Rendezvous (9781301288946) (26 page)

A choke of laughter escaped Belle at
the pert misses' disconcerted expressions. The sound drew
Bonaparte's attention. As he turned in her direction, Belle felt
the full force of his eyes, large and bluish-gray. The first consul
studied her, appearing not to miss a single detail. It would have
been Belle's manner to meet his challenge boldly as she always did
Sinclair's raking gaze. But Sinclair enjoyed their silent battles
of will. Somehow Belle sensed that such a thing would not serve
with Bonaparte, who reportedly liked his women all soft
femininity.

As Napoleon approached, she sank into a
low curtsy, her eyes cast demurely down.

"And this is?" he asked.

Belle heard the English ambassador's
bored voice intone, "Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, newly
arrived in Paris, Your Excellency."

Sinclair bowed and murmured his
greeting. Stealing a glance upward, Belle noted how the two men
measured each other.

Bonaparte commented at last, "You are
tall, Monsieur Carrington. You have the build of a cavalry
officer."

Sinclair started perceptibly at his
words, but he said smoothly, "The build, sir, but not the ability.
I have no taste for the soldiering life."

"That is as well." Bonaparte offered
him a taut smile. "You would be fighting in the wrong army." He
turned abruptly to Belle. "You are possessed of a most beautiful
wife. She should provide you with many handsome
children."

It was all Belle could do to stifle a
small gasp. She was accustomed to dealing with compliments, but
none so roughly delivered.

"How many babes have you?" Bonaparte
demanded.

"None so far." Sinclair struggled to
hide his amusement. "We are but newly married."

"See that you get some
soon."

Bonaparte's words touched Belle on the
raw, an unexpected thrust at her own private grief.

"I would be only too pleased to follow
Your Excellency's command, if in my case the doctors did not deem
it impossible." The quiet rebuke in her voice was
obvious.

Appearing disconcerted by his blunder,
the first consul nodded and moved on. As she watched him retreat,
Belle could have slapped herself. What an opportunity she had lost.
The admiring light in Bonaparte's eyes had vanished. She had
obviously made him feel like a boorish idiot.

What the devil was wrong with her? She
knew far more adept ways of turning aside his blunt remarks.
Instead she had let herself be betrayed into being brutally honest.
Once she had been far better at concealing her feelings.

Flushing with chagrin, she scarce dared
look at Sinclair. He had good cause to be aggravated with her
clumsiness, but his eyes reflected only concern.

"What a wonderful beginning," she
muttered. "I shall have to go after him and apologize."

"The man should apologize to you,
Angel. He was damned impertinent."

Yes, but she was the one hoping to
ingratiate herself with Bonaparte with a view to arranging his
abduction, not the other way around. Belle refrained from reminding
Sinclair of that fact, lapsing into a dour silence.

Her spirits did not improve as the
evening wore on. Bonaparte, making his rounds of the guests, took
great care not to come near her again. Although it was far from
being the end of her plans, Belle could not help reflecting how
much easier her task might have been, if only she had managed to
exert a little charm.

"Why don't you join Madame Bonaparte's
circle?" she suggested to Sinclair at last. "Perhaps you can glean
some information from her that might be useful. I have not proved
to be much help."

"Belle." Sinclair's tone was warm,
admonishing.

"Away with you," she said. "There is
nothing more ridiculous than a husband hanging upon his wife's
sleeve. You will have all the men of Paris saying I have you under
the cat's paw."

He gave her a wry grin. With some
reluctance he moved off to obey her command. Belle unfurled her fan
before her face and continued to brood over her error. What had
happened to her customary sangfroid? Ever since her return to
Paris, her emotions seemed far too near the surface. It was as
though the carefully constructed barriers around her heart were
beginning to crumple.

She began to find the reception room
unbearable. The heat, the crush of people, the endless chatter
started the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. When she
noticed Fouché about to close in on her again, she felt unequal to
dealing with him. Seeking escape, she slipped out the main door. If
nothing else, she might at least glean some notion of the layout of
the palace.

But she soon dismissed any idea of
attempting the abduction from the Tuileries as absurd. Although she
was permitted to wander the corridors, the members of the consular
guard appeared everywhere, discreetly following her movements with
their eyes.

She did not find herself alone until
she reached a dimly lit hall ornamented with busts set upon
pedestals. Most of them depicted classical figures: Brutus, Cicero,
Hannibal, Alexander, but a few represented more modern statesmen,
Frederick the Great, Washington and Mirabeau.

She paused before the last statue,
absently returning the figure's vacant stare of stone. A low voice
came from behind, startling her.

"That is Julius Caesar, possibly the
greatest general who ever lived, in my opinion."

Belle spun about to find Napoleon
Bonaparte watching her, barely a yard away. Was he now further
annoyed to find her wandering in a part of the palace where she did
not belong? His grave expression told her nothing.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said. "I
daresay I should not have wandered in here."

When he did not reply, she made a stiff
curtsy and attempted to slip past him.

"Stay," he said, then softened the
command with an added, "Please. It is I who must ask your pardon
for the distress I caused you earlier. Madame, can you forgive a
soldier's blunt manners?"

Belle expelled a long, slow breath, her
thoughts racing. Could it be that she was being offered another
chance? This time she must weigh her remarks far more
carefully.

"The fault was mine, sir," she said,
"for being so foolish. I am not usually oversensitive, but some
things I have not found easy to bear. I should not blame you if you
held me in contempt. Being such a bold soldier yourself, you
must—"

"Madame, there is as much courage in
bearing with a sorrow of the heart as in facing a battery of
guns."

His solemn answer surprised her, a
surprise that she could not quite conceal.

"Do I astonish you, madame?"

"Yes, you are quite different from what
I had been led to expect."

"No doubt by your British papers. I
forbid their circulation here in France. The lies they spread. They
make me out a gorgon with two heads, do they not? Come, tell
me."

With a slight smile Belle said, "Well,
I have heard mothers warning their children, 'Baby, baby, he's a
giant. Tall and black as Raven steeple. And he dines and sups, rely
on't, every day on naughty people.' "

Bonaparte looked nonplussed, and for
moment Belle feared she had gone too far. Then to her relief, the
first consul flung back his head and laughed.

"And what about you? Are you a naughty
person, Madame Carrington?"

Touching her fan to her cheek, a wicked
arch of her brows was the only answer Belle gave.

Napoleon's mouth widened into a smile,
warmth firing his stern gaze as he stepped closer. "I confess that
I have not a high regard for your country, madame. I thought naught
came from London but pestilence, all the great evils of the world.
But 1 might be persuaded to change my mind.”

Sinclair lingered on the fringes of the
laughing crowd surrounding Madame Bonaparte. Although the Creole
had smiled upon him, and he was given enough encouragement to wend
his way to her side, Sinclair's heart was not in the
task.

He had been aware of the moment when
Belle had slipped out of the room, and his gaze had followed her
anxiously, knowing how distressed she was, although she sought to
conceal it. He had also observed Bonaparte going after her,
realizing the implications as did half the room, judging from the
smirking faces.

Sinclair found himself prey to a
ridiculous range of emotions, jealousy and suspicion as to her
motives warring with fear for her safety. With sly glances cast
toward him, the role of complacent husband became difficult to
play. Despite the fact he would likely make an idiot of himself,
the urge to charge after her was strong and only increased as the
minutes ticked by and she did not return.

Taking a restless step, Sinclair backed
into a young man dogging his heels. Sinclair curtly begged his
pardon and started to brush past him.

The man coughed diffidently. "Mr.
Carrington?"

"That's correct." Although he smiled
politely, Sinclair made another attempt to evade the
man.

"Warburton's the name. I am under
secretary to the ambassador."

He looked like one, Sinclair thought.
Modestly dressed, with nondescript features, Warburton was the sort
of fellow one would forget five minutes after meeting
him.

"It was I who arranged for your
invitation to the reception," Warburton said, modestly lowering his
eyes.

So this then was the agreeable person
Baptiste had bribed. Sinclair swallowed the urge to retort that he
hoped Warburton had put the money to good use.

"Most kind of you," he said, making
another effort to slip past the man. But for one so timid-looking,
Warburton was persistent.

"I particularly wanted to meet you, Mr.
Carrington. You see, we have a mutual friend. Colonel
Darlington."

Sinclair halted, glancing sharply at
Warburton. Of a sudden the man appeared not so meek, his eyes
knowing.

"Indeed?" Sinclair said in cautious
tones. "Myself, I have not heard from the colonel in some
time."

"I have. Quite recently. The colonel is
most concerned over the sad state of English coastlines, erosion,
that sort of thing, the changing shoreline." The under secretary
flashed a bland smile. "Still, with accurate maps, I suppose one
might gain a good idea of the damage to be inflicted."

"Yes, if such maps were available,"
Sinclair said, never taking his eyes from Warburton's
face.

"They seem to be everywhere these days.
Some have even turned up here in Paris." He met Sinclair's stare
without flinching, and in the pause that ensued, Sinclair realized
that they understood each other clearly.

"It is very stuffy in here," Warburton
said, still smiling. "Perhaps we could step out through those
windows into the garden for a breath of air."

Sinclair nodded. "I could do with a
smoke."

Nothing more was said until they
emerged through the window, the chili of the autumn night striking
Sinclair. He welcomed it after the heat of the reception room, even
more so for the fact that the brisk temperature kept all the other
guests inside. The garden was a mass of rustling shadows except for
the dim lighting provided by a suspended Argand lamp. Sinclair
moved the glass lantern aside long enough to light his cheroot from
the glowing wick. He offered a cigar to Warburton, who
refused.

Sinclair inhaled deeply, then said,
"Perhaps now you will explain yourself more clearly, Mr.
Warburton."

"I, too, have been commissioned into
service by Colonel Darlington."

"I gathered that or we wouldn't be
talking now. The colonel told me I could expect to find an ally
here in Paris."

"More than one, sir. Another of our
agents is also present on these grounds. He works here as a
gardener. It was he who discovered that a very accurate accounting
of the warships in Portsmouth naval yard has been passed to the
enemy, along with some maps drawn of coastline around that
area."

"And this was a recent
acquisition?"

"Passed this very afternoon. At a
meeting held in the guardhouse."

“Did this gardener agent see the spy
who brought the information?" Sinclair felt his stomach knot. He
almost dreaded Warburton's answer.

"No, the informant was cloaked and
hooded, the meeting brief, broken off when the guard was summoned
by a courier demanding admittance at the gates. Our man could not
draw near enough to hear clearly, nor could he follow the informant
without rousing suspicion. We didn't even know what was passed,
except that later our agent had the opportunity to overhear when
the material was passed along to the first consul's
secretary."

"What time did the meeting with this
hooded figure take place? Do you have any idea?"

"I know precisely. Quarter past
one."

"Quarter past one! Are you certain?"
Sinclair could not conceal the excitement in his voice.

"Yes, I am. Is the time
important?"