Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  Sinclair said nothing, but watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, apparently as amused by her defiance as he had been by Quentin's furtiveness. Belle did not care. She was in no humor for any of Quentin's game playing.

  The chamber now ablaze with light, Belle took full stock of her surroundings. This Madame Dumont had not fled France so much as brought it with her. The chamber appeared much like dozens of elegant salons she had visited as Jean-Claude's bride.

  The high walls had been left tastefully plain to provide an unobtrusive background for the elaborate gilt furnishings, the patterned Savonnerie carpet. All but forgetting Sinclair's presence, Belle began to stroll about the room, examining each object with wonder—the pendulum clock with its face set in Roman numerals, the torchere holding a vase of fading roses, the painted ecran that screened the fireplace.

  Above the mantel hung a three-quarter-length portrait of the late king, Louis XVI. He looked somehow ill at ease in his robes, but the artist had captured Louis's aura of gentle patience, the expression that Belle remembered so well from when the monarch had been trundled forth to meet his death upon the guillotine.

  She averted her eyes, not wanting to explore that memory any further. To the left of the fireplace stood a console table, its polished surface laden with small treasures. Thanks to Jean-Claude's tutelage, Belle could identify most of them—a Sevres figurine of Cupid and Psyche; a snuff box, likely Vincennes, the enamel lid decorated with a scene from Italian comedy; a pastille burner of glazed white porcelain from the workshops of Saint-Cloud.

  Belle touched this last with reverent fingers. She and Jean-Claude had had one nearly like it in their rooms in Paris. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over her. Although scarce suited to Jean-Claude's station in life, Belle had loved that tiny cramped apartment. Of course, by the time Jean-Claude had come to Paris as a delegate to the revolutionary convention, they had no longer been the Comte and Comtesse de Egremont. Just plain Citizen and Citizeness Varens, having prudently dropped the de from their name. It had not been wise to flaunt aristocratic origins before the volatile Parisian mobs.

  But Belle had preferred it that way. She had never been comfortable being the comtesse, tiptoeing through the vast cold rooms of Jean-Claude's château, the portraits of his dour ancestors seeming to glower at her with disapproval. She had always imagined that those noble forebears peering out of their gilt frames had guessed her secret long before Jean-Claude, that they knew she had no right to be within the halls of Egremont, polluting that hallowed ground with her commoner's blood, she, the illegitimate daughter of a second-rate actress from Drury Lane.

  Lost in her memories, Belle did not notice that Sinclair had also begun to stroll about, examining the salon, but from a far different perspective. He had not her eyes for French antiques or objets d'art, but he recognized the trappings of wealth when he saw them. Apparently this Madame Dumont had fled France with her pockets better lined than most emigres. It was therefore possible, then, that she and not Napoleon could be the source of Victor Merchant's unexplained funds. A wealthy royalist patroness would certainly make Merchant a less likely candidate to be Bonaparte's spy.

  But what of Isabelle Varens? Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, lingering by the console table, one finger tracing the pattern of the white porcelain. Her eyes almost luminous, she seemed to have retreated to some world of her own dreamings. A not entirely happy world, to judge from her expression. Her features were shadowed with grief, the set of her mouth soft and vulnerable.

  Once more she roused in him that inexplicable urge to enfold her in his arms, pull her out of that dark, cold world with his embrace. He took a step toward her and then checked himself. He had vowed to himself on the way here tonight that he would maintain an objective attitude toward Isabelle, keep his desires under more rigid control. That vow had almost gone straight out the window with his first sight of her slipping into the garden. Sinclair was not often given to flights of fancy, but with a halo of moonlight rimming her fine gold hair, her pearly-hued skin almost translucent, she had indeed seemed like some angel sent to earth to dazzle the eyes of mortal man. Except that beneath her cloak, he had caught glimpses of the tantalizing swell of her breasts, the full curve of her hips, reminding him that she was very much a woman, vibrant and alive. It had been damned hard to apologize to the lady for kissing her when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and make a more thorough job of it. And for a brief moment he had thought she was equally as willing.

