When Sinclair knocked at the door, a feminine voice bade him enter. He stepped cautiously inside. He had not much experience of seamstresses' shops, but he wagered that most did not look like this. The sitting room wore an aura of tawdry luxury, all crimson velvet and gilt, the cloying scent of perfume heavy in the air. Gold curtains framed an arch which led to some other mysterious area beyond.
Draped upon a settee were two ladies of dubious virtue, a redhead and a blonde. If they did possess any talent for sewing, Sinclair doubted they were expending much of it upon their own scanty attire.
An elderly woman bustled forward to greet Sinclair, her rouged cheek puffed out with a smile. "Good evening, m'sieur. How may we serve you?"
Sinclair swept off his hat. "Bonsoir, madame. I—er- am looking to have some alterations done."
His words sent the young women upon the settee off into a fit of giggles. One called out, "On your breeches perchance, m'sieur?"
The elderly dame silenced them with a dignified glare.
"M'sieur must understand. We do not serve any gentleman who walks in off the streets. All our callers come here by recommendation."
Sinclair decided to take a great chance, watching the woman carefully for her reaction. "Lazare sent me."
Her puzzlement appeared genuine. "Lazare? I have never heard of this Lazare." She glanced toward the two girls as though soliciting their help.
The blonde one cooed, "I am sure it is all right, madame. I think I have heard Paulette talk of a Lazare."
"Paulette?" The name sent a jolt through Sinclair.
"Oui." The girl nodded to a point behind Sinclair."There she is. Ask her yourself."
Sinclair spun about to face the woman who entered the room beneath the velvet-draped arch. Although the saffron gown was not her usual attire, the red ribbon about her neck, the soft brown curls were all too familiar to Sinclair.
"Madame, I need you to—" Paulette Beauvais choked off in midsentence. As her eyes locked with Sinclair's, the shock of recognition for her appeared as great as his own.
"M-monsieur Carrington." Her dismay paled into a look of fear. She turned and vanished beneath the arch. Sinclair bolted after her.
"Stop, m'sieur!" the elderly woman cried. "You cannot thus barge in upon us." She followed after Sinclair, squawking like a frenzied chicken.
Sinclair pursued Paulette down a corridor of doors. She whipped inside the last of these, but not quickly enough to slam the door behind her. Sinclair put his shoulder to the flimsy pine barrier as Paulette struggled to keep him out.
"I will send for the police," the old woman behind Sinclair was still blustering.
But Paulette seemed to realize the futility of the struggle. As her initial panic subsided, she released the door, allowing Sinclair to enter. "Bien, Margot. Calm yourself," she said to the old woman. "I do seem to know this gentleman after all."
Although the madame looked far from satisfied, she was persuaded to retreat. She did so, casting dire warnings at Sinclair to behave himself. "We tolerate no roughness here, m’sieur."
When she had gone, Sinclair closed the door behind him, facing Paulette across the small bedchamber, the glow of an oil lamp giving the walls a rose-colored cast. The chief feature of the room was its bed, the canopy caught above it giving the impression of some exotic Egyptian tent. Paulette hovered near it, twisting the fringe. Obviously nervous, she strove to hide the fact behind a brazen smile.
"So, Monsieur Carrington, have you tired of ma chére Isabelle's charms? What brings you to a place like this?"
Sinclair folded his arms, leaning up against the door. "I was planning to ask you the same thing."
"Madame Margot is an old friend of mine. I have known her since the first days of the Revolution. She still allows me to visit her upon occasion, make myself at home." Recovering some of her bravado, Paulette tipped up her chin. "And you need not look down your long English nose like that. Madame was good to me after my parents sneezed into the sack."
"I beg your pardon?"
"After they had been guillotined," she explained impatiently, then added with a hint of ferocity, "You have no notion what it took for a girl to survive during those dark days."
"Or in our present time?" Sinclair asked with a cynical cast of one brow. All the while to himself, he thought. Paulette Beauvais. How could he have been so blind? Maybe if he had not been so determined to prove Lazare the spy, he might have seen.
