Rendezvous (9781301288946)

  Sinclair's hands came up in a frustrated gesture as though he wanted to shake her. He slapped his palms against his knees and swore, then thrust himself to his feet and stalked over to stand by the fireplace, turning his back on her.

  Victor's lips parted in a thin smile. "Your decision pleases me, Madame Varens. But I expected no less from you. You never have been one to back down from a challenge.

  Even this rare compliment from Victor did little to soothe Belle's agitation. Without looking at Sinclair, she could feel the full weight of his disapproval. Damn the man, anyway. What concern was it of his how she risked her neck? He could not possibly care what became of her, not on such short acquaintance.

  "I am sorry that Monsieur Carrington cannot see his way clear to participate," Merchant continued. "I had hoped you both would accept the assignment."

  "I don't need him," Belle said. "I can manage the arrangements on my own, as I have always done."

  "Both of you march a damn sight too fast," Sinclair interrupted. "I never said I refused."

  Victor and Belle both turned to look at him, Merchant's expression inscrutable, Belle, hostile, although a certain amount of confusion crept into her eyes.

  Small wonder if she was a trifle bewildered, Sinclair thought. He was having difficulty understanding his own reaction to Belle's wanting to undertake this mission. Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension cording his muscles, Sinclair said, "I don't leap to these momentous decisions as quickly as Mrs. Varens. I need a little more time to think."

  "Take what time you need, Monsieur Carrington," Merchant said. "If your decision is negative, I will understand. No one will question your courage, nor constrain you against your will. You will be under no further obligations to our society."

  In other words, if he refused, he would be cast out on his ear. And after several months' work of carefully insinuating himself into Merchant's organization! Damn. Neither he nor the British army had ever anticipated anything like this. It was assumed he would be given some mission like intercepting diplomatic dispatches, or a bit of eavesdropping in government circles, nothing this dangerous.

  But who was he trying to fool? It was not his own danger that concerned him, but hers. From the time Belle had showed any interest in the operation at all, he had been shot through with alarm. His chief concern had become to keep her out of it. He did not know where the devil this protective impulse had sprung from, never having been troubled by any Sir Galahad notions before. And with Belle of all women! He had sensed even before opening his mouth how she would receive his sudden burst of chivalry. She would be bound to resent it, as indeed she had.

  His entire behavior was so blasted illogical. She obviously knew how to take care of herself. She would not have survived as a spy this long if she didn't. Instead of acting like such a fool, he should be glad she had taken this assignment, for it was surely a sign of her innocence. If she were Bonaparte's agent, she would hardly consent to kidnap the man.

  And yet if Isabelle was the counteragent, would she not more likely go along with the plan, then take steps to thwart it after they arrived in Paris? If that was the case, any agent involved with her in the scheme would be heading for a trap. Sinclair's hand crept involuntarily to his throat as though he could feel a noose tightening, or more accurately the steely edge of a blade spattering his blood. The French weren't as tidy about such things as the English.

  Sinclair paused in his pacing to stare at Isabelle. Her lovely profile might well have been carved of marble for all it told him. He could not help remembering how upset she had been when Victor had talked of the French king returning, the killing of the revolutionaries.

  It could be she just despises violence, Sinclair argued with himself. She's a sensitive woman. She could merely be—he checked himself in mid-thought, suddenly realizing what he was doing—making excuses, finding reasons why Isabelle Varens could not be Bonaparte's spy.

  It's because you don't want it to be her, his mind jeered at him. The woman has seduced you already and you've scarce laid a finger on her. Much as he wanted to deny it, he knew his emotions were already hopelessly entangled. If he had any good sense at all, he would walk away from this, let the army find some other way to ferret out the spy.

  But as his gaze settled upon Belle, he exuded a long sigh. What had good sense ever profited a man anyway, except the right to live to a dreary old age?

  "I'm in," Sinclair said brusquely. "Whether Mrs. Varens likes it or not, she has a partner."