  Ruefully Sinclair raked his hands through his hair. Such thoughts as these could scarcely be construed as objective. He tried again, this time stalking toward the long windows, deliberately putting the length of the room between himself and Isabelle. Lost in her own musings, she seemed oblivious to his movements, continuing to caress the china.

  Fact one, Sinclair told himself, the lady apparently had a taste for the finer things, a very expensive taste. Fact two, she had told him herself this afternoon that she was only involved in all this for the money. With an attitude like that, she might not be particular where her funds came from, Victor Merchant or Bonaparte.

  And yet- Sinclair frowned. That theory didn't agree with what Crawley had told him earlier. On the way to the inn Sinclair had had to listen to a long diatribe concerning how Isabelle Varens had abandoned her mission to rescue the penniless family of a fellow agent recently caught and executed. That didn’t seem like the action of a mercenary woman.

  There was only one way to learn the truth, and that was to continue to work with her, get to know her better. Remembering how skilled she was at closing herself off, it didn't promise to be an easy task. Yet it could be an all too pleasant one. In spite of himself, his thoughts focused once more on her lips, so soft and yielding, the way her gown clung—

  Damn! He was doing it again. Sinclair swore at the familiar stirring in his loins. What he needed was a good blast of cool air to bring him to his senses. Moving toward the velvet draperies to undo the last of Crawley's careful arrangements, Sinclair stopped when he heard the door click open. He turned to face the threshold at the same time Belle snapped out of her reverie and also glanced in that direction.

  A stocky middle-aged man garbed simply in drab breeches and frock coat strode into the salon and closed the door behind him. Victor Merchant's collar was fashioned of black velvet, a sign of perpetual mourning for his executed king.

  Sinclair felt no more impressed by the man's appearance than he had been on the occasion of their previous meeting in London when Sinclair had been accepted as a member of Merchant's society. There was a coldness in Merchant's demeanor, a stiffness in his carriage that reminded Sinclair too much of his own father, although the Frenchman lacked the handsomeness that distinguished General Daniel Carr. Merchant was thick-necked, his complexion pasty white, and his right eye was fractionally higher than his left, giving him the impression of being dull-witted. Yet Sinclair had already surmised this was far from the case. Behind that unprepossessing exterior lurked a most calculating intelligence.

  "Good evening, Monsieur Carrington. Madame Varens," Merchant said in his usual laconic tones.

  "Good evening." Sinclair stepped forward offering his hand. Merchant ignored it, moving past him. Rather nonplussed, Sinclair lowered his arm, but Belle did not look in the least surprised by Merchant's rudeness. She must have expected it, for Sinclair noted she made no move to greet Merchant herself, but merely watched in wary silence as Victor selected his seat.

  He chose that fancy painted affair that Crawley had fussed with earlier. Lowering himself into the fragile gilt armchair, Merchant sat ramrod stiff.

  "Be seated," he commanded Sinclair and Belle, adding "please" as almost a reluctant afterthought.

  Her head arched high, Belle arranged herself gracefully opposite Merchant upon a gilt-trimmed banquette. Although Sinclair settled in beside her, he could not have imagined anything more uncomfortable than this hard-cushioned bench without arms or back.

&nb
sp; Silence settled over the room, unbroken except for the ticking of the pendulum clock. Sinclair sensed that Merchant maintained this rigid quiet on purpose, as though trying to make them nervous. His demeanor reminded Sinclair of the times he had been called in to face the headmaster at Eton after one of his pranks and had been kept waiting on tenterhooks to see if he would be sent down. Gradually, however, Sinclair realized Merchant's tactics were aimed at Belle rather than himself. It was she at whom Merchant stared. She seemed unperturbed by his scrutiny except for a certain belligerent tilt to her chin.

  "It was good of you to wait upon me at this hour," Merchant said at last.

  "You sent Crawley to tell us our presence was commanded here tonight," Belle said, a hint of mockery in her voice. "Don't I always make haste to carry out your orders?"