"I do sometimes still entertain for Madame to earn a little more money," Paulette admitted. She abandoned some of her defensive posture, infusing a hint of appeal into her tones. "None of this affects the role I play for Isabelle. Surely there is no need to tell her you found me here? You keep my secret and I will keep yours."
"Belle would likely be more understanding about all this than I," Sinclair said, flicking a contemptuous glance about the chamber's trappings. "But you have been doing other things she will find less forgivable."
Although Paulette's face was filled with defiance, Sinclair could sense the beginnings of alarm in her, an alarm that only deepened when he moved forward and picked up a black cloak she had left draped over a chair.
"For example, Belle might be more interested to know why you pay frequent visits to the guardhouse at the Tuileries."
"I never—" Paulette started to bluster and then she shrugged. "I have a lover there."
"Indeed? Yes, I have remarked your penchant for soldiers and sailors. They taught you quite a bit about the royal dockyards at Portsmouth. Perhaps one of the fools even helped you make a map of the coastline!'
"I don't know what you are talking—" But Paulette flinched away from Sinclair's steel-eyed gaze. She seemed to realize that denial would not serve. She sidled closer to him, moistening her dry lips.
"Perhaps I have sold a few maps to Bonaparte. Where is the harm in that?" She tried to angle a provocative glance up at Sinclair, fingering the brass buttons of his coat. "England and France are at peace. There is no chance that any information I provided will be used, but if the first consul is silly enough to pay, why not?"
Sinclair thrust her hands away. "I don't know if Isabelle and your other friends in the society will see your betrayal in the same light,"
Paulette crossed herself. "Upon the graves of my mother and father," she whined, "I have done nothing to betray the society. I never gave Bonaparte any names, never told anything that would hurt ma chére Isabelle."
"Truly? Then you won't mind if I have a look at this." When Sinclair had moved the cloak, a folded document had fallen to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, but Paulette dived for it with a shriek.
"That is nothing to do with you. It is but a letter from my lover."
Sinclair pried her fingers from the vellum, nearly tearing the note in the process. He thrust Paulette ruthlessly away. She sagged back against the bed, watching helplessly as he perused the document.
Sinclair could see clearly now how Paulette had adopted the perfect guise to be the counterspy: her entire pose as a flighty maidservant, a man-hungry female who liked to flirt with the English sailors, whose marketing left her coming and going from the house unquestioned. Paulette had never been in Belle's confidence, but she was in an easy position to overhear much that would be to Bonaparte's advantage. It also explained why no information had been laid about the abduction plot sooner. Never included in their meetings, Paulette had had difficulty in obtaining accurate knowledge of what was going on. Even in this report her information was sketchy, alerting Bonaparte only that an abduction attempt would take place from the theater with none of the details. But the names were all there, Isabelle's, Baptiste's, Crecy's, Lazare's, his own.
"You would never hurt your chére Isabelle, eh?" Sinclair said, casting a fulminating glance at Paulette. "You bitch!" He savagely rented the paper and tossed in into the fire.
Paulette shrank back from his anger. "Ah, please, monsieur. You will not hurt me. I have not told anything yet. I was even changing my mind about
that note."
Beneath Sinclair's stony stare, she wrung her hands and wailed. "It was just the temptation. You cannot imagine how much they would have paid me for information like that. I—"
The rest of her plea was lost as the door to the chamber crashed open. Sinclair started and Paulette shrieked in fright, cowering back against the bed.
Framed in the opening were two burly soldiers. One squinted at Sinclair through narrowed eyes like a ferret seeking its prey. The other sneered beneath his mustache. From the reek of gin they were obviously drunk.
"Wrong room, gentlemen," he said. He tried to close the door, but the mustached one blocked it.
"I don't think so, do you, Giles?" The younger soldier grinned at his companion.
"Non, Auguste, it looks like the right place to me." The ferret-faced one pushed his way forward into the room.
