Page 14

Five

S tunned silence settled over the salon, only to be broken by Sinclair’s peal of incredulous laughter. But Belle was not even tempted to smile. Her earlier premonitions had proved quite correct. The meeting at Mal du Coeur had taken an extraordinary turn.

Sinclair’s laughter abruptly died. “You must be jesting, Merchant, or else you are stark raving mad.”

“I assure you, sir,” Victor said coldly. “I am neither.”

Sinclair regarded him with derision. “Why don’t you simply ask us to abduct the Pope while we’re about it or the tsar of Russia?”

“Neither the Pope nor the tsar interests me. They do not control the government of France.” Merchant’s gaze flicked to Belle. “You are strangely silent for once, Madame Varens. Are you also shocked by my request? Do you think the task as impossible as Monsieur. Carrington appears to do?”

“Not impossible,” Belle said. “But extremely difficult.”

“Difficult?” Sinclair snorted.

“Your reward, of course, would be generous,” Merchant said, “commensurate with the risk.” The fee that he named caused Belle’s eyes to widen.

Such a sum could go a long way to securing her future—a respectable future far removed from the uncertainties of her present life.

But when she considered what she must do to earn it, she slowly shook her head.

“It would mean returning to Paris.” She could already feel the cold sensation of dread creeping into her veins. “I have not worked in the city for many years.”

“Yet you still have contacts there. It is my understanding that you and Baptiste Renault once possessed a certain expertise for smuggling people out of the city.”

“That was different. The people we smuggled were all willing to go. But abduction—” She broke off with a frown. She had never met Napoleon Bonaparte. There was no reason for her to be concerned about the man, but there was no reason to wish him harm, either.

“What would happen to General Bonaparte if we succeeded?” she asked.

“He would be kept here at Mal du Coeur in comfortable captivity. But with him gone, the government in Paris would be in a state of chaos and?—”

“Hold! Just one moment if you please.” Sinclair caught Belle by the arm and tugged her to face him. His brows drew together in a stern expression. “Isabelle! You are not seriously considering this outrageous proposal?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Is there any reason why I should not?”

“Yes, a good many reasons, the foremost one being, even granted that this crazed assignment could be brought off, it would be far too dangerous for a?—”

Sinclair stopped short, apparently thinking better of what he had been about to say.

“Too dangerous for whom, Mr. Carrington?” Belle asked, her voice deceptively calm. “For a woman?”

Sinclair gave an uneasy smile. He relaxed his grip upon her shoulder and allowed his fingers to trail down her arm until he captured her hand.

“No, I didn’t mean that precisely. It is only that I doubt General Bonaparte will cheerfully acquiesce to Merchant’s plans for him.

Neither will the consular guard that attends him.

More than likely there will be some fighting, bloodshed.

You would be pitch-forked into all manner of situations unfit for … for a lady.”

Belle drew in a sharp breath. That was the sort of remark that might have come from the starry-eyed Philippe Coterin, and yes, of course from her beloved Jean-Claude.

Why had she expected a little more perception from Sinclair Carrington?

Belle was surprised to feel her throat constrict with disappointment.

“I am not a lady.” She wrenched her hand free of Sinclair and then turned toward Victor.

She had the fleeting impression that Merchant had been watching the exchange between herself and Sinclair with all the calculated patience of a cat at a mousehole.

But Belle was feeling too annoyed with Sinclair to heed much of anything else.

His attempted interference helped her to reach a decision.

“Obviously Mr. Carrington has not the stomach for your proposal, Victor,” she said.

“But I accept the assignment.” She angled a defiant glance at Sinclair.

“Tell your friend, Madame Dumont, to prepare some chambers for General Bonaparte. She will be acquiring a reluctant houseguest before Christmas.”

Sinclair’s hands came up in a frustrated gesture as though he wanted to shake her. He slapped his palms against his knees and swore, then thrust himself to his feet and stalked over to stand by the fireplace, turning his back on her.