  "Do you?" Merchant asked. "Then give me what I sent you to France to obtain. The listing of the number and type of boats being constructed at Boulogne."

  He extended one hand, palm upward toward Belle. His fingers were white and puffy and put Sinclair in mind of the bloated flesh of a drowned man he'd once seen dragged from the Thames. He felt Belle tense beside him.

  "You know full well I haven't got any list for you."

  "Oh?" Merchant's fingers curled slowly as he withdrew his hand. "So devoted as you are to carrying out my orders, I wonder what important task caused you turn aside from your mission."

  "I am sure by now you know that, too."

  If possible, Merchant's expression grew colder. "So I do. But I admit that I am at a loss to account for your behavior. How do I write to His Majesty Louis XVIII where he awaits in exile and tell him that the cause for reclaiming his throne must perforce be delayed longer because one of my agents thought the lives of an insignificant widow and her brats of more value?"

  Anger sparked inside of Sinclair, which he suppressed with difficulty. It would not help him achieve his own ends if he antagonized Merchant. Besides, there was no need for him to rise to Belle's defense. She managed quite ably on her own. Although she flushed, her voice remained level. "I am sure you will find some way to explain it all to His Majesty, Victor. But when you are writing, you might just drop Louis a hint that he does his cause no good by publishing threats of what he intends to do to the revolutionaries if he regains his power."

  A trace of real emotion flickered in Merchant's dull eyes, an almost fanatical gleam. "His majesty does right to warn the vermin." Victor gestured to the portrait of Louis XVI above the mantel.

  "Think you that the king will allow his brother's death to go unavenged or the countless numbers of our noble brethren who were butchered by the peasants?" Merchant's fist crashed down upon the delicate arm of his chair. "Non, I tell you there will be a new Reign of Terror in Paris one day. But this time it will be the blood of the canaille that will flow through the streets."

  Belle shot to her feet. "If I thought you and your precious king had any chance of resurrecting that violence, I would not lift one finger to help you. I would walk out that door right now."

  Sinclair had conceived a marked dislike of Merchant himself in the past few minutes. He would have been happy to offer Belle his escort from this place, but he had his own mission to think of. Standing up, he laid one hand soothingly upon Belle's arm.

  To Merchant he said, "I didn't think you had gathered us here tonight to rake over the past or to speculate about the future. I was under the impression you have some important task for us to undertake."

  Merchant's impassioned expression faded. "So I do. If Madame. Varens could control her temper long enough to hear me out."

  Sinclair shifted his attention to Belle. Her eyes were still stormy. He held her gaze until he felt her relaxing beneath his touch. She expelled her breath in a long sigh, then wrenched free of him, resuming her seat. Sinclair followed suit.

  Another nerve-racking silence ensued, and then Merchant began again. "Before Madame Varens's unfortunate outburst, I had been about to assure her that I am willing to overlook her recent flouting of my orders and give her one more chance."

  "How magnanimous of you, Victor."

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Merchant went on, "But this time have a care, Madame Varens. The assignment I am about to give you is more dangerous, more difficult than any you have ever received If you should be seized by one of your whims again, you will put not only your own life at risk but Monsieur Carrington's as well."

  "That's a comforting thought," Sinclair muttered.

  Belle stirred restlessly. "Enough of these preliminaries. You are growing as tiresome as Quentin Crawley. Out with it, Victor. What do you want us to do, and how much do you intend to pay?"

  Merchant leveled her a stony stare. He did not seem about to be hurried. He moved his head slightly, for the first time making an effort to include Sinclair in the discussion as well.

  "I trust that both of you have heard of General Bonaparte?"

  "His name has cropped up in conversation from time to time," Sinclair said. He was pleased to see that his dry remark nearly succeeded in coaxing a smile from the yet truculent Isabelle.

  "Bonaparte assumed control of the French government in 1799," Merchant continued tonelessly. "For a time Napoleon held out the hope that he could be persuaded to use his power to restore King Louis to his throne. But we were misled. This summer Bonaparte had himself named consul for life, set himself up as the uncrowned king of France. This cannot be tolerated."

