Rendezvous (9781301288946) (24 page)

He waited until he judged Lazare to
have gotten a safe distance away but still within view before
Sinclair left the shelter of his doorway. He put up his umbrella,
using it to shield his face, and plunged across the street himself,
the mud dragging at his boots and spattering his
breeches.

He had nearly gained the
other side when he was all but knocked down by an
auvergnot
dragging his
water butts mounted on heavy wheels.

"Some drinking water, monsieur?" this
bedraggled individual inquired. "Fresh from purified fountains. I
could deliver it to your lodgings within the hour."

More likely fresh from the Seine,
according to what Sinclair had heard Belle say about these
carriers.

"No, thank you," he told the man
curtly, shoving past him. He glanced anxiously down the street and
cursed, fearing he had lost Lazare.

But he spotted the familiar red cap not
more than a dozen yards away. Lazare walked at an easy pace behind
several elderly gentlemen huddled beneath the brims of their beaver
hats. Lazare appeared in no great hurry, but Sinclair still found
following him no easy task in the crowded street. Apparently the
Parisians were accustomed to the rain. The inclement weather seemed
to have kept few of them from shopping or otherwise going about
their appointed business.

Sinclair kept doggedly after Lazare,
only hesitating when the Frenchman turned off the Rue St. Honoré
and vanished down one of the side streets. Sinclair remembered
Belle's warning about becoming lost and tried to read the street
marker on the cornerstone, but the letters were worn too smooth.
Looking about him for some sort of landmark, he settled upon the
little peasant trader who had ensconced himself on that corner to
sell kindling wood.

The side street down which Sinclair
forged was narrow, scarce wide enough to permit two carriages to
pass each other. Sinclair remarked with dismay that there were
fewer pedestrians here, making his chances of being spotted by
Lazare far greater.

But Lazare appeared to entertain no
apprehensions of being followed. Although his pace took on a new
urgency, he never once glanced back. He moved forward with the
confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

"Which is a great deal more than I do,"
Sinclair mumbled, picking up his own pace as he trailed Lazare down
yet another street, then through a series of alleyways and murky
lanes, the buildings about him growing increasingly more dingy, the
high walls of plaster cracked and flaking. Picking his way past
piles of refuse, Sinclair struggled to avoid the torrents of
rainwater pouring down from open gutter spouts.

He judged he had been skulking after
Lazare for more than half an hour when the Frenchman finally slowed
his steps on one of the less frequented streets of the city. Many
of the houses on the narrow roadway sported broken or boarded-over
windows. Only one shop appeared to be in operation, a
confectioner's, whose sign creaked on its pole, the letters barely
legible. Lazare paused on the doorstep of this
establishment.

"Wouldn't that be a glorious end to
your career, Carrington?" Sinclair thought. "Dying of pneumonia
from trailing a man with nothing more sinister on his mind than a
craving for chocolates."

Still he watched from the opposite side
of the street. Lazare made no move to enter the shop, merely
drawing back into the shelter of the doorway as though he were
waiting for something. To appear less conspicuous, Sinclair
adjusted his umbrella lower over his face and pretended he was
making a purchase from one of the street hawkers—an elderly peasant
selling kindling wood, Sinclair noted with grim humor. These little
men seemed to be found on nearly every street corner in Paris. So
much for his landmark.

The minutes ticked by and Lazare
continued to slouch in the doorway. Sinclair began to feel as
though he'd come on a fool's errand. He would have to move along in
a moment or run the risk of attracting Lazare's attention. And how
he would ever find his way back to the Rue St. Honoré, Sinclair did
not know.

But all such concerns were swept aside
as Lazare stiffened to attention. A cabriolet drew to a halt in
front of the shop, pausing only long enough to deposit a gentleman
garbed in black before the vehicle trundled on its way.

