Rendezvous (9781301288946) (47 page)

Long moments ticked by as Bonaparte sat
with his head bent, his eyes fixed upon some papers before him.
"Sit down, Madame Varens," he said without glancing up.

Her legs felt like stalks of wood, but
she managed to ease herself down into a stiff-backed chair. The
nerve-racking silence continued. At last he looked at her, but the
fine-chiseled lines of his eagle's profile gave nothing away of his
thoughts. He did not appear vindictive. Nor was there sign of any
compassion, either. Rather, he looked impartial, like a
judge.

That, Belle supposed, was an
improvement over the tribunal, whose condemnation she had read even
before her trial had begun. When she could endure his steady regard
no longer, she asked, "How did you know my name?"

He arched one brow. "I think it is my
place to ask the questions here, madame. But I will gratify your
curiosity. You met an old acquaintance at my reception, did you
not?"

Understanding broke over Belle.
"Fouché."

"Exactly. You are quick, madame.
Fouché, my former minister of police and I have one trait in
common, a memory for faces, although Fouché's is not quite as
excellent as mine. He did finally recollect who you were, did some
ferreting out of your past and presented the facts to
me."

Bonaparte tapped the papers before him.
"Isabelle Varens, once wife to Jean-Claude Varens. Known by some as
the Avenging Angel. You came to trial in the summer 1794 for
helping people proscribed escape from Paris,"

"I was never actually condemned," she
reminded him.

"Merely because you were released as
were so many others with the downfall of Robespierre."

Bonaparte thrust the papers from him.
"I have no desire to retry you on ancient charges, madame. I admire
you for what you did. I helped a family escape myself once when I
was a young officer during the siege of Boulogne. Aristocrats were
being murdered outright. I helped a family to hide in
crates.

"I have no quarrel with the role you
played in the Revolution." He subjected her to a hard stare. "It is
your more recent activities that I find less than
tolerable."

Belle drew in a deep breath. She did
not know why it was suddenly important to her that he should know
the truth. The abduction plot alone was more than enough reason
that he should send her to her death. But she did not want
Bonaparte thinking of her as a murderess.

"I know this cannot be construed as a
defense," she said. "But I was not part of any assassination plot.
My intent was solely to arrange your abduction."

A glimmer of humor appeared
in those cool gray eyes. "
Merci,
madame."

Belle's lips thinned as she continued,
"I have never betrayed any of my comrades before. But I will give
you a name—Etienne Lazare. He was the man with the scar who fired
on you. He alone is responsible for the attempt on your
life."

Although Bonaparte dipped his quill
into the ink and made note of the name, he said, "That may well be
true, madame. But the fact remains that the pistol was first in the
hands of your former husband. He had me dead in his sights. I am
only alive because he lost his courage."

"It was not a loss of courage!
Jean-Claude stopped because it is not in his nature to commit
murder. It was only that Lazare had filled his head with so many
lies. He manipulated Jean-Claude into making the
attempt."

Belle saw with despair that her plea
was having little effect in erasing Bonaparte's contemptuous frown.
There was no way to make a strong-willed man like the general ever
understand the weakness, the confusion of a broken¬hearted dreamer
like Jean-Claude. She asked the question whose answer she most
dreaded.

"Has Jean-Claude been
arrested?"

"No," Bonaparte said. "But it is only a
matter of time. He will not get out of Paris, nor will this Lazare,
nor Mr. Carrington, whom I assume also shares some part in all of
this."

Despite Bonaparte's aura of confidence,
Belle felt a surge of relief. No mention had been made of Baptiste
or Crecy. Their part in the plot had gone undetected. They would
find a way to help Sinclair and Jean-Claude escape.

She became aware of Bonaparte's
thoughtful gaze upon her. "You puzzle me, Madame Varens. You
obviously would have gone to great lengths to arrange my abduction.
Yet this Lazare person was in the right of it. It is easier to kill
than to abduct. Why did you save my life?"

"Because I too have my own code." A
slight smile curved her lips. "I will admit that I am more rogue
than lady. I do a great many things respectable women would frown
upon. But assassination does not fall within that
realm."

Bonaparte leaned back in his chair,
lapsing once more into a frowning silence. As he stared out the
window into the court beyond, Belle could tell that he strove to
reach some sort of decision. For all that had happened, Belle
sensed a grudging admiration in him. One thing yet puzzled her, and
she made bold enough to interrupt him by asking, "So you did know
my real name, something of my past, before you came to the theater
last night?"

Bonaparte nodded. "Fouché provided me
with that much, although he could not discover what you might
presently be doing in Paris. Fouché, you see, would like me to
believe he is indispensable for ferreting out plots, but I
preferred to see what I could do on my own. I confess I was still
struck by your beauty, intrigued by you."

"But you took a dreadful
risk."

He gave a fatalistic shrug.
"I take a risk every time I ride through the streets. This was not
the first assassination attempt, nor will it be the last, I fear.
When it is my time to die, there is nothing I will be able to do
about it. It is a philosophy I imagine that you share, the
difference between a brave man and a coward,
n'est-ce pas
?"

He didn't seem to expect an answer.
Turning purposefully back to the desk, he reached for a blank sheet
of vellum and his quill. From the rapidity of his ink strokes,
Belle realized he had arrived at his verdict. She felt her
heartbeat quicken. He was either remanding her to spend the rest of
her days within the dank walls of this prison or signing the order
for her death.

He stood up with his characteristic
abruptness. Coming round the desk, he took her hand with a stiff
bow. "This must be our farewell, madame." He handed her the papers.
"Present this to the guard."