  "We know all that," Belle broke in impatiently. "Exactly what you do want me and Mr. Carrington to do?"

  "I thought I was making myself perfectly clear." Victor leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his chest. His eyes glittered coldly.

  "I want you to abduct Napoleon Bonaparte."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stunned silence settled over the salon, only to be broken by Sinclair's peal of incredulous laughter. But Belle was not even tempted to smile. Her earlier premonitions had proved quite correct. The meeting at Mal du Coeur had taken an extraordinary turn.

  Sinclair's laughter abruptly died. "You must be jesting, Merchant, or else you are stark raving mad."

  "I assure you, sir," Victor said coldly. "I am neither."

  Sinclair regarded him with derision. "Why don't you simply ask us to abduct the Pope while we're about it or the tsar of Russia?"

  "Neither the Pope nor the tsar interests me. They do not control the government of France." Merchant's gaze flicked to Belle. "You are strangely silent for once, Madame Varens. Are you also shocked by my request? Do you think the task as impossible as Monsieur. Carrington appears to do?"

  "Not impossible," Belle said. "But extremely difficult."

  “Difficult?" Sinclair snorted.

  "Your reward, of course, would be generous," Merchant said, "commensurate with the risk." The fee that he named caused Belle's eyes to widen. Such a sum could go a long way to securing her future—a respectable future far removed from the uncertainties of her present life. But when she considered what she must do to earn it, she slowly shook her head.

  "It would mean returning to Paris." She could already feel the cold sensation of dread creeping into her veins. “I have not worked in the city for many years."

  "Yet you still have contacts there. It is my understanding that you and Baptiste Renault once possessed a certain expertise for smuggling people out of the city."

  "That was different. The people we smuggled were all willing to go. But abduction—" She broke off with a frown. She had never met Napoleon Bonaparte. There was no reason for her to be concerned about the man, but there was no reason to wish him harm, either.

  "What would happen to General Bonaparte if we succeeded?" she asked.

  "He would be kept here at Mal du Coeur in comfortable captivity. But with him gone, the government in Paris would be in a state of chaos and—"

  "Hold! Just one moment if you please." Sinclair caught Belle by the arm and tugged her to face him. His brows drew together in a stern expression. "Isabell
e! You are not seriously considering this outrageous proposal?"

  "Perhaps," she said. "Is there any reason why I should not?"

  "Yes, a good many reasons, the foremost one being, even granted that this crazed assignment could be brought off, it would be far too dangerous for a-"

  Sinclair stopped short, apparently thinking better of what he had been about to say.

  "Too dangerous for whom, Mr. Carrington?" Belle asked, her voice deceptively calm. "For a woman?"

  Sinclair gave an uneasy smile. He relaxed his grip upon her shoulder and allowed his fingers to trail down her arm until he captured her hand. "No, I didn't mean that precisely. It is only that I doubt General Bonaparte will cheerfully acquiesce to Merchant's plans for him. Neither will the consular guard that attends him. More than likely there will be some fighting, bloodshed. You would be pitch-forked into all manner of situations unfit for . . . for a lady."

  Belle drew in a sharp breath. That was the sort of remark that might have come from the starry-eyed Philippe Coterin, and yes, of course from her beloved Jean-Claude. Why had she expected a little more perception from Sinclair Carrington? Belle was surprised to feel her throat constrict with disappointment.

  "I am not a lady." She wrenched her hand free of Sinclair and then turned toward Victor. She had the fleeting impression that Merchant had been watching the exchange between herself and Sinclair with all the calculated patience of a cat at a mousehole. But Belle was feeling too annoyed with Sinclair to heed much of anything else. His attempted interference helped her to reach a decision.

  "Obviously Mr. Carrington has not the stomach for your proposal, Victor," she said. "But I accept the assignment." She angled a defiant glance at Sinclair. "Tell your friend, Madame Dumont, to prepare some chambers for General Bonaparte. She will be acquiring a reluctant houseguest before Christmas."