Victor’s lips parted in a thin smile. “Your decision pleases me, Madame Varens. But I expected no less from you. You never have been one to back down from a challenge.

Even this rare compliment from Victor did little to soothe Belle’s agitation.

Without looking at Sinclair, she could feel the full weight of his disapproval.

Damn the man, anyway. What concern was it of his how she risked her neck?

He could not possibly care what became of her, not on such short acquaintance.

“I am sorry that Monsieur Carrington cannot see his way clear to participate,” Merchant continued. “I had hoped you both would accept the assignment.”

“I don’t need him,” Belle said. “I can manage the arrangements on my own, as I have always done.”

“Both of you march a damn sight too fast,” Sinclair interrupted. “I never said I refused.”

Victor and Belle both turned to look at him, Merchant’s expression inscrutable, Belle, hostile, although a certain amount of confusion crept into her eyes.

Small wonder if she was a trifle bewildered, Sinclair thought.

He was having difficulty understanding his own reaction to Belle’s wanting to undertake this mission.

Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension cording his muscles, Sinclair said, “I don’t leap to these momentous decisions as quickly as Mrs. Varens. I need a little more time to think.”

“Take what time you need, Monsieur Carrington,” Merchant said. “If your decision is negative, I will understand. No one will question your courage, nor constrain you against your will. You will be under no further obligations to our society.”

In other words, if he refused, he would be cast out on his ear.

And after several months’ work of carefully insinuating himself into Merchant’s organization!

Damn. Neither he nor the British army had ever anticipated anything like this.

It was assumed he would be given some mission like intercepting diplomatic dispatches, or a bit of eavesdropping in government circles, nothing this dangerous.

But who was he trying to fool? It was not his own danger that concerned him, but hers.

From the time Belle had showed any interest in the operation at all, he had been shot through with alarm.

His chief concern had become to keep her out of it.

He did not know where the devil this protective impulse had sprung from, never having been troubled by any Sir Galahad notions before.

And with Belle of all women! He had sensed even before opening his mouth how she would receive his sudden burst of chivalry.

She would be bound to resent it, as indeed she had.

His entire behavior was so blasted illogical.

She obviously knew how to take care of herself.

She would not have survived as a spy this long if she didn’t.

Instead of acting like such a fool, he should be glad she had taken this assignment, for it was surely a sign of her innocence.

If she were Bonaparte’s agent, she would hardly consent to kidnap the man.

And yet if Isabelle was the counteragent, would she not more likely go along with the plan, then take steps to thwart it after they arrived in Paris?

If that was the case, any agent involved with her in the scheme would be heading for a trap.

Sinclair’s hand crept involuntarily to his throat as though he could feel a noose tightening, or more accurately the steely edge of a blade spattering his blood.

The French weren’t as tidy about such things as the English.

Sinclair paused in his pacing to stare at Isabelle. Her lovely profile might well have been carved of marble for all it told him. He could not help remembering how upset she had been when Victor had talked of the French king returning, the killing of the revolutionaries.

It could be she just despises violence, Sinclair argued with himself. She’s a sensitive woman. She could merely be—he checked himself in mid-thought, suddenly realizing what he was doing—making excuses, finding reasons why Isabelle Varens could not be Bonaparte’s spy.

It’s because you don’t want it to be her, his mind jeered at him.

The woman has seduced you already and you’ve scarce laid a finger on her.

Much as he wanted to deny it, he knew his emotions were already hopelessly entangled.

If he had any good sense at all, he would walk away from this, let the army find some other way to ferret out the spy.

But as his gaze settled upon Belle, he exuded a long sigh. What had good sense ever profited a man anyway, except the right to live to a dreary old age?

“I’m in,” Sinclair said brusquely. “Whether Mrs. Varens likes it or not, she has a partner.”

Belle’s head snapped up at his announcement.

She looked at him and their eyes met. For long moments it seemed to Sinclair that he and Belle searched each other for a glimpse of the heart each knew how to hide so well.

That glimpse, he thought, seemed to elude Belle for the present as well as himself. She was the first to look away.