Rendezvous (9781301288946) (34 page)

He tossed the note down upon the table.
"So that's the end of that."

An unexpected modicum of relief had
been mingling with Belle's disappointment. But Sinclair's almost
cheerful acceptance of their failure acted strangely upon
her.

"What do you mean—the end?" she
demanded.

"I mean that you cannot go any further
with this scheme, which was absurd from the start."

Although she acknowledged the situation
as hopeless herself, Sinclair's complacent dismissal of the
mission, all the work and planning she had poured into it,
irritated her. Of course, he had never been very enthusiastic about
the assignment, she recalled. She was not the only one to remark
the fact. Lazare had said something very similar only this
morning.

Of a sudden some of Lazare's
other comments came back to her, seeming to whisper in her ear,
seep through her like subtle poison.
He has
a habit of disappearing, our Monsieur Carrington. Where does he go
each day?

Belle turned over in her mind things
about Sinclair that had always disturbed her: his knowledge about
Feydeau, his conversation with the strange man at the review, most
of all his evasion of any questions regarding his past. Could it be
that- No, Belle refused to consider the possibility that the man
who loved her so tenderly each night could be plotting against
her.

Sinclair must have other less sinister
reasons for rejoicing that the plot must be abandoned. He had oft
teased her about her ambition to use the money from this mission to
retire from the business to Derbyshire. Perhaps some of his teasing
had been in earnest, fathered by a secret wish to keep her working
with him. Perhaps he was glad that she would not now be paid. Or
his relief could be stemming from some arrogant male notion of
protecting her, a lack of faith in her ability to see the abduction
to a successful conclusion.

Whatever the reason for his resistance,
it stirred her stubborn pride to life.

"The assignment has become more
difficult," she said, "but I still do not find it
impossible."

Sinclair cast her a look, part
indulgence, part impatience. "Belle, give it up. You have done your
best, doing all that Merchant could require. I would be the first
to tell him so."

"I am not worried about Merchant," she
snapped. "But when I am hired to do a job, I finish it."

"Just as you did in the affair with
Coterin?" he reminded her with a skeptical smile.

Belle bristled. "That was different."
In that instance she had chosen to deviate from her task, but she
would be damned if she would be forced to give up by simply a lack
of daring and resolve.

"You were reluctant from the start,"
she accused Sinclair. "If you didn't wish to take any risks, I
don't know why—"

"Risk," Sinclair snorted. "This would
be suicide."

"All I have to say is that if you are
going to change your mind, it would be better if you had not
accepted in the first place."

"I beg you,
mes enfants
, no quarrels,"
Baptiste said. "You are throwing those poor gentlemen off their
game."

Belle was startled to realize that she
and Sinclair had been raising their voices loudly enough to attract
attention.

One of the elderly men at the other end
of the garden paused in the act of tossing his ring to frown at
her.

Sinclair subsided, but Belle could not
let the matter rest. She said in low but forceful tones, "I trust
you will remember, Mr. Carrington, I am the one in charge. I will
say when the mission is called off."

"If you can develop a sensible plan, I
will follow you anywhere, Angel." Sinclair drank the rest of his
beer, looking so smugly confident that she couldn't, Belle had a
strong desire to break her coffee cup over his head.

As though to prevent further argument,
he got up and deliberately strolled across the garden to watch the
old men at their game. It did not take long before he was invited
to join in, the elderly Parisians showing him how to toss the
wooden rings, laughing indulgently at his efforts.

Belle could tell from the flash of
Sinclair's smile that he was not merely staying away from the table
to be spiteful, but genuinely enjoying himself with the same gusto
with which he smoked those horrid cigars and ate his
peppermints.

"He has the
joie de vivre
, that one,"
Baptiste commented. "He could well have been a
Frenchman."

It was an enormous compliment coming
from Baptiste. But Belle recognized that her friend was right.
Sinclair did have that vitality, that zest for life she felt
lacking in herself. It was one of the things that made him so
undeniably attractive.

"He is also a man of good sense,"
Baptiste added.

Belle glanced sharply at her old
friend. "Does that mean you agree with him that the mission must be
abandoned?"

Baptiste frowned into his
empty glass. "
Oui
,
at the risk of also angering you, I fear that I must. Monsieur
Carrington takes the logical view—"

"Logic has nothing to do with it,"
Belle said scornfully. "I believe Sinclair is merely having one of
his misplaced gallant urges, the feeling that he somehow needs to
protect me. Well, I have been doing rather nicely without him for a
good many years. I think I can decide what chances I should
take."

"Except that you would not be the only
one taking the risk." This gentle reminder and the grave look that
accompanied it brought a flush to Belle's cheeks.

"You are right. Forgive me, Baptiste. I
did not think. Indeed, I would not blame you for wanting no more to
do with this scheme."

"It was not myself so much I speak for
as the others." Baptiste shrugged. "What have I left to lose—my
life? I have never been much afraid to die as long as I can be laid
to rest here in my Paris. I am no longer such a young
man."

He became suddenly pensive. "As the
oldest in my family, I always imagined I would be the first to go,
my bier borne aloft on the shoulders of my strong brothers with
love and all honor. I never thought that I should be the one to
survive."

The light that shone from those ageless
brown eyes dimmed as he continued to muse, "Artur, he died by the
guillotine for being too free with his opinions, Francois,
murdered, his only sin deciding to be a priest instead of a fan
maker, Odeon fell before the cannonfire with the army in the Alps,
and Gervaise perished of the fever on General Bonaparte's glorious
Egyptian campaign."

