Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  One such pert dame, what youthful attractions she possessed buried beneath a layer of rouge, eyed with speculation two strapping soldiers lounging near one of the colonnades.

  The older of the two, a fellow with a pointed chin, appeared more interested in swilling from a bottle of gin. But the younger, crudely handsome with a fine set of bristling mustaches, offered the wench every sign of encouragement.

  When she tried to approach, the weasel-faced one glared at her. "Off with you, slut. Go peddle your wares elsewhere."

  "Ah, you are hard and cruel, m'sieur," she started to whine, but when he menaced her with upraised fist, she cursed him, melting back into the night.

  "You didn't have to drive her off, Giles," the youth protested. "I could have used a bit of diversion."

  "We are here for business, Auguste, not diversion." Giles took another gulp from his bottle. "Lazare is already wroth with us."

  Auguste snorted. "You may fear the displeasure of Monsieur Scar Face, but I promise you that I— oof!" He broke off with a grunt when his older brother poked his stomach in warning fashion.

  A figure stalked toward them, draped in a black cowl and cape like some sinister monk of the Inquisition, a man seeming spawned of the night shadows. Moonlight rendered the wisps of Lazare's hair ghost-white, his handsome scarred face like some grotesque mask depicting good and evil.

  For all his bravado, young Auguste went pale, and Giles's hand, yet clutching his bottle, was seen to tremble. Lazare's mouth thinned to a smile. They feared him, both the brothers Marboeuf, despite their bluster to the contrary. Their courage was about as real as the false uniforms they wore upon their backs, a clever device they had long ago adopted to avoid being pressed into the army. If any officer ever questioned them or examined their regimentals too closely, the Marboeufs were quick to take to their heels.

  But against an unarmed opponent in the dark, Lazare thought cynically, the two bore courage enough. After ascertaining they were sufficiently cowed by his stare, Lazare said, "You are on time for once, citizens. You show great wisdom."

  "Been waiting for nigh half an hour," Giles ventured to grumble. "Damned chilly tonight." He lifted his bottle to his lips for another swallow.

  Lazare's hand shot out, knocking the bottle from Giles's grasp. The glass shattered against the colonnade. But in a night already disrupted by raucous laughter, the shameless squeals of the lightskirts pursuing their trade, the splintering sound went unremarked.

  Giles glowered at Lazare, but he dared not comment, merely rubbing the back of his hand across his lips.

  "I want you sober," Lazare hissed. "There will be no mistakes such as you made yesterday morn."

  "We done our best," Giles whined. "Who'd of thought the Englishman could move so fast? I never did see the likes of how he fair dived from beneath the hooves of my horse."

  "We could scarce take another pass at him, either," Auguste added. "Not in broad daylight."

  "Well, it is dark enough now," Lazare said.

  "Oui." Auguste fingered the ends of his mustache and slapped his sword in a swaggering manner. "This time we will see how well Monsieur Carrington can dodge a blade."

  "I care not how you do it." Lazare eyed him coldly. "But sunrise tomorrow must find Carrington quite dead."

  Marcellus Crecy's gaming den was located upon the second-floor arcade of the Palais-Royal. The discreet looking door opened onto a vast chamber glittering with light. Large gilt mirrors reflected back the fashionable men and women of Paris gathered about tables, lost in the pursuit of roulette, vingt-et-un, and other card games.

  Sinclair blinked, taking a moment to adjust his eyes after the darkness outside. By the time he moved to help Belle off with her cloak, a servant had intercepted him in the task. The fellow's powdered wig and maroon-colored livery with gold buttons would have done justice to a ducal household.

  Crecy, who ambled forward to greet them, might well have been the duke, his girth elegantly garbed in a silk coat and knee breeches, his leonine mass of silvery hair swept back from his broad forehead.

  "Ah, Madame and Monsieur Carrington." Marcellus's round face creased into a bland smile. "So good of you to grace my establishment."

