But where were Belle and Lazare now? Despite the fading light in the apartment, he could see that he had been left alone. Dimly he recalled the shadowy figures, the voices that had seemed to be part of a dream.
"The first consul does not like to be kept waiting."
No, that had been no dream. Lazare had said that. He was forcing Belle to keep that appointment at the theater. The man had invested far too much in his plan to give up now. And Belle had no idea of what awaited her.
How long had they been gone? Sinclair strained backward, his gaze flashing up toward the window. Even through the dingy panes, he could see twilight settling over the city. Raw panic threatened to consume him.
Yet he could not afford to panic. Forcing himself to remain calm, he tested his bonds. Tight, he thought, but not impossible, and the gag already felt a little loose. Given time, he was sure he could free himself. But time was in precious short supply. Sweat beading his forehead, Sinclair set to work.
The fiacre lurched through the darkened streets, the seats creaking out a rhythm that rasped at Belle's already raw nerves. She faced Lazare across the ancient cab's shadowy interior. He held the pistol negligently, no longer guarding her with such care. But he did not need to. She had no intention of trying to escape until she obtained an answer to the question tormenting her.
"What do you know of Jean-Claude?" she demanded again.
Lazare merely smiled. "Poor Isabelle. Tell me, Do you still have those dreadful nightmares? The ones about returning to the Conciergerie, about Jean-Claude parting with his head in the company of Madame Guillotine?"
Belle strove not to reveal how his words startled her. How could Lazare possibly know about her nightmares? He had never been near her while she slept except—except, she realized with a jolt, that time he had nursed her through her delirium. Dear God, what weaknesses had she inadvertently revealed to this madman, and what use did he intend to make of them?
He leaned back against the seat, balancing the pistol upon his knee. His soft laugh chilled her blood. "I often wondered about this man Jean-Claude, who so haunted your dreams. I rather hoped to meet him one day. I finally had my chance in London last summer. It was most enlightening. We became close companions."
"Liar," she said hotly. "The Comte de Egremont would never have anything to do with the likes of . . ." But her voice faded along with her conviction. Had she not made a similar declaration once to Sinclair? He had tried to warn her then that there might be a link between Lazare and Jean-Claude. But she had not wanted to listen.
Her mind drifted back to that afternoon with Jean-Claude, when they had walked together upon the Pont Neuf. She had sensed then he might be in some sort of trouble, or may have fallen under the influence of some intriguer. The possibility that it was Lazare made her blood run cold.
"So you met Jean-Claude by chance," she asked, trying to make some sense of all this.
"Not by chance, by design. Once I knew of his existence, I took great pains to track him down."
She did not need to ask Lazare why. The answer was obvious in the way he deliberately tipped his head so that moonlight filtering through the coach window played across his scar, reminding her, ever reminding her. So he did want his vengeance, had come for it at last, striking at her in a way she would never have expected.
"Where is Jean-Claude now?" she demanded hoarsely. "Have you seen him? Have you done something to him?"
"Not at all." Lazare's feigned expression of innocence mocked her. "The noble comte is most hale, and as to where, you know he is right here in Paris. Have you not enjoyed seeing him again? You have me to thank for that. It was I who convinced him to return to France, that only he can be the avenger, the restorer of the French people."
"What lies have you been telling him?" Belle cried.
"Only what he wanted to hear. I discovered a long time ago, you can inspire people to do the most incredible feats, even against their own nature, by simply telling them what they want to hear."
Belle drew in a shuddery breath. She could bear no more of Lazare’s taunts, the hints of some dark plot unfolding just beyond her comprehension. Damn the villain! She would force the truth from him.
With a quick movement she lunged for his pistol, but Lazare was quicker still. He had not lowered his guard as much as she had thought. Once more he snatched up the weapon, holding it inches from her eyes, forcing her back.
"I think not, Isabelle," he said. “We will see my little game through to the end. Who knows? You may guess the solution in time and thwart me yet."
At that moment the fiacre jerked to a halt. Belle's heart pounded with dread as she realized they had drawn up outside the theater, the dark street that stretched before it bobbing with lantern bearers escorting pedestrians to the door. Other coaches rattled past theirs, disgorging their occupants.
"We have arrived in good time," Lazare said. "Soon the performance begins."
She feared he did not mean what would happen on stage. She tried one last desperate gambit. "You know Crecy's men will not be here. I told Marcellus not to proceed with anything until he heard from me."
"We will not need them. I have made my own arrangements."
"But we have no carriage. How will we manage the abduction and our escape?"
Lazare's only answer was his devil's smile. She knew in that instant that whatever took place here tonight, escape formed no part of Lazare's plans for her.
Whatever hellish plot he was weaving, maybe she could best put a stop to it by refusing to enter the theater. Let him shoot her if he would. It would be better than this tormenting uncertainty. Yet she thought of Sinclair, captive in Lazare's lodgings, and Jean-Claude, also in danger, but in what manner she did not know. Possibly the survival of both men depended upon herself.
"That is right, Isabelle." With what uncanny ease Lazare seemed able to read her mind. "Think about the men you love. The question is which do you love the more? If you could save only one, I wonder which you would choose."
