Belle summoned the servant who had taken their cloaks. She found him lingering in conversation with the doorman, behavior that would have earned them both a sharp rebuke from Crecy. She asked, "Have you seen a tall, dark, good-looking gentleman? The one I came in with?"
"Monsieur Carrington? Oui, madame," the servant relied. "He left some time ago."
Left? The information startled her. Sinclair had said nothing about venturing off the premises.
"Did he happen to mention where he was going?"
The servant exchanged an embarrassed glance with the doorman. The doorman cleared his throat. "I am sure madame's husband will return soon. If you wish to leave, I can summon you a cabriolet, or I am sure that Monsieur Crecy will have his own carriage fetched round for you."
Belle fixed the man with a cool stare. "Where has my husband gone?"
He tried to bluster his way out of it, but he quailed before her haughty gaze. "Well, he did ask the directions to Number 32."
Belle frowned. The address meant nothing to her. Where in blazes had Sinclair slipped off to which would cause these two men to squirm so? A suspicion occurred to her when she thought of one of the chief businesses of the Palais-Royal besides gaming.
"What sort of establishment is at Number 32?" she asked.
Their continued reluctance to answer confirmed Belle's suspicion. "It's a brothel, is it not?"
"Ah, madame!" The doorman reddened with acute discomfort.
Belle heaved an impatient sigh with all this male subterfuge. She commanded a servant to bring her cloak.
The doorman mopped his brow with relief. "And I will see to obtaining a coach for madame."
"I don't need a coach," Belle said, swirling a cloak about her shoulders. "Just the directions to Number 32."
"It is at the end of the lower arcade-but, madame!" The doorman looked aghast. "You cannot think of going there."
"I am not just thinking of it." Belle gave him a taut smile. "I fully intend to do so."
Over his protests she stalked out into the night air. The cool breeze did nothing to ease the hot flood of anger and confusion coursing into her cheeks. She could think of no reason Sinclair should have wandered off to a brothel—none but the most obvious.
Her judgment rejected this solution almost immediately. For all his pose of being a rake, such behavior seemed most unlike the Sinclair she knew, the Sinclair who had held her in his arms, told her he loved her.
Yet what do you know of him? A voice inside her jeered, a voice that sounded remarkably like Lazare's. He has a habit of disappearing, our Mr. Carrington. Where do you suppose he goes?
Trying to suppress the memory of Lazare's mocking questions, Belle quickened her steps. There was only one way to gain answers and that was to find Sinclair.
Belle had no difficulty locating the correct place. Even without the doorman's reluctant directions, No. 32 was the only apartment on the lower level erupting with such commotion. Scantily clad women stood about shrieking in the street while an old lady bellowed for the police, a brassy-haired girl weeping against her shoulder.
When Belle saw the two uniformed guards coming, she ducked into the shadows. This was no time to risk being caught up in a raid, or whatever it was, and find herself getting arrested. But what about Sinclair? Was he still inside?
Belle crept round to the back of the place, trying to figure out what was happening. She had just decided there was a fight in progress within, when she was startled. A dark object came crashing through the window, rolled, and came to a halt almost at her feet.
It was a man. The moonlight rimming down past the trees enabled her to make out the dazed features.
"Sinclair?" she gasped.
Stunned, he stared up at her for a moment. "Angel," he said in a bemused voice. He shook his head as though to clear it, fragments of glass tinkling to the ground. Leaning upon his umbrella, he attempted to rise. Belle put one hand beneath his elbow to assist him.
"Have you seen Paulette?" he asked.
"What!" The question made no sense to her. Sinclair's forehead was bleeding. She wondered if a blow to his head was making him disoriented. But at the moment she could think of nothing else but getting him away from here.
As he struggled to his feet, his vision seemed to clear somewhat, but Belle found his next remark equally as confusing. He gave a soft grunt, managing a painful smile through his split lip. "The devil seems to be after me. Or at least two of his henchmen."
Belle heard the sash of another window being thrown up in the building behind them. A mustached soldier was silhouetted in the opening, brandishing a sword.