  While Belle offered her hand to be kissed, Sinclair could only manage a curt nod. He had not much more capacity for keeping up this pretense. Today had already proved enough of a strain. His hope that the others in the society would dissuade Belle from pursuing her reckless plan had proved unavailing. To a man, they had all approved her idea. The day had been spent in another frenetic round of preparation. Tonight would see the confirmation of the plot's final details.

  Crecy leaned forward conspiratorially. "You could not have chosen a better night. The most discreet game of euchre is being played in a private room in the back. Perhaps it would be more to your taste than this crowd."

  Belle's low reply gave nothing away. "Thank you, monsieur. You are the perfect host."

  With a graceful bow, Marcellus led the way.

  I've got to put a stop to this thing soon, Sinclair thought desperately, as he had more than once these past hours. Yet how he was to do so without revealing to all of them his true identity and purpose, Sinclair did not know.

  For the moment all he could do was to keep step with Belle, trailing after Crecy. Marcellus appeared very much the master of his establishment, pausing here and there to greet some of his clientele, to deliver a sharp rebuke to a footman not leaping swiftly enough to attend the guests' wants, thereby allowing them to wander too far from the tables with money still in their pockets. Fortunes seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, swept away beneath the croupier's nimble rakes.

  Despite the seriousness of their purpose in coming there tonight, Marcellus was not too preoccupied to display to Sinclair the amenities of his house.

  When they passed by a curtained alcove, he gestured proudly toward it. "In there I have what I call the refuge of the wounded, Monsieur Carrington. Those gentlemen who ruin themselves at the tables have access to a private balcony, a selection of pistols, also ink and paper for any farewell message."

  "How excessively civil of you," Sinclair said dryly. Crecy did not seem at all perturbed by this hint of his disapproval.

  "Ah, well, we French have always been more sophisticated about such things than you English."

  "God preserve me from such sophistication," Sinclair muttered. He stole a glance at Belle to see what she made of Crecy's accommodation, but she had paid little heed. He did not know where her thoughts were, but he judged from her distant expression that she was miles away.

  With Jean-Claude, he wondered, then forced the painful supposition aside. He and Belle had made a pact after rising from her bed last night. They would discuss neither the Comte de Egremont or the future until their mission was resolved. Nor would they seek to touch or embrace.

  Sinclair found both agreements hard to keep, and he wondered if Belle was feeling the same. She continually avoided meeting his eyes.

  Sinclair's attention was drawn back to Crecy as he held open another door, indicating they should precede him into his private study. The dark paneled room was as solemn and businesslike as the gaming salon was full of light and frivolity.

  Lazare and Baptiste were already there waiting. A dour silence pervaded the chamber and was little dispelled even when Crecy rang for extra candles. A waiter appeared bearing a silver tray laden with tempting morsels, oysters, cold tongue, grilled partridges, cream cheese a la rose. But the delicacies went untouched, even Crecy bearing little appetite.

  This meeting tonight differed from any thus far, Sinclair thought as they gathered about Crecy's mahogany-topped desk. No repartee, no squabbling, only their faces taut with purpose as they all focused their attention on Belle. She unfolded a diagram of the theater that Crecy had sketched that very afternoon.

  Her plan was familiar to all of them by this time, but she took them through the details of it one last time as though determined to dispose of any l
ast-minute objections.

  "To begin with," she said, "Marcellus will see to it that Monsieur Georges does not reach the theater tomorrow night."

  Crecy nodded. "That will not be difficult. Many of the actors frequent my establishment. Georges is heavily in my debt. He will not like it, but I can coerce him into taking ill so that my unknown nephew from the provinces can make his debut."

  "And that unknown nephew will be one of Crecy's footmen," Belle added.

  "Will he be able to learn his lines that fast?" Baptiste asked.

  "If I know the people of Paris," Belle said, "the poor man will never have to open his mouth. Once they see he is not their favorite leading actor, they will begin pelting him and hissing him off the stage."

  Sinclair could not help giving voice to his chief concern. "You are counting a great deal on the audience's adverse reaction, Belle."