The two men were not as drunk as Sinclair had supposed. A sense of real danger coursed through him as his gaze flicked from one crude face to the other, the dawning of suspicion.
"Have I not met you somewhere before?" he asked.
He never received an answer, for at that moment Paulette saw her chance to flee. Grabbing up her cloak, she made a dash for the door. Neither of the soldiers tried to stop her, but Sinclair lunged to do so, catching hold of her sleeve.
The movement threw him off guard, left him unprepared for the sudden savage blow the man named Giles dealt his stomach. As pain spiked through him, Sinclair doubled over. Paulette wrenched herself free, making good her escape.
Panting and forcing himself upright, Sinclair's one thought was to go after her, but the other man, Auguste, was attempting to circle around behind.
Narrowly avoiding the stranglehold of his arms, Sinclair cracked his fist against Auguste's jaw. But he was not quick enough to deflect another blow from Giles. This one sent Sinclair crashing across the bed. Before he could regain his footing, Giles hefted him up, preparing to pummel him again. Somehow Sinclair's hand closed round the shaft of his umbrella, and he cracked it across the bridge of the man's nose. Giles staggered back with a howl as the blood flowed, giving Sinclair time to maneuver.
He had no idea who had set these two against him, but he had no time to find out. He had to go after Paulette. Quickly Sinclair jammed his hand into his cloak pocket and pulled the pistol free.
Before he could fire, Auguste jumped him. The weapon discharged into the air, sending the plaster of the ceiling showering down upon them.
Sinclair was dimly aware of the shrieks in the hallway outside. Madame would be sending for the authorities soon, only adding to the desperation of his situation. He glanced toward the door, but that way out was blocked by his assailants. It was impossible that he could fight his way out of here in time.
He fended off Auguste with another hard blow to the man's ribs, but Giles was struggling to pull out his sword. Backed near to the wall Sinclair sought another avenue of escape.
The window! But he needed to buy himself a few seconds of precious time. Seizing up the oil lamp, Sinclair dashed it down in front of the advancing Giles, who leaped back roaring as the carpet caught fire.
Sinclair yanked at the casement, but it was jammed. He grimaced, recognizing the inevitable. Smoke from the flames was already beginning to sting his eyes. With no more time to think Sinclair snatched up his umbrella, smashing the glass.
The sudden rush of cool air made the flames lick higher, forcing the two soldiers back to the door. Shielding his head as best he could from the remaining shards, Sinclair dived out the window amidst another hail of shattering glass.
Lazare lingered in the parlor of No. 32, his presence unremarked amidst the hysteria of the brothel's workers and patrons. From sounds emanating from the back of the house, for once it appeared as if the Marboeuf brothers were earning their hire. Perhaps he should go to make sure, but he had done enough by titling Sinclair to this place. When seeking Carrington, he had overheard enough of the conversation in the bedchamber for Lazare to know he had a far greater problem- Paulette Beauvais.
Lazare glimpsed her at last, pulling on her cloak, slipping out the brothel's front door. Following quickly, he intercepted her before she had taken five steps. When his hand closed over her shoulder, she fairly collapsed from fright.
"Good evening, Paulette."
She spun about, taking a step sideways as though tempted to dart upon her way, pretending that she did not know him. But then she drew up short, shifting back her hood enough to reveal a nervous smile.
"Why, Lazare. How fortunate that I have run into you. I have quite lost my way and I was trying to find Monsieur Crecy's establishment—"
"I don't think so, chérie," Lazare said silkily. "I don't think you are in the least interested in going there." He indicated the door to No. 32 from which she had just emerged. "But perhaps that place over there holds more fascination for you."
"I don't know what you mean," Paulette said, backing away. Lazare could see she was on the verge of panic, and if he wished this handled subtly, he must proceed in careful fashion.
He leaned forward, whispering, "Do not be alarmed. I have but come to help you. Carrington is a British spy. He would see you arrested."
"I—I know. He was—" Paulette broke off, turning deathly pale as she realized how she had just betrayed herself. She stared at Lazare with a mixture of suspicion and terror.