  Belle's head snapped up at his announcement. She looked at him and their eyes met. For long moments it seemed to Sinclair that he and Belle searched each other for a glimpse of the heart each knew how to hide so well. That glimpse, he thought, seemed to elude Belle for the present as well as himself. She was the first to look away.

  Sinclair expected that she might choose now to make good on her previous threat, to tell Merchant that she flatly refused to work with Sinclair. Instead, she smoothed out her skirts, saying in a voice of acid sweetness, "Now that it has taken the cautious Mr. Carrington a full five minutes longer than me to make up his mind, perhaps we can get on with the rest of this meeting."

  "Certainly," Merchant said. He appeared more relaxed than Sinclair had ever seen him, the expression on the Frenchman's face almost smug. Sinclair supposed it was natural that Victor would feel some satisfaction at their acceptance, but the man did have other agents besides himself and Belle. Why did Merchant seem so pleased that they would be the ones to attempt this dangerous assignment?

  Merchant motioned for Sinclair to resume his seat, but Sinclair declined. He felt suddenly too restless to light anywhere, and from his vantage point by the fireplace, perhaps he could maintain a much more impartial study of Isabelle Varens.

  Merchant said, “Nothing remains but to settle a few details. First, this mission is to be kept entirely between ourselves. No one, not even any of our own agents, is to be told of it, except for those necessary to carry out the plot. The fewer who know, the less likely any chance of betrayal."

  Unless the wrong person already knows of it, Sinclair thought, his troubled gaze resting on Belle.

  "All necessary funds will be placed at your disposal," Victor continued. "The actual details of the plot I leave to you. There will be no need for contact with myself until the abduction takes place. Then send a message to alert me of your expected arrival. Use old Feydeau as your courier."

  Sinclair started at the sound of the name, banging up against the fire screen. Obviously Merchant had not yet received word about his own agent. Use old Feydeau? Not likely when the man was dead. Sinclair caught Belle staring at him and carefully composed his features so as not to betray a knowledge he would have difficulty explaining.

  While Sinclair straightened the fire screen, Merchant went on. "I won't be returning to London. My headquarters will be at Mal du Coeur until the abduction is carried out. It is here where you will bring Monsieur Bonaparte.

  "I have already sent word to Baptiste to expect our agents' arrival, telling him it would be most likely to you, Madame Varens. He will find lodgings in Paris for yourself and Monsieur Carrington." Victor droned on, offering his advice about obtaining passports, their travel arrangements, even the time of their departure.

  Belle and I might well be a newly wedded pair about to embark on our bridal trip, Sinclair thought with a sardonic lift of one brow, as commonplace as Merchant made it all seem.

  The clock chimed one just as Victor finished with his instructions. Sinclair stared in disbelief at the ticking pendulum. Had it really been only one hour since he had first entered this room, one hour in which arrangements had been made to abduct one of the most powerful men in Europe?

  The whole affair bore an aura of unreality about it as though they were all merely actors in some farfetched play. Victor ended the meeting as abruptly as he had begun, clearly expecting Sinclair and Belle to take their leave.

  As Sinclair moved forward to help Belle rearrange
the cloak about her shoulders, he studied her face for any sign that she also was having doubts about what they had undertaken. Her eyes were beclouded, subdued. If she was Bonaparte's spy, Sinclair would have liked to have thought she harbored regrets at the prospect of betraying her new partner. More than that, he would like to think she was innocent. He had always told Chuff only a fool trusted a woman in any matter of real importance. But, God, how Sinclair wanted to trust this one.

  Victor bestirred himself to rise. He unbent enough to offer Sinclair his hand in parting, but stayed the gesture at the sound of a sharp rapping against the salon door.

  Merchant's eyes narrowed with annoyance. "Damn Crawley. I told him he was no longer needed tonight."

  As the rapping came again, Victor strode over to the salon door and flung it open. But the tall lanky man hovering on the threshold was not Quentin Crawley. The shadows from the hallway made it difficult for Sinclair to see the stranger's entire face, but from what he glimpsed, he remarked a profile of almost perfect masculine beauty with a strongly sculpted jaw, an aquiline nose, and a broad forehead accented by silky hair swept back, hair so bleached by the sun, it was almost white.