  "Their reaction will be helped along by Lazare." Belle pointed to a spot on the diagram. "He will be sitting here in the pit."

  "Lazare bears a great talent for rousing a crowd to a state of violence, Monsieur Carrington," Baptiste explained quietly.

  "And my talents have grown considerably, old man." Lazare's lips split in a sneering smile, but his gaze seemed more centered on Belle. "You would be surprised at some of the places, some of the people over whom I have influence."

  A strange sort of boast, Sinclair thought. What was Lazare hinting at? Belle chose to ignore the remark, continuing on. "In any case, Baptiste will place himself here." She indicated the rear section of the pit. "He will do what he can to aid Lazare. Once the riot has begun, it will be my turn. I shall be up here, with Monsieur Bonaparte in one of the first tier boxes, closest to the stage. It has been a long time since I simulated a swoon, but I think I can still manage.

  "Bonaparte will have his hands quite full by the time Crecy's men burst into the back of the box, garbed in the uniform of the consular guard."

  "And Bonaparte's own guards?" Sinclair demanded.

  "He is likely to have one or two at the most," Crecy said. "When he attends the theater in this discreet fashion, the first consul usually is not closely attended."

  "These guards will be dealt with if necessary," Belle said. "It only remains for Crecy's men to tell Bonaparte they were alerted as to his possible attendance at the theater and have come to escort him from the riot scene in safety. Once outside we must rely upon the dark and the hysterics I will have to keep the general from noticing it is not his own carriage he is being bundled into."

  "Sinclair-" Belle dared a brief glance at him—"will be waiting with the coach, to help me subdue Bonaparte if necessary. After he has been bound, we will hide him beneath the false seating of the carriage and be off. Forged papers, a bribe if necessary, will get us out the city gates before it is even known Bonaparte is gone."

  With a final sweep of her hand across the map, she concluded, "I will already have sent Paulette out of Paris with our luggage. We will meet at the rendezvous point in Rouvray Forest for a change to swifter horses. As we make all speed for the coast, Lazare will hasten ahead to make sure the fishing ketch is waiting."

  Belle made it sound so simple. Indeed, perhaps her plan was not so farfetched after all. Sinclair tried to be objective. Extremely daring the plot was, but Sinclair's past experience told him that often the more outrageous schemes were the ones that did work, being so unexpected. Under other circumstances, the challenge of it all might have intrigued him—but for the traitor in their midst. Sinclair's gaze tracked to Lazare. Every so often the Frenchman's lips thinned in a narrow smile, a smile that iced Sinclair's blood.

  Tonight was his last chance, Sinclair thought. The address he had uncovered in this district, his only clue, as yet remained not investigated. It was tonight or never. Sinclair could only hope the luck would be with him.

  If the address turned out to be but one more blind alley, he would have to admit defeat. He had let matters proceed too far by not taking Belle into his confidence sooner. Now he would have to confess the truth to all these people, even at the risk of losing forever his chance to uncover the spy he sought. And what Belle's reaction would be, Sinclair scarce dared to think.

  When Belle began to go over their escape route to the coast, where they would change horses, Sinclair forced a yawn and took a chance of excusing himself.

  "I am sure I can leave all that in your capable hands, Angel," he said. "I will gain nothing by going through it all again. Since this is likely my last night in Paris, would you mind if I tried my luck at one of Crecy's tables?"

  Crecy looked mildly surprised, Baptiste thunderstruck with disapproval.

  "Somehow I never set you down for a gamester." Belle shrugged. "Suit yourself, Mr. Carrington."

  She was obviously annoyed, probably seeing this as more of his disinterest in her plan. But the situation was growing far too serious for him to worry about quarreling with Belle. He could smooth things over later.

  Outside in the salon Sinclair summoned a servant to produce his cloak. The thought occurred to him that he had neglected to provide himself with a weapon. He did not know exactly what awaited him behind the door of No. 32, but some sort of protection might be a wise precaution.