Sinclair abandoned caution as he
strained to have a better look at the slender man approaching
Lazare. He could not remark the man's face, the stranger's hat was
pulled too low, the collar of his cape too high, but something
about the fellow struck Sinclair as being elusively
familiar.

Lazare stepped forward. The two men
greeted each other, although no move was made to clasp hands.
Lazare appeared his usual insolent self, but it was obvious the
stranger was nervous, all his movements furtive He started to
gesture toward something, but to Sinclair's frustration, a
slow-moving diligence lumbered up the street, cutting the two men
off from his view.

The outside passengers clung to the top
of the stage, looking as miserable as Sinclair felt. He waited
impatiently for the heavy vehicle to rattle on past.

Lazare and the stranger had vanished.
Sinclair, however, did not feel unduly concerned. There was only
one place they could have disappeared to that quickly—within the
confectioner’s shop.

Hesitating for only a moment, Sinclair
slogged his way across the street and cautiously approached the
shop. Sheltering deep beneath his umbrella, he risked a glance
through the dirty latticed pane. Except for a slatternly woman
behind the counter, the shop was empty.

But that was impossible. The stage had
blocked Lazare from his view for but a moment. There was nowhere
else the two men could have gone but inside.

Tired, chilled to the bone and
tormented by the feeling that he was close to discovering
something, Sinclair decided to take a grave risk. Closing his
umbrella, he turned the knob and boldly entered the confectioner's
shop himself.

The shop bell tinkled dismally. The
silence of the narrow wooden room seemed thickened by dust. The
establishment appeared as though it had been untroubled by
customers for months, let alone being used for a rendezvous by a
Napoleonic spy. Even the proprietress bore a most laconic
expression.

She roused herself enough to wipe her
hands on her grimy apron and say, "Good day, monsieur. And how may
I serve you on such a cold, damp afternoon?"

"It is that, indeed," Sinclair said,
rubbing his hands briskly and flashing his most charming smile. The
woman was as impervious to it as if she had been blind. She clearly
waited for him to make his selection and leave her in
peace.

Feigning an interest in the shop's
wares, Sinclair studied the rows of marzipan, chocolates, mushrooms
of sugar, and multicolored sugar almonds. Even with his sweet
tooth, none of the confections displayed in the midst of such filth
tempted him, but he took his time selecting some marzipan, giving
himself an excuse to linger. His gaze tracked toward a curtained
door at the rear of the shop.

"This foul weather appears to be
keeping your customers away," he remarked to the woman.

"That's right," she said as she wrapped
up his purchase. "Haven't seen nary another soul all
day."

"How strange. I thought I saw two
gentlemen precede me into the shop." Sinclair studied the woman's
dull eyes carefully.

She did not flick so much as an eyelash
as she replied, "Alas, I wish it were so, monsieur. I shall be a
pauper at this rate."

With a taut smile she accepted
Sinclair's money and handed him his purchase. Sinclair accepted it
and nodded graciously. Perhaps he had made a mistake. But if Lazare
had not ducked in here, it was obvious Sinclair had lost him. There
was nothing for him to do but try to retrace his steps.

In the corridor behind the curtained
door, Lazare heard the bell's chime as Sinclair left the shop.
After a pause the proprietress thrust her head past the curtain to
announce, "He's gone, monsieur."

"So I heard, madame."

"Another of your creditors, Monsieur
Lazare?"

"Just so, madame."

"Well, I didn't let on you'd come
in."

"For which I am most grateful, madame."
Lazare forced an ingratiating smile.

The proprietress shrugged. "As long as
you pay me the rent for the rooms upstairs, your other debts are
nothing to me." With that she lowered the curtain, retreating back
into the shop. Lazare turned toward the flight of rickety stairs
leading to the floor above, his smile fading into a savage
frown.

Of course the old bitch would get her
rent money, as long as it suited him. Even though he was ostensibly
living in the garrets above Baptiste's fan shop, he had need of
these rooms here, far from Isabelle's observant eye, a convenient
place to receive a certain visitor she must know nothing about for
the present.