  That neither Belle nor Victor was glad to see the newcomer was obvious. But while Merchant merely appeared irritated, Belle had tensed, her features pinched white.

  "Belle?" Sinclair whispered in her ear. "Who is it?"

  "Lazare," she hissed back.

  The name meant nothing to Sinclair. He watched as Merchant continued to bar the doorway, rebuking the man in a spate of low, urgent French that Sinclair could not quite catch. But Lazare pushed past Victor, stepping farther into the room.

  As the candlelight fell full upon Lazare's face, Sinclair bit back a startled exclamation. The left side of that perfect countenance was a mass of thick red scar tissue as though someone had attempted to scorch a grotesque map on Lazare's flesh, the burn markings stretching back from his cheek to the stump where his left ear should have been. His hair was shagged in such a way as to flaunt the deformity.

  Victor hastened after Lazare, looking agitated. "What are you doing here, Lazare? I told you there was no need for you to attend the meeting tonight."

  "So you did. I thought you would be finished by now."

  His gaze passed over Sinclair with as much indifference as though Sinclair did not exist. He stalked toward Belle, a strange passion firing beneath the pale lashes of his silvery eyes. The malice emanating from the man was as palpable as waves of heat pouring off a destructive flame. Sinclair had a strange urge to wrench Belle out of the man's path.

  "The fair Isabelle," Lazare drawled. "It has been a long time since I've had the pleasure, ma chére."

  "Not nearly long enough, Lazare." Belle drew her cloak more tightly about herself, as though any contact with the man would contaminate her. She turned toward Merchant, her eyes blazing with accusation. "What is he doing here, Victor?"

  Merchant did not seem able to meet her gaze. He answered hesitantly. "Lazare. will also be accompanying you on your mission."

  "Will he indeed! And when, pray tell, did you plan to inform me of that fact?" Belle asked.

  Victor moistened his lips to answer, but he was given no opportunity.

  "No!" Belle fairly shouted. "I won't have it. I told you after the last time that I would never work with Lazare again."

  The last time? Sinclair wondered. His gaze flicked from Belle's pale face to Merchant's flushed features, then to Lazare's impassive expression. Lazare was obviously another agent in Merchant's employ, but he was not anyone whom Sinclair had been informed about. He made a mental note to add Lazare's name to his list of suspects.

  "You forget yourself, Madame Varens," Merchant blustered, trying to reassume a semblance of authority. "I will decide who goes on these missions. Only I."

  But as Belle's lips thinned to a stubborn line, Victor apparently thought better of his words and adopted a more conciliatory manner. "You may have need of Lazare—"

  "I would have more need of the devil," Belle snapped.

  Merchant darkened with anger, but he controlled it. "There will be no trouble this time, I assure you. Lazare fully understands that you are in charge. He pledges to take his orders from you, is that not so, Lazare?"

  Lazare acknowledged the words with a stiff bow. Belle's look of contempt showed clearly what she thought of such a promise.

  "You must bury the past," Merchant continued, "and give Lazare a second chance."

  "Oui," Lazare said. He fixed Belle with his compelling gaze. "You owe me that much, ma chére."

  The low-spoken words had a curious effect on Belle. She turned away in almost guilty fashion.

  "Very well. Lazare may come," she said at last, although the concession seemed wrung from her. "But the first time that Lazare seeks to challenge my authority . . ." She left the threat unfinished, but Lazare appeared to understand her well enough.

  Without another word to anyone, she pushed past Lazare and strode from the room, slipping through the French doors into the garden beyond. Sinclair hesitated for a moment, but neither Merchant nor Lazare looked likely to offer him any explanations for the scene that had just taken place. Sinclair knew Belle disliked questions, but this was one time he had to have some answers. Bidding a curt farewell to the two men, Sinclair went after her.