  He wandered toward the alcove that concealed Crecy's refuge of the wounded. The little room was empty except for a small desk with the writing materials Crecy had described previously, but along one wall was a shelf containing pistol cases. Sinclair examined several of them before selecting a small lightweight pistol, finding ball and powder conveniently at hand. What a cool devil that Crecy was! After loading the pistol Sinclair slipped it carefully inside his cloak pocket.

  After peeking behind the curtain, making sure he was not observed, Sinclair slipped back into the main salon, heading casualty for the main doors. He paused only long enough to inquire of the doorman the exact location of the address he sought, then he stepped out into the cool night air.

  Lazare paced the study, immune to the charms of the crackling hearth, the fine wine Crecy had provided. The others—Belle, Baptiste, and Marcellus—were going through the entire plan one more time, checking it for any glaring flaws. Lazare's lip curled with contempt. He did not possess Belle's fastidious attention to detail, nor her need to drill a plan over and over again until it was letter perfect.

  Besides, he already knew that tomorrow evening's events were going to proceed in far different fashion from Belle's carefully laid designs. At the moment Lazare felt far more interested in discovering what Carrington was doing.

  Clearing his throat, he bluntly excused himself from the room on the grounds of answering the call of nature.

  Crecy sniffed, looking disgusted, but Belle merely waved him away with a distracted gesture of her hand. For a second Lazare's eyes narrowed, unable to disguise the ugly thoughts churning through his brain. She dismissed him so easily, looking right through him, all memory of that day by the ditch erased from her mind. But he hadn't forgotten. How could he when he bore the imprint of it seared upon his flesh. And after tomorrow night Isabelle Varens would bear the memory of Etienne Lazare and his vengeance for the rest of her life . . . whatever remained of it.

  His hatred of her flared up inside of him so strong that he quit the study more rapidly than he intended, lest he at last reveal to her some of his purpose. Bursting out into the hum of noise that was the gaming salon, Lazare drew several calming breaths before he looked around for Carrington.

  There appeared to be no sign of the blasted fellow. Lazare pushed through the midst of the wealthy, glittering throng, their heads adorned with diamond aigrettes, pomaded locks, beribboned ringlets, heads that would have looked better stacked in the basket at the foot of the guillotine. But no Carrington.

  Lazare located Giles and Auguste Marboeuf at one of the roulette tables. They appeared very much out of place in Crecy's exclusive establishment, placing their modest bets beneath the croupier's supercilious stare. Obviously being admitted to such a place had gone to their h
eads.

  With a snarl, Lazare strode over and dragged them both aside. "Where's Carrington?"

  "Isn't he yet in the back room?" Giles asked.

  Lazare swore. "You fools."

  He had set the pair of them to keep an eye out, watch for a chance to get Carrington alone if possible, otherwise waylay him en route to the carriage later. Now Carrington had presented them with the perfect opportunity, and they had lost it.

  There might yet be a chance. Carrington could not risk being gone from the meeting for too long, so he could not have gone far.

  "Come on," he growled at Giles and Auguste. Lazare had taken great pains not to arouse suspicion in Belle by sharing a part in Carrington's demise. But now he could see he must take a hand in the affair himself.

  His umbrella hooked over his arm, Sinclair moved at a hurried pace, accustoming his eyes to the darkness beneath the Palais's first-floor colonnade. The lamps from the gardens cast but dim illumination here, the darkened shop windows only serving to add to the sense of isolation.

  Other shadows moved about beneath the colonnades, a pair of lovers entwined in a hot embrace, a beady-eyed fellow who studied Sinclair as though to gauge the location of his purse. But something in Sinclair's stance made him think better of it, and he slunk away.

  Sinclair located No. 32, the last door at the far end of the Palais, the placard in the curtained window proclaiming it as a seamstress's establishment. His shoulders took on a disheartened slump as he feared he had but come on a fool's chase.

  Still a light glowed beyond the filmy curtains along with the chatter of voices. Strange that such a shop should still be open this time of night.