As for Sinclair Carrington, the
Englishman was becoming a damned nuisance. If Lazare had not
happened to spot him across the street, Carrington might have
discovered far too much about Lazare's secret dealings.

For his vengeance to be complete,
Lazare needed Belle alive until the end of this affair. But
Carrington was another matter. The next time the English dog was so
unwise as to go traipsing alone through the city streets, it might
be well that he meet with an accident. Paris could prove to be a
very dangerous city.

With this pleasing thought, some of the
tension in Lazare's shoulders relaxed. He started up the stairs,
but before he could reach his room, a slender figure melted out of
the shadows, regarding Lazare through worried eyes.

"Is anything wrong,
monsieur?"

Lazare raked a contemptuous glance over
the nervous figure of his guest.

"No, not at all." Lazare's teeth
flashed in a wolfish grin. "Nothing that I cannot take care of,
Monsieur Varens."

CHAPTER TEN

The iron gates stood guarded by the
towering statuary, the famed winged horses of Coysevax, each ridden
by a figure of Mercury. Tonight the myth-born sentinels seemed
almost benign, the gates flung back to admit the stream of elegant
equipages inching their way past the tree-lined square toward the
Tuileries.

But Belle shifted away from the coach
window that framed the brilliance of the distant palace beyond the
iron bars. Drawn against her will, she peered out the opposite side
of the carriage toward the shadowy darkness of the square. The
stark branches of the trees bent gently with the wind, the stone
pavilions appearing silvery in the moonlight. Lush fountains
sprayed wreaths of water with a peaceful hush.

The Place de la Concorde, Baptiste had
told her the square was now called. To those who knew no better,
the name would seem apt. But in Belle's mind it would always be the
Place de la Revolution.

The guillotine was gone now. Even the
scaffolding had been torn down. So many lives lost, so many
innocents swept from the face of the earth, and nothing marked the
place other than a handful of brittle autumn leaves being swirled
by the night breeze.

Belle had only attended the executions
once. What a fool she had been! She had thought to find some way of
rescuing victims from the very steps of the scaffolding. Donning a
tricolored cockade, she had mingled with the crowd at the Place de
la Revolution. But she had seen almost at once such a scheme was
hopeless. The press of spectators was too great, the guards leading
the tumbrils too many.

She had tried to retreat then, but it
had been too late. Caught up in the eager crowd, she had been
pushed and shoved, until she found herself at the base of the
scaffolding. She had had no choice then but to remain. With her
eyes fixed firmly on the ground, she had uttered a silent prayer
for each unfortunate as he mounted the steps. She had never looked
up, but she never had to. There was no escaping the sounds; the
dull thud of the board being fixed into place, the deadly hiss of
the blade and the merciless cheers of the crowd. And the blood that
had spattered the hem of her gown.

"Angel?"

She dragged her gaze from the carriage
window to meet Sinclair's concerned eyes.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. He had
leaned forward from the seat opposite, his hand reaching out to
cover hers. For the first time she realized how rigid she held
herself.

"No." She drew in a steadying breath,
relaxing her muscles."I was woolgathering, that's all."

She could not tell whether he accepted
this explanation or not. But he withdrew his hand, leaning back.
His touch had called her back to the present. She did not look out
the window again, but focused her concentration upon Sinclair and
the night ahead of them.

He looked magnificent in his black
evening clothes and white silk waistcoat, his dark hair swept back,
his cravat tied with his customary careless grace. The only
ornament he wore was a heavy ruby ring, which flashed against his
tanned fingers. He could have been a gentleman bent on a night of
carousing at some discreetly fashionable gaming hall or a
courtesan's salons, equally as well as prepared to attend this sort
of government reception. He could take his place anywhere by right
of a kind of arrogance, that cheerful ‘take me as I am or be
damned’ aura that Belle envied him.