Rendezvous (9781301288946) (11 page)

"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. "Isabelle! 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."

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.