"But, how did you know?" She bit down upon her knuckle. "Dear God. What am I going to do? I must get away."
Lazare slipped his arm about her waist, preventing her retreat. "Be calm, chérie. I understand everything. I would never see one of my own countrywomen handed over to the damned English.
"Come with me now. I have a place to hide you." Lazare's teeth flashed in a feral smile. "A place where you will be quite safe."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Crecy's sketch of the theater lay unheeded beneath Belle's hand. She could scarce remember when she had stopped speaking, when the study had fallen quiet with her, Baptiste, and Marcellus simply staring into the fire upon the hearth.
The wine Crecy had poured out went untasted, no one of a humor to propose a toast tonight, all three of them, she sensed, sobered by the realization of what they would undertake tomorrow night.
She knew that Marcellus had prepared a little packet, some money, a farewell message to be sent to his married daughter in Marseilles should the worst happen. And Baptiste . . . Earlier Belle had watched him close up his fan shop, lovingly fingering each tool, looking rather wistfully at a design he had yet to finish.
He had handed her a folded fan then. "Just a little trinket for you to carry with you tomorrow, mon ange," he had said. "For luck." Slipping the fan inside her cloak, Belle had been tempted to tell Baptiste he need proceed no further. They could manage the enterprise without him.
But he was as determined to go forward with the new plan as she Out of the four men she at least knew she had the full support of Crecy and Baptiste, And it was not because of the money this time—not for any of them.
They all pursued some more intangible reward. Crecy, perhaps because he had grown weary of playing lord to a gaming house and wanted his birthright returned; Baptiste, because he sought peace for himself, for his beloved Paris.
As for Lazare? Who ever knew what went on in the dark corners of his mind? Likely his reasons were just the opposite of Baptiste's—the hope that Bonaparte's removal would bring back the return of violence and turmoil.
And her own motives? Belle wondered as she slowly refolded the diagrams and the map. She hardly understood her own determination. Perhaps Sinclair was partly right when he had accused her of doing it for Jean-Claude, upending the world to turn back time for one man.
But how far did she wish for Jean-Claude's future to concern herself—of that she was no longer certain. Time was not so easily turned back for her. In the interval there had been Sinclair.
Belle harbored no doubt of Sinclair’s reluctance to go ahead with this scheme, hi
s opinions of their chance of success. Why, then, was he going through with it? Did it have anything to do with the words he had whispered to her yesterday? I have fallen in love with you.
What joy such words were supposed to bring to a woman, not the almost bittersweet ache they had brought to her, a mingling of fear and guilt. It might well have been different, if she had never known Jean-Claude, if she had ever learned to know her own heart. A most strange realization, she mused, to be having at this time of her life.
She was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of the clock upon the mantel chiming out the hour.
"Midnight already?" Crecy said, also bestirring himself. "I wonder what has become of Monsieur Carrington and Lazare? They certainly are nonchalant about this business. I wish I possessed such sangfroid."
"I was beginning to wonder about them myself," Belle said. She did not wish Sinclair to think she was trailing after him, controlling his every movement as though she were indeed a possessive wife. But the meeting did seem to have broken up.
Sinclair had been in a strange humor all day, moody, most unlike himself. She knew that he did not want to go ahead with the abduction, but she was beginning to feel that his reluctance was owing to something more than misplaced gallantry, his concern for her. Yet what other motive could he possibly have?
She shoved herself up abruptly from the desk. Excusing herself, she went to find Sinclair. After the quiet of the study it took her senses a moment to adjust to the glitter and noise of the gaming salon.
It seemed strange. While they had been behind that oak door, planning such a dramatic event, one that could change the entire course of France—perhaps the world—Crecy's establishment had gone on heedlessly. Belle wondered if that was true with most earth-shattering moments in history. The bulk of mankind simply went on with their lives. To those here tonight, nothing seemed more important than the numbers on the dice or the flick of the next card. But this world appeared to have gone on without Sinclair. He was nowhere to be seen.