"There he goes, Giles. The English pig!" the man shouted, beginning to clamber out the window.
"Two new friends of mine," Sinclair murmured, reeling slightly on his feet. "Giles and Gus."
"I don't think you are in any condition to continue the acquaintance!" Belle exclaimed. "Let's get out of here."
Tugging on his hand, she started to pull him away from the Palais-Royal. Behind the glittering palace the streets were dark as pitch, only the moon to guide the way, a fact not much in the their favor, despite the concealing blackness. It was too easy to trip and fall over the refuse tossed beside the buildings or lose one's way in the narrow mazelike passages. Belle saw that she had made a mistake by heading away from the lights and the other people of the Palais¬Royal, except that the police might prove as great a threat as the two heavy-footed soldiers charging behind them.
Belle could easily have outdistanced them, but in Sinclair's battered condition, he soon drew up, panting, clutching his side. "Go on, Angel. Get out of here. I can hold them off."
But Belle wanted none of his heroics. "This way," she said, yanking him beneath the arch into an inner court.
Too late she realized she had drawn them into a trap. Ahead of them loomed a high stone wall surrounding someone's private garden. The heavy iron gate was barred from the other side, a pair of-black mastiffs snarling at them through the bars. The Argand lamp affixed atop one of the posts only served to light their presence as though they had been caught in a flood of sun.
Belle snatched Sinclair's umbrella from his grasp and tugged frantically at the handle.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Trying to get out your swordstick."
Sinclair looked at her blankly. "What swordstick?"
"Why, I always assumed . . ." Belle's voice trailed off in the sickened realization that she indeed held in her hands nothing but a common umbrella.
Sweat and blood trickled down Sinclair's face. He dashed it aside with the back of his hand. "Do it my way, this time, Angel." He shoved her farther into the shadows of the wall. "It's me they are after. When you see your chance, get the devil out of here."
She had no opportunity to argue. One of the soldiers loomed at the entrance of the court, moonlight revealing the murderous snarl on his weasel-like features. Sinclair didn't wait for him to take the offensive. He charged forward, tackling the man and dragging him to the ground.
The entrance to the court was cleared, but the possibility of flight never entered Belle's mind. Tossing Sinclair's umbrella. aside, Belle slipped her hand beneath her cloak and tugged at the jeweled ornament affixed to her bodice, drawing forth a sharp stiletto from the sheath sewn into the gown.
As Sinclair and the soldier locked in a death struggle, the Frenchman screamed, "A moi, Auguste!"
It took the second soldier but a moment to come running to his comrade's aid. Auguste raced forward, his sword arcing as he prepared to run Sinclair through the back. Belle rushed at the soldier. He heard her approach in time to turn, but not to deflect her blow.
She drove the knife deep into his shoulder. He emitted a shriek of pain, then staggered back, dropping his sword. The other large man now had Sinclair pinned beneath him, his hands going for Sinclair's throat. Belle snatched up the fallen sword and crept toward the battle, but Auguste with a furious grunt had ripped the knife out of his flesh. H
e stepped in between her and the struggling men, wrenching the sword from his companion's scabbard. Auguste approached her with an ugly scowl.
Belle was forced back from Sinclair's desperate struggle. She tensed as the soldier closed in. He lunged wildly, but she deftly parried the blow, the scrape of steel ringing out into the night.
Auguste's thrusts were savage, hard, but with little skill behind them. Belle parried easily, but knew if she did not make an end to this soon, he would wear her down. Panting, she circled, looking for her opening, aware that Sinclair was not able to come to her aid, terrified that he was being choked to death.
The man made a wild slash, coming perilously near to cutting open her face. It took him a moment to recover his balance. In that unguarded instant Belle drove her own weapon home, piercing Auguste's sword hand. With a cry, he dropped his weapon, clutching at his bloodied hand.
As Belle pressed the tip of her sword in menacing fashion against the paunch of his stomach, Auguste stumbled back from her in wide-eyed terror. Sparing not so much as another glance for Giles, he whirled about and fled the court.
