Page 13

And yet- Sinclair frowned. That theory didn’t agree with what Crawley had told him earlier.

On the way to the inn Sinclair had had to listen to a long diatribe concerning how Isabelle Varens had abandoned her mission to rescue the penniless family of a fellow agent recently caught and executed.

That didn’t seem like the action of a mercenary woman.

There was only one way to learn the truth, and that was to continue to work with her, get to know her better.

Remembering how skilled she was at closing herself off, it didn’t promise to be an easy task.

Yet it could be an all too pleasant one.

In spite of himself, his thoughts focused once more on her lips, so soft and yielding, the way her gown clung?—

Damn! He was doing it again. Sinclair swore at the familiar stirring in his loins.

What he needed was a good blast of cool air to bring him to his senses.

Moving toward the velvet draperies to undo the last of Crawley’s careful arrangements, Sinclair stopped when he heard the door click open.

He turned to face the threshold at the same time Belle snapped out of her reverie and also glanced in that direction.

A stocky middle-aged man garbed simply in drab breeches and frock coat strode into the salon and closed the door behind him. Victor Merchant’s collar was fashioned of black velvet, a sign of perpetual mourning for his executed king.

Sinclair felt no more impressed by the man’s appearance than he had been on the occasion of their previous meeting in London when Sinclair had been accepted as a member of Merchant’s society.

There was a coldness in Merchant’s demeanor, a stiffness in his carriage that reminded Sinclair too much of his own father, although the Frenchman lacked the handsomeness that distinguished General Daniel Carr.

Merchant was thick-necked, his complexion pasty white, and his right eye was fractionally higher than his left, giving him the impression of being dull-witted.

Yet Sinclair had already surmised this was far from the case.

Behind that unprepossessing exterior lurked a most calculating intelligence.

“Good evening, Monsieur Carrington. Madame Varens,” Merchant said in his usual laconic tones.

“Good evening.” Sinclair stepped forward offering his hand.

Merchant ignored it, moving past him. Rather nonplussed, Sinclair lowered his arm, but Belle did not look in the least surprised by Merchant’s rudeness.

She must have expected it, for Sinclair noted she made no move to greet Merchant herself, but merely watched in wary silence as Victor selected his seat.

He chose that fancy painted affair that Crawley had fussed with earlier. Lowering himself into the fragile gilt armchair, Merchant sat ramrod stiff.

“Be seated,” he commanded Sinclair and Belle, adding “please” as almost a reluctant afterthought.

Her head arched high, Belle arranged herself gracefully opposite Merchant upon a gilt-trimmed banquette. Although Sinclair settled in beside her, he could not have imagined anything more uncomfortable than this hard-cushioned bench without arms or back.

Silence settled over the room, unbroken except for the ticking of the pendulum clock.

Sinclair sensed that Merchant maintained this rigid quiet on purpose, as though trying to make them nervous.

His demeanor reminded Sinclair of the times he had been called in to face the headmaster at Eton after one of his pranks and had been kept waiting on tenterhooks to see if he would be sent down.

Gradually, however, Sinclair realized Merchant’s tactics were aimed at Belle rather than himself.

It was she at whom Merchant stared. She seemed unperturbed by his scrutiny except for a certain belligerent tilt to her chin.

“It was good of you to wait upon me at this hour,” Merchant said at last.

“You sent Crawley to tell us our presence was commanded here tonight,” Belle said, a hint of mockery in her voice. “Don’t I always make haste to carry out your orders?”

“Do you?” Merchant asked. “Then give me what I sent you to France to obtain. The listing of the number and type of boats being constructed at Boulogne.”

He extended one hand, palm upward toward Belle. His fingers were white and puffy and put Sinclair in mind of the bloated flesh of a drowned man he’d once seen dragged from the Thames. He felt Belle tense beside him.

“You know full well I haven’t got any list for you.”