She stared down at the document, unable
to focus upon those bold ink strokes. "Is it now the custom for the
condemned to carry their own execution orders?"

He gave a short laugh, and then
regarded her impatiently. "You are free, madame. Free to
go."

She stared at him, unable to comprehend
what he was saying, hardly daring to believe she had heard him
right.

"You saved my life," he said. "I am
returning the favor. That makes us even, does it not?"

"Y-yes," she managed to stammer.
Blinding relief weakened her in a way fear had not been able to
manage, causing her hands to tremble so that she nearly dropped the
precious pardon. Freed a second time, a second miracle offered her,
another chance to begin her life again.

She tried to voice her thanks, but
Bonaparte strode toward the door. He paused to glance back with his
hand upon the knob.

"One word more, madame. As gracious and
beautiful as your presence is, I would make one thing clear. I
would not care ever to find you in France again."

Belle recovered enough to offer him an
elusive smile. "Believe me, Monsieur le General. You
won't."

The final set of prison gates opened to
allow Belle to pass. The last time she had hurled herself through
them with but one thought, to flee Paris. She was older now, she
mused with an inward smile, and perhaps not as wise.

She stepped slowly past the guard,
taking the time to revel in the freshness of the air after the dank
odors of the prison, to feel the bite of the cold wind against her
cheeks. Her younger self would never have allowed a moment to
consider how good it was to be alive. It had taken Sinclair to
teach her to do that.

The young guard who released Belle was
far more courteous than the gruff turnkey. Her bedraggled
appearance did nothing to daunt the admiring gleam in the youth's
eye. He followed her through the gate into the bustling street
beyond the prison's outer walls.

"Is madame all alone?" he asked
sympathetically. "Have you no friends to meet you?"

Oh, she had friends all right, Belle
thought, but none, she trusted, so fool as to come seeking her
here. Aloud she thanked the guard for his concern, saying, "I will
manage well enough on my own."

Her words seemed belied the next
instant. She was jostled off balance, nearly tumbled into the mud.
The culprit was one of the city's wood peddlers, his hat brim
pulled so far down over his long straggling gray hair that it was a
wonder he could see a thing.

"Watch where you are going, you old—"
But the young guard had no opportunity to complete the insult. With
a movement remarkably spry for one of his years, the old man
straightened, leveling the guard with one blow of his powerful
fist.

Belle gaped in astonishment. She had
barely recovered from her surprise when she was seized roughly
about the waist. The wood peddler flung her into the back of a
passing hay cart. Leaping up beside her, he growled out a command
to the driver.

"
Allez! Allez! Vite
."

More startled than hurt, Belle
struggled to sit up, but as the cart lurched into movement, she was
slammed back down again. She heard outcries and curses from the
startled pedestrians as the cart began a wild plunge through the
streets.

The wood peddler tumbled down beside
her. Belle met him, ready to defend herself as best she could.
Nails bared, she went for the man's face hidden beneath its
layering of beard. He caught her wrists in a strong grip, forcing
them down.

"Be still, Angel. It's me."

Shorn of its French accent, the
resonant voice was achingly familiar. The next instant the peddler
boldly crushed his mouth against hers, all lingering doubts of his
identity melting away before the heated fury of his
kiss.

Belle ceased her struggles, clinging to
Sinclair, returning his embrace, his graying wig coming away in her
hand.

When he drew back, the beard had gone
askew as well, Sinclair's hunter-green eyes twinkling wickedly at
her. "Now do you know me?"

"Mr. Carrington," she murmured. "And to
think I was beginning to feel as if I had not paid enough heed to
the wood peddlers of Paris."

But the teasing words caught in her
throat, her heart too full as she drank in the sight of him. The
cart rattled on at a wild pace, jolting and bruising her with every
bump, but she did not care enough to even ask where they were
going, content to hold Sinclair fast, to feel the reassuring
strength of his arms around her.

She buried her face against his
shoulder. "Sinclair, I thought I would never see you
again."

"There was no chance that I would allow
you to be rid of me that easily, Angel."

He sought her lips again. At that
moment the cart careened around a corner, slamming them against the
side and nearly dumping the load of straw atop them.

Belle groaned. "What madman is driving
this thing?"

Sinclair struggled to a sitting
position and called out, "Baptiste. I don't believe we are being
followed. Draw rein."

It took several shouts for the old man
to hear him, but he sawed back on the harness at last, settling the
horse into a respectable trot. Baptiste risked one look back at
Belle, his crooked smile beaming from beneath his own battered
hat.

"What on earth?" A half-choked laugh
escaped her. Sinclair settled back beside her, pulling off what
remained of his disguise. "Sinclair, what is all this? What were
you and Baptiste doing outside the prison?"

"Trying to get in, of course. Something
a little more subtle than being arrested. I figured that even a
prison must require wood for fires in the guardroom, and then once
inside—"

"You thought to rescue me from the
Conciergerie? Have both you and Baptiste run mad? And to think it
was my one consolation that at least you had better sense than
that."

"Not where you are concerned, Angel."
The warmth of his gaze caused her heart to race. "I will admit I
was not looking forward to the challenge. It was most convenient
when they brought you out to the gate. By the way, what were you
doing out there?"

"I was being set free."

"What!"

"I have an official pardon from
Bonaparte for saving his life."

Sinclair looked considerably chagrined.
"You mean I hit that innocent-looking guard and nearly broke our
bones in this cart for nothing?"

"Not precisely," Belle said. "I have a
feeling that even Bonaparte cannot be that generous. I think he
hoped that I would lead him to the rest of you."