Belle's own gaze flicked to Sinclair. He appeared to have gone slack beneath the large soldier's hands, with their brutal crushing grip upon his neck.
Gripping the sword in her sweat-slickened hand, Belle staggered to his aid, but at that moment Sinclair's hand closed about a rock and dealt a hard blow to his assailant's temple.
His grip broken, Giles tumbled to one side. Sinclair rallied enough to deliver one more punch. With a low groan Giles sagged back, subsiding into unconsciousness.
Belle's relief was short-lived as she watched Sinclair also sink down, clutching his throat. Belle bent over him, pushing his hand aside, ripping away his disheveled cravat, loosening his shirt buttons.
"Sinclair?" she whispered, studying his pale, bruised features, the bloody cut on his forehead, one eye all but swollen shut.
Behind them in the house beyond the gate, at last a light appeared, and the sounds of the occupants stirring awake were heard.
"Sinclair!" she called more frantically.
He forced his good eye open to regard her. He could hardly get his breath, but he still managed to give her his roguish grin.
"And you would trade all this for a cottage in Dorsetshire?" he rasped.
"You fool!" she said with a choked sound that was part laugh, part sob. Drawing her arm beneath his shoulders, she struggled to help him to his feet. "Let me get you home, or we may yet end this night in gaol."
Sinclair sagged back against the pillows of Belle's bed. He emitted a low groan as she dabbed a cool cloth at the cut upon his brow. He winced as her fingers accidently brushed against the huge swelling below one eye.
"I suppose it could have been worse," Belle muttered, surveying the damage.
"Much worse. You saved my life tonight, Angel. Where did you ever learn to wield a sword like that?"
"From Jean-Claude's old sword master. Jean-Claude had not much employment for the man, so I persuaded him to give me lessons to pass the time—" Belle broke off, annoyed with herself for nearly admitting she had oft found life at Egremont a little boring.
"Now, stop talking and hold still," she snapped. Now that the danger was past, a cold anger took possession of her. Sinclair had jeopardized everything, getting involved in a fight in a brothel like some drunken sailor on shore leave. Why, she wanted to know? What had it all been about?
"As soon as I have attended to this wound, we have a great deal to discuss, Mr. Carrington."
"Yes, I fear we do." He sighed, closing his eyes.
Belle drew back, regarding his cut and the bloodied cloth in her hand with some frustration. "I cannot seem to get the blasted thing to stop bleeding."
"There is some sticking plaster in my room," Sinclair said. "In the wardrobe."
"I will go fetch it. You just lie still and don't move." She left the room, striding into Sinclair's adjoining chamber. She pulled a face. As always, it was a mess, perhaps now even worse than usual. When he had returned from the fight, the first thing Sinclair had done was strip off his bloodied cloak and waistcoat, adding them to the heap.
After a lengthy search she found the sticking plaster. But hastening toward the door, she tripped over something and nearly sprawled headlong. As it was, she banged her elbow on Sinclair's bedpost.
Straightening, she cursed and moved to kick the object that had caused her fall out of the way. Sinclair's blasted umbrella! Her lips curved into a wry smile as she conjured up a mental image of herself, how ridiculous she must have looked earlier, seeking a swordstick where there was none.
Bending down, she retrieved the umbrella, intending to toss it upon the table with Sinclair's shaving gear, where it could do no further harm. She noticed the bone handle had been cracked in the fight. When touched, it came off in her hand. Strange, but the interior appeared almost hollow, like a place of concealment. When she tipped it up to examine it, a piece of paper dropped to the floor.
Belle felt a surge of annoyance with Sinclair. She had made it clear that she wanted nothing written down, no matter how clever the place of concealment. What sort of damaging evidence had he felt the need to commit to paper?
She scanned the paper briefly, but frowned. It had nothing to do with their mission. Rather it was some brief notes, a list of all the names of those who worked for Victor Merchant.