She cast him a glare filled with loathing, but his taunting words fired her determination. She would never have such a choice forced upon her. She would cut through this dark web of Lazare's weaving, save both Sinclair and Jean-Claude, see Lazare in hell.
She pushed open the door to the fiacre herself, leaping down. Lazare followed close behind. The cool night breeze felt bracing against her heated cheeks. She hoped it would help to clear her mind, help her to think.
Some sort of bizarre trap awaited her within the confines of that theater, she was certain, something that involved Jean-Claude. Yet she saw no other course than to see this nightmare through. Her head whirled, her fears as intangible as phantoms in the dark, the truth of this situation eluding her like a nagging puzzle whose solution is obvious at once when it is revealed, but always too late.
As they approached the theater doors, observing the other silk-clad women, an absurd thought flitted into Belle's mind.
"I am not dressed for this," she said, gesturing to her plain gray woolen gown. "The first consul will be less than charmed."
"I am sure he will find, as so many men do, that your beauty needs no silken trappings." Lazare's cold fingers stroked her cheek. "Your unblemished beauty."
She felt his suppressed quiver of rage, the hatred long held in check. It would be so easy to goad him to violence, finish this right here and now. But that would not tell her what the man plotted.
Suppressing a shudder at his touch, she preceded him into the brightly lit theater salon. All around them gaiety and laughter spilled forth, jewels and silks mingling with the coarse dress of the common man. Everyone anticipated the play, taking no notice of lesser drama in their midst. Lazare had the pistol concealed beneath his cloak, but he no longer had need of it to control her.
He whispered in her ear, "We must separate now, Isabelle. I will watch until you enter the box. Then I will be below you in the pit. My eyes will be upon your every move. One false start, one hint of anything strange, a
nd remember I can find my way back to Carrington much faster than you can."
She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She stalked away toward the door to the box where she knew the first consul awaited her.
As she slipped inside, she cherished the wild hope that perhaps Bonaparte would fail to come. It would make this tense situation so much easier.
But he was there. He arose from his seat at her approach. He was garbed simply in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. Here in the shadows of the box, she doubted if many in the theater were even aware of the first consul's presence.
His greeting smile was stiff. "You are late, madame. I had begun to fear you meant to disappoint me."
Belle took a deep breath, hoping her nervousness did not show. Never had she felt less capable of coolly playing out a role. "I beg your pardon, sir. I have never been very punctual."
"Like most women. Yet why did I have a feeling you would prove different?" He stared at her. Was it her imagination that he looked at her differently than he had at their first meeting? He appeared to have taken no notice how she looked, yet she knew she must appear an astonishing sight. She could feel disheveled wisps of her hair clinging to her cheeks. She knew she must be pale. Did her eyes reveal her desperation?
His own gray ones appeared too shrewd, not quite as warm as she remembered, even perhaps a little wary.
No, it must all be attributed to her own nervousness, for he stepped closer. Carrying her hand to his lips, he said, "You need not look so worried. I will not have you shot."
Belle jerked away, unable to conceal the tremor that coursed through her at his words. "What?"
"For being late." He arched one brow. "I am only teasing you." His voice gentled somewhat. "Do I frighten you? I assure you I hold nothing but admiration for you."
His hands reached up to help her off with her cloak. Belle struggled to find some measure of her old composure. When she saw him stare at her gown, she said hastily, "You must forgive my appearance, sir. It was most difficult to escape here tonight without arousing my husband's suspicion. He is a most jealous man."
"You must not apologize. You look lovely." He held out the chair himself for her to sit down. Belle started to ease herself down when he added, "Quite like an angel."
She froze, her startled gaze flying back at him. It seemed even the most innocent remarks were flinging her off balance tonight, but Bonaparte had clearly meant nothing other than a compliment. His smile disarmed her.
She was beset by a sudden urge to confide in him. But what would she say? "I beg your pardon, sir. I meant to abduct you tonight, but I would as soon call the whole thing off since one of my fellow conspirators has run mad."
The thought nearly caused her to break into hysterical laughter. Instead, she turned to stare into the theater. Bonaparte offered her the use of his opera glass. She accepted it, pleased to note that her hand was somewhat steadier.
The box she shared with Bonaparte was the closest to the right side of the stage. She had but to reach out and she could have touched the heavy velvet curtain. It afforded her an excellent vantage point of the rest of the theater. The blazing chandeliers lit the interior as bright as the day. Although the occupants of most of the boxes were lost in shadow, Belle could make out clearly the faces of those filing in to fill the benches of the pit.
Lazare had ensconced himself in the first row; directly behind the orchestra pit. She could see quite clearly that his gaze was not trained upon the stage but directed toward where she sat.
Hastily she began to inspect the other seats, fearing she would find Jean-Claude present. The vague idea occurred to her that Lazare's revenge might well consist of a scheme to abduct Napoleon himself and see that both she and Jean-Claude were implicated, left to the mercy of the mob. Yet she did not quite see how Lazare could carry out such a plan. In any event, Jean-Claude was not present. She scarce knew whether to find that a cause for relief or not.