“Oh?” Merchant’s fingers curled slowly as he withdrew his hand. “So devoted as you are to carrying out my orders, I wonder what important task caused you turn aside from your mission.”

“I am sure by now you know that, too.”

If possible, Merchant’s expression grew colder.

“So I do. But I admit that I am at a loss to account for your behavior. How do I write to His Majesty Louis XVIII where he awaits in exile and tell him that the cause for reclaiming his throne must perforce be delayed longer because one of my agents thought the lives of an insignificant widow and her brats of more value?”

Anger sparked inside of Sinclair, which he suppressed with difficulty.

It would not help him achieve his own ends if he antagonized Merchant.

Besides, there was no need for him to rise to Belle’s defense.

She managed quite ably on her own. Although she flushed, her voice remained level.

“I am sure you will find some way to explain it all to His Majesty, Victor. But when you are writing, you might just drop Louis a hint that he does his cause no good by publishing threats of what he intends to do to the revolutionaries if he regains his power.”

A trace of real emotion flickered in Merchant’s dull eyes, an almost fanatical gleam. “His majesty does right to warn the vermin.” Victor gestured to the portrait of Louis XVI above the mantel.

“Think you that the king will allow his brother’s death to go unavenged or the countless numbers of our noble brethren who were butchered by the peasants?

” Merchant’s fist crashed down upon the delicate arm of his chair.

“Non, I tell you there will be a new Reign of Terror in Paris one day. But this time it will be the blood of the canaille that will flow through the streets.”

Belle shot to her feet. “If I thought you and your precious king had any chance of resurrecting that violence, I would not lift one finger to help you. I would walk out that door right now.”

Sinclair had conceived a marked dislike of Merchant himself in the past few minutes. He would have been happy to offer Belle his escort from this place, but he had his own mission to think of. Standing up, he laid one hand soothingly upon Belle’s arm.

To Merchant he said, “I didn’t think you had gathered us here tonight to rake over the past or to speculate about the future. I was under the impression you have some important task for us to undertake.”

Merchant’s impassioned expression faded. “So I do. If Madame. Varens could control her temper long enough to hear me out.”

Sinclair shifted his attention to Belle. Her eyes were still stormy. He held her gaze until he felt her relaxing beneath his touch. She expelled her breath in a long sigh, then wrenched free of him, resuming her seat. Sinclair followed suit.

Another nerve-racking silence ensued, and then Merchant began again. “Before Madame Varens’s unfortunate outburst, I had been about to assure her that I am willing to overlook her recent flouting of my orders and give her one more chance.”

“How magnanimous of you, Victor.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, Merchant went on, “But this time have a care, Madame Varens. The assignment I am about to give you is more dangerous, more difficult than any you have ever received If you should be seized by one of your whims again, you will put not only your own life at risk but Monsieur Carrington’s as well. ”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Sinclair muttered.

Belle stirred restlessly. “Enough of these preliminaries. You are growing as tiresome as Quentin Crawley. Out with it, Victor. What do you want us to do, and how much do you intend to pay?”

Merchant leveled her a stony stare. He did not seem about to be hurried. He moved his head slightly, for the first time making an effort to include Sinclair in the discussion as well.

“I trust that both of you have heard of General Bonaparte?”

“His name has cropped up in conversation from time to time,” Sinclair said. He was pleased to see that his dry remark nearly succeeded in coaxing a smile from the yet truculent Isabelle.

“Bonaparte assumed control of the French government in 1799,” Merchant continued tonelessly.

“For a time Napoleon held out the hope that he could be persuaded to use his power to restore King Louis to his throne. But we were misled. This summer Bonaparte had himself named consul for life, set himself up as the uncrowned king of France. This cannot be tolerated.”

“We know all that,” Belle broke in impatiently. “Exactly what you do want me and Mr. Carrington to do?”

“I thought I was making myself perfectly clear.” Victor leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his chest. His eyes glittered coldly.

“I want you to abduct Napoleon Bonaparte.”