfants, no quarrels," Baptiste said. "You are throwing those poor gentlemen off their game."
Belle was startled to realize that she and Sinclair had been raising their voices loudly enough to attract attention.
One of the elderly men at the other end of the garden paused in the act of tossing his ring to frown at her.
Sinclair subsided, but Belle could not let the matter rest. She said in low but forceful tones, "I trust you will remember, Mr. Carrington, I am the one in charge. I will say when the mission is called off."
"If you can develop a sensible plan, I will follow you anywhere, Angel." Sinclair drank the rest of his beer, looking so smugly confident that she couldn't, Belle had a strong desire to break her coffee cup over his head.
As though to prevent further argument, he got up and deliberately strolled across the garden to watch the old men at their game. It did not take long before he was invited to join in, the elderly Parisians showing him how to toss the wooden rings, laughing indulgently at his efforts.
> Belle could tell from the flash of Sinclair's smile that he was not merely staying away from the table to be spiteful, but genuinely enjoying himself with the same gusto with which he smoked those horrid cigars and ate his peppermints.
"He has the joie de vivre, that one," Baptiste commented. "He could well have been a Frenchman."
It was an enormous compliment coming from Baptiste. But Belle recognized that her friend was right. Sinclair did have that vitality, that zest for life she felt lacking in herself. It was one of the things that made him so undeniably attractive.
"He is also a man of good sense," Baptiste added.
Belle glanced sharply at her old friend. "Does that mean you agree with him that the mission must be abandoned?"
Baptiste frowned into his empty glass. "Oui, at the risk of also angering you, I fear that I must. Monsieur Carrington takes the logical view—"
"Logic has nothing to do with it," Belle said scornfully. "I believe Sinclair is merely having one of his misplaced gallant urges, the feeling that he somehow needs to protect me. Well, I have been doing rather nicely without him for a good many years. I think I can decide what chances I should take."
"Except that you would not be the only one taking the risk." This gentle reminder and the grave look that accompanied it brought a flush to Belle's cheeks.
"You are right. Forgive me, Baptiste. I did not think. Indeed, I would not blame you for wanting no more to do with this scheme."
"It was not myself so much I speak for as the others." Baptiste shrugged. "What have I left to lose—my life? I have never been much afraid to die as long as I can be laid to rest here in my Paris. I am no longer such a young man."
He became suddenly pensive. "As the oldest in my family, I always imagined I would be the first to go, my bier borne aloft on the shoulders of my strong brothers with love and all honor. I never thought that I should be the one to survive."
The light that shone from those ageless brown eyes dimmed as he continued to muse, "Artur, he died by the guillotine for being too free with his opinions, Francois, murdered, his only sin deciding to be a priest instead of a fan maker, Odeon fell before the cannonfire with the army in the Alps, and Gervaise perished of the fever on General Bonaparte's glorious Egyptian campaign."