She tensed when she did spy a familiar face near the last row of the pit. Baptiste. Her heart sank. He must have never seen her note warning him not to go to the theater. He had assumed his place, faithfully preparing to enact his part in stirring up the riot, believing that all was going according to plan, and she had no way to let him know any different.
Belle saw only one course open to her. If Jean-Claude did not put in an appearance, she would act. When the riot did begin, the theater would be in a state of confusion. She might be able to slip away, alert Baptiste, and the two of them exit the theater before Lazare could get out.
Vaguely she became aware that Bonaparte addressed her. "I despise comedy," he said. "Tragedy is the only true art. Do you not agree, madame?"
She hardly knew what she replied, nervously rubbing her hands together. Something crinkled beneath the fabric of her gown, and it was then she remembered the note she had stuffed up her sleeve.
She cherished little hope that it might be of any use to her, but as the curtain parted and the stage claimed Bonaparte's full attention, she drew out the note to examine it.
It was difficult to make out the words, but she recognized it as Lazare's handwriting at once, laboriously crude. It appeared to be a message Lazare had begun to Merchant.
“When you read this, you will know your orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of Carrington.
Belle sucked in her breath. Merchant had ordered Sinclair's death before they ever left England. She strained to see the rest of the writing.
“And tonight will see the end of the business, Isabelle Varens arrested, Paris in chaos, and Bonaparte . . .
Belle gasped, the last words blurring before her eyes. She nearly dropped the paper.
Bonaparte dead.
The plot flashed into place for her with alarming clarity. This was no abduction she had arranged for tonight, but an assassination that had been planned all along by Lazare and Victor Merchant, knowing she would never consent to commit murder. They had effectively used her as their tool, their dupe.
Belle's gaze flickered frantically to the man at her side. Bonaparte leaned forward in his seat, his gaze rapt upon the stage, oblivious to the danger. Lazare had to be the assassin. And he would act, she felt sure, when the riot began. But how had he planned to involve Jean-Claude, or had Lazare only held out such a possibility to torment her?
Belle focused on the stage, realizing they were nearing the point when Monsieur Georges would be expected to make his entrance. As soon as the wrong actor appeared on stage, the uproar would start.
Yes, there he was. The male lead strode out, his nervousness apparent even beneath the elaborate powdered wig and layer of white and red lead paint coating his cheeks. Already the hisses had begun as some of the audience realized the substitution. Lazare said nothing, but Baptiste, on cue, shouted out, "Bah! We did not pay to see this clown. Does the manager think to cheat us?”
As the rumblings in the theater grew, Belle saw Lazare start to rise. No matter what the cost, she had to do something. She could not sit by and see murder done.
She grasped Napoleon by the elbow. "Your Excellency. You are in danger. You must—"
But he shook her off impatiently, staring at the stage with a frown. "What is going on? I know that man. He is no actor,"
"Please," Belle said.
"It is, I think- yes, it is the Comte de Egremont."
"What!" Belle whipped toward the stage as she too stared at the fake actor. It took her stunned eyes but a moment to recognize Jean-Claude clearly outlined in the glow of the candles that composed the footlights.
As though in some horrible dream, she watched him pace toward the end of the stage, so close to their box she could tell that his eyes glittered like pieces of glass. He reached beneath the dark purple cloak of his costume and drew forth a pistol.
"No! Jean-Claude, no!” But her cry was lost in the din.
The hubbub of excited and angry voices in the theater sounded in Belle's ears like a dull roar. The stage, the lights, the actor
s all became a blur of color. Belle saw no one but Jean-Claude leveling his pistol at Bonaparte. The first consul met the prospect of death unflinching, staring deep into Jean-Claude's face, his expression slightly contemptuous.
They seemed frozen in this horrible tableau, time itself having come to a standstill. Jean-Claude blinked, his hand beginning to tremble.
"Fire! Damn you!" Belle heard Lazare's enraged scream.
Jean-Claude braced his arm, but he could not stop the shaking. Sweat trickled down his brow, and with a strangled sob he lowered the weapon.
Belle sagged back in her seat with relief. But the next instant she saw Lazare. She knew not how he had managed to clamber past the orchestra pit or gain the stage so swiftly. With a bellow of rage, he leaped at Jean-Claude, wrestling the pistol from his grasp.
With a hate-filled snarl, Lazare whirled to fire into the box, but Belle found herself released from the daze that had taken possession of her. She dove at Bonaparte, carrying him, chair and all, to the floor of the box. The sound of the pistol shot blazed above their heads.
A moment of breathless silence descended over the theater, then the voices that had seemed so distant crashed over Belle. She could hear screams and curses as total confusion erupted upon the stage and the pit below.
Glancing up, she met Napoleon's gaze. Their eyes locked for a second, and she felt as though he read the entire contents of her mind.
But he said nothing as he struggled to his feet, helping her to do the same. Upon the stage she saw no sign of Lazare but at that moment a familiar figure emerged from the wings.
Sinclair. A glad cry choked her. Somehow it did not astonish her to see him. He charged across the stage, trying to reach her through the mill of terrified actors who gaped at Jean-Claude.
The comte stood immobile, staring off into the lights, seeming oblivious to the storm erupting around him.