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As Belle moved farther into the room, her footsteps seemed to strike out a lonely echo upon the black and white tiled floor, and she could almost feel herself dwindling into a child of ten again.

The place reminded her depressingly of the sort of chambers and furnishings her actress mother had chosen those fortunate times when Mama had acquired herself a rich benefactor.

Jolie Gordon never had known the difference between the lavish outlay of money and real elegance.

She would have fancied herself quite the grand lady with such an establishment.

But even at such a tender age Belle had known better and so had the tradesmen who had waited upon Mama, outwardly so polite as they vied for her custom.

Only Belle had noticed their thinly veiled sneers and blushed with shame.

She had vowed then she would never live in the midst of such tawdry glamour. But like so many of her vows, it was worth about as much as the dust now coating the surface of a heavily ornate mahogany dining table. Belle trailed her gloved finger along it, leaving a glossy streak.

Baptiste bustled forward, apologizing. “Ah, I meant to get up here, have the place cleaned and aired, but I had no notion when you would arrive. I will get a fire going at once.”

He flung open a set of double doors leading into a cream and gilt drawing room furnished with a stiff-backed settee supported by clawed griffin feet and cases of books whose pristine spines suggested that the volumes did little more than adorn the shelves.

As Baptiste bent to his task by the hearth, Belle felt Sinclair touch upon her shoulder.

She glanced up to meet his eyes and saw a frown creasing his brow.

“You don’t like this place, do you?” he asked.

She started, but she did not know why. She ought to be accustomed by now to how easily Sinclair seemed to discern her thoughts.

“What’s not to like?” she quipped. “It has all the charm and elegance of a high-priced brothel.”

“We don’t have to stay here. I am sure I could find us someplace else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We have a job to do and this place will serve our needs as well as any. You seem to keep forgetting that you are not an eager husband striving to please a new bride.”

“So I do. What a fortunate thing that I have you to keep reminding me.”

As Sinclair stalked away to explore another door, taking the stairs that led to the next floor of the apartment, Belle nearly called him back to apologize for her ungracious manner of rejecting his concern.

But the next thing she knew, she might find herself explaining her reaction, telling him all about her mother, telling him far too much.

If she had annoyed him, it was far better to leave it that way.

She followed Baptiste into the drawing room, stripping off her cloak and gloves, glad to have a moment alone with her old friend.

She had seen little of him these past years, since she never went into Paris and he never traveled far from that city.

All that they had shared had been hurried meetings in Rouvray Forest, and those had always been too fraught with the urgency of varied missions to allow much time for idle chat.

Baptiste knelt before the hearth, applying the bellows to a tiny flame he had coaxed amongst the kindling.

His ruddy cheeks and leather apron were smudged with ash, the fire’s light dancing in his large brown eyes.

He reminded Belle of an illustration she had once seen in a book of legends, the dwarf-king at work upon his forge, conjuring treasures from the dark secret places beneath the earth.

But then Baptiste had always given Belle the impression of not being quite of this world.

Some of the smuggling feats they had pulled off together during the Revolution had been nothing short of wizard’s work.

She smiled softly at the remembrance, watching as his nimble fingers stacked more wood upon the fire.

“And how have you been, my old friend?” she asked.

“Well enough,” he replied without looking up. “Not getting any younger.”

“That is what you have been telling me ever since the day we first met.”

“And it is as true now as it was then.” Baptiste stood up, dusting off his knees.

He paused, a chuckle erupting from deep in his chest. At Belle’s inquiring gaze, he said, “I was thinking of that first day, mon ange . What a mad lady you were, all draped in your fake mourning, attempting to transport that coffin with the petite Duc de Ferriers hidden inside past the very noses of the soldiers sent out to look for him.”

“I was doing well enough until the poor child happened to sneeze Then you popped out of nowhere, covering for me with your little snuff box, spilling so much of the stuff, you had half the street sneezing until no one could tell where the first sounds had come from.”

“Ah, I recall it well! How ridiculous those great hulking soldiers looked, wheezing until the tears ran down their cheeks. Having thus come to your rescue, I would have been far wiser if I had gone about my own business.”

“But think how much duller your life would have been. Besides, my ‘funerals’ proceeded much more smoothly after you had become partner to them.”

“ C’est vrai .” Baptiste scratched his chin, his thoughtful manner belied by the twinkle in his eye. “How many elderly aunts and uncles did you have perish in that one year alone?”

“Oh, a dozen at least. I was once part of a very large family.”

Baptiste’s smile faded and Belle could have bitten out her tongue. Her jest came too near the truth for Baptiste. Once the eldest of five siblings, he was now the last of the brothers Renault.

He turned away from her, picking up the poker and taking sharp jabs at the logs. “Why is it so easy to burn down the house,” he said gruffly, “but wood never catches when you want it to?”

Belle realized he was signaling her that he wished the subject turned, and she regretted that it had ever been broached in the first place. Even the lighter recollections of their days during the Revolution invariably led to other ones more tragic. All memories were better left untouched.

While Baptiste struggled with the fire, Belle moved toward the chamber’s high narrow windows, their latticed panes overhung with double curtains of gold-fringed silk. Belle parted them to allow more light into the room.

The Rue St. Honoré in all its bustle lay sprawled below her, and she pressed her face against the glass, the pane cool against her cheek. She had spent much of her time in that other Paris apartment at No. 17, too much perhaps, staring down into the street.

From such a lofty height she had once watched a king pass by in the frosty morning hours of a winter’s day to keep his appointment with death, and a host of other folk as well, more humble perhaps but bearing the same regal dignity as they were trundled forth to meet the guillotine’s embrace.

Would she be able to behave with such courage if faced with the prospect of such a terrifying death? Belle had often wondered.

“You should not have come back, mon ange .”

Belle turned, surprised to discover Baptiste standing at her elbow, even more surprised by his remark.

“And I thought you were so glad to see me again,” she mocked.

“I am—but it is a most selfish joy.” His mouth turned down at the corners, and Belle sensed for the first time a subtle change in her friend.

Despite what blows life had dealt him, Baptiste had ever remained Baptiste, a man with a fierce, unquenchable joy in life. Such a