  She was halfway down the path to the beach by the time Sinclair caught up with her, her expression as stormy as the sea-tossed wind tangling her hair. Her breath came rapidly, but whether from fury or fear, Sinclair could not tell. Maybe a combination of both.

  "Would you mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked.

  "We have acquired another accomplice, that is all," Belle flung back at him. She started to rush on when Sinclair caught her by the wrist, pulling her back.

  "And why does this particular accomplice look at you as though he were the devil planning to drag you off to hell?"

  Belle compressed her lips in that closed expression Sinclair was beginning to find so frustrating.

  "Is he a rejected lover?" Sinclair persisted, trying to goad a response from her. "He has the look about him of a man scorned. Are you the lady who broke his heart?"

  "No!" Belle wrenched herself free. She glared up at Sinclair.

  "I am the woman who shot off his ear!"

  Lazare examined Madame Dumont's collection of china treasures displayed upon the salon's console table, hefting the pastille burner with his rough fingers and eyeing it with contempt.

  Merchant snatched the china from him and carefully replaced it upon the table.

  "There was no need for you to come here tonight, Lazare." I proposed to lead up to your part in this affair more gradually."

  "Ah, but I did not quite trust your ability to persuade Isabelle into accepting me." Lazare strutted into the center of the room, his gaze continuing to rove over the chamber's aristocratic trappings. The elegance of Madame Dumont's salon inspired in him nothing more than a desire to see it all destroyed.

  Dimly he became aware that Merchant was speaking to him, but the fool was addressing his deaf side. Lazare snapped his head around.

  “You nearly ruined everything by arriving so unexpectedly," Victor was complaining. "You must take greater care. If Madame Varens should guess the real part you are to play in her mission—"

  "She won't," Lazare interrupted. "Until it is far too late." He lightly touched the thickened flesh of his scar. And then, by God, she'll wish that she had, he thought.

  Aloud, he said, "And that silent dark-haired fellow. Is he going to be working with us?"

  "Carrington. Yes, he is." Merchant scowled. "Only his name is not Carrington. He is a spy planted among us by the British army, the eldest son of General Daniel Carr."

  "How did you ever manage to discover that?" Lazare made no effort to hide his scorn. He had a low opinion of Merchant's powers of deduction.

  "Quite by accident," Victor said. "I recognized him. Sinclair bears a powerful resemblance to h
is father. I met the general once when he attended a ball at the house of Lord Elliot. He rebuked me for my manner of looking after his horse."

  Dull red surged into Merchant's cheeks as he spoke of this old humiliation. Lazare suppressed an urge to laugh aloud. He had always enjoyed the tale of how Merchant, once the proud Chevalier de Nerac, had arrived in England so destitute, he had been forced to take a job as a groom for a while. It was probably the only honest toil the damned aristo had ever done in his life.

  “When I noticed the resemblance,” Victor continued, “I did some detailed checking on Carrington, found out that his tale of being a soldier of fortune was untrue. He was a soldier, all right, Captain Daniel Sinclair Carr with his own cavalry regiment. Although no longer in the army, he still works for British intelligence."

  Victor's cold eyes locked with Lazare's "I very much dislike being spied upon, Lazare. Especially by an Englishman."

  "So do I," Lazare agreed softly. In the pause that followed, they reached a silent understanding.

  "And Isabelle?" Lazare asked.

  "Madame Varens poses a different problem. She has never followed my orders to the letter, and has grown more insolent each time. And the exploits of the Avenging Angel are becoming too well known. I foresee a time when she will no longer be of much use to me."

  "A very distant time?" Lazare’s pulse throbbed with anticipation as he awaited Merchant's answer.

  "No. What I am trying to tell you is that on this mission, both Carrington and Isabelle Varens are quite expendable."

  Lazare's lips snaked back into a smile. "Thank you, monsieur. That is all that I have been waiting to hear."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dawn broke over the channel, the pearly-white light strewing the water with diamond-like sparkles. The waves lapped against the dockside, gently rocking the Good Lady Nell. Thick ropes creaked as the packet boat tugged against the moorings, as though the ship itself were eager for the journey to begin.