A prickling of uneasiness coursed through her. Why would Sinclair have something like this hidden away?
She studied the list more closely. Lazare's name was scrawled at the end, like a hurried addition. More interesting still, Laurent Coterin and old Feydeau's names had been crossed off. None of the others bore any special notations except for her own, which had been underlined with a question mark placed beside it.
Her heart gave an uneasy thud. The men's names who were crossed off were dead, had both met their ends in a fairly violent manner. The lines through the names only added to the sensation that it was as if as if they had been eliminated. Belle ran a hand over her brow. What could it all mean? A daunting suspicion occurred to her. She tried to shut it out, but couldn't quite manage it. A montage of scenes whirled through her brain: Sinclair's ever-present reluctance about this mission, his joining the society out of nowhere, his reticence about his past, his inexplicable knowledge about Feydeau's death. Then there was the mysterious man who had approached Sinclair at Bonaparte's review.
Belle sagged down on Sinclair's bed, wanting to fight off such disturbing thoughts. They all pointed to one thing, a most clever enemy who had infiltrated their organization with a view to destroying it from within, possibly an agent of Bonaparte himself. But why would any Englishman want to help Napoleon?
The reason most adventurers embarked upon their schemes—money. Sinclair had ever assured her he was an adventurer, no gentleman. And did that mean that Sinclair plotted her destruction as well? No, how could he after what they had shared, after telling her that he loved her?
But how could she be that naive? What better way was there for a spy to gain cooperation and information than through seduction? It was the oldest trap in the world. Until now she had ever been too canny to fall into it.
Yet no lover had ever so been as skillful as Sinclair, the caress of his eyes, that look of soul-deep understanding even more potent than the magic of his body. She had always had such scorn for women who let themselves be used, taken in, wondering how they could be such fools! It seemed she was about to discover how for herself.
She stared at the question mark by her name. Was she then fated to be the next to die? The thought sent a dull lancing of pain through her. She felt so weary of this life, the constant danger, the distrust, the suspicion, so weary of struggling with it. With Sinclair she thought she had escaped much of that for a time, at least having a partner she thoroughly trusted to share it all.
Her one honest relationship, she thought with a bitter sneer. She leaned against the bedpost, feeling suddenly drained. If it w
as her life he wanted, he could have it.
The thought didn't last for long. Her survival instincts were too strong, part of her yet clinging to the belief that there had to be another explanation. She must be wrong, jumping to conclusions. But she could take no chances with such a risky mission in the balance and other lives dependent upon her own.
Wearily she trudged back to her room, deciding what she had to do. She needed to know the truth about Sinclair and she needed to know it now, no matter how ruthless the measures it took to gain it.
Sinclair allowed his throbbing head to pillow against the cushions, wincing at the pain shooting through his rib cage when he moved too suddenly. He felt as though he had been dragged on a hurdle, yet he could not afford to pamper his much battered body too much longer. The fact remained that he had allowed Paulette to escape.
What was the wench doing now? Would she make all haste to get her message to Bonaparte, or would she panic and flee? Either way he had to warn Belle. Likely, they might all have to flee Paris tonight.
He heard the door open when Belle returned to the room, but his eyelids felt too weighted to open.
"Angel?" he called.
"I shall be right with you," she said. He heard her rustling about the chamber, the sound of a drawer sliding open. Sinclair did not relish the upcoming confrontation with Belle when she had believed in his honesty. How would she react to his deceit, the destruction of the plan she seemed to so cherish?
Already he could imagine what she must be thinking at discovering he had slipped off to a brothel. Her silence seemed to send a chill through the room.
"Angel?" he called again. "Did you find the sticking plaster?"
He received no answer. He didn't know how, but he sensed her standing over him.
He flicked his eyes open.
She appeared no ministering angel this time. With a hard light in those blue eyes, she towered over him, aiming a pistol straight at his heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Belle watched Sinclair's eyes widen in astonishment. Even as his gaze fixed upon the pistol, he registered not so much alarm as confusion, a half-amused uncertainty.