He groped for his handkerchief and
dabbed unashamedly at his eyes. "All I want now is
peace."

Belle reached out to cover his hand
with her own. "And you shall have it, my friend, perhaps if
Sinclair and I did go away now and leave Bonaparte alone. I cannot
help but notice some of the sense of order, of well-being the man
has brought back to Paris."

"That he has. The schools and churches
are open again. We have a new code of laws. But peace?" Baptiste
shook his head. "This Bonaparte, he is to France like the false
spring of this day, a warm flooding of light you know cannot last
for long. You saw him with his army today. He is not a man to be
content with just playing soldier. Napoleon Bonaparte may bring
France many gifts, but peace will never be one of them."

Brushing the last of the
moisture from his eyes, Baptiste blew his nose loudly.
"
Non
, I am still
with you,
mon ange
.
Perhaps we must surrender our plans for now. But there will come
another day."

Shoving back his chair, he said, "For
now, I have been away from my fans for too long."

Belle tried to protest, "For shame. And
to think you were scolding me earlier for wanting to work upon such
a fine day."

"Ah, but it is different for you and
your Monsieur Carrington. You are still young. And Paris, she was
once the best place in the world to be young. She still is. Maybe
Monsieur Carrington can teach you how to enjoy yourself for an
hour." The old man fixed her with a shrewd gaze. "He has already
brought a sparkle to your eye that I am glad to see."

Belle could not help but blush under
Baptiste's knowing gaze.

"Now, why do you blush so?
Bah, you prim English. It is more than time you took a lover. This
Sinclair, he has helped you at last to bury the past,
hein
?"

"I don't think anyone could ever do
that," Belle said. A soft smile escaped her. "But, yes, Sinclair
does make the past so much easier to bear."

"Then let him also help you learn to
cherish the present. It does have a way of slipping away from
one."

With that the old man deposited a kiss
upon her cheek. He sauntered off down the street, leaving Belle to
mull over his words.

A few moments later, when Sinclair
returned to the table, he discovered Belle lost in thought. He
approached her cautiously, as though he half-expected to find her
still angry.

"Where is Baptiste?" he
asked.

"Gone back to work."

Sinclair sighed. "And I expect you will
say we should do the same. Look, Angel, I don't want to quarrel
with you anymore. I know you have suffered a keen disappointment,
how much the money from this mission meant to you, your little
rose-covered cottage in Dorsetshire—"

"Derbyshire," Belle interrupted with a
smile. "Forget about it, Sinclair. It so happens I don't want to
think about the assignment anymore this afternoon,
either."

She rose briskly to her feet, drawing
on her gloves. "Let's play truant. We could go for a stroll down by
the river."

She almost laughed aloud at Sinclair's
look of astonishment. He regarded her as though he could not
believe what she was saying. Indeed, she could scarce believe it
herself.

"After all," she said. "We are only
young once. And who knows how many such afternoons will be left for
us?"

She knew from the glance he cast her
that he understood she was talking about more than the unseasonably
sunny weather.

"Yes, who knows?" he echoed sadly. He
raised her hand to press a kiss against her fingertips before
tucking her arm within the crook of his own.

However their mission ended, their time
together in Paris was drawing to a close. Belle had never deluded
herself that their relationship was a permanent one. They would be
bound to go their separate ways. She was surprised to discover how
empty that thought made her feel, and she was quick to dismiss
it.

Arm in arm, they went walking along the
quay by the Seine, the familiar wet-reed smell drifting to Belle's
nostrils. The greenish-brown water had not yet risen to its winter
height, leaving some of the quayside exposed. The river lapped
gently against the rocks, casting a breeze upon the land, which
made Belle glad of her shawl.

She and Sinclair wended
their way among the
bouquinistes
, those booksellers who
had ever displayed their wares along the stone embankment, many of
the manuscripts quite ancient, threatening to crumple apart at a
touch.

Over this section of river the Pont
Neuf stretched out its stone arches, the ancient bridge reaching
across to the Ile de la Cite, the oldest part of Paris. The bridge
was crammed with many others enjoying the day, the hawkers, the
artists, the flower girls, the lovers slipping beneath the
shoreward arches to steal an intimate moment.

Even as the Seine waters sparkled in
the sunlight, so did the city seem to do so today, sparkling with
life as much as the man who strode by Belle's side. Her chief
enjoyment came from observing Sinclair, how much he reveled in the
bustle and activity about him.

He made her laugh as they
wandered through the open air market, teasing her with the prospect
that he meant to buy a plump, squawking chicken. He bandied words
with the
racoleurs
,
who were ever alert to recruit with a drink any healthy male into
joining the army. He applauded a group of street tumblers, tossing
them coin, paused to chat with some fishermen angling their lines
over the end of the quay, tipped his hat to a saucy group of
laundresses in their boats anchored just offshore.

Belle found herself seeing Paris
through Sinclair's eyes as for the first time, experiencing the
charm, the zest for life, the gaiety that had ever escaped her
before. She began to have some inkling of why Baptiste so loved the
place.

Lingering beneath a chestnut tree, its
leaves a burst of golden glory, Belle and Sinclair stooped down to
feed some bread to a flock of wild ducks gliding on the
river.

Belle chuckled to herself. "I can
hardly believe I am doing this."

"What? You mean you never took time
before to invite these fine fellows to dine?"

"No. Do you realize that one November
during the wheat shortage, I slept overnight on a baker's doorstep
simply to be able to buy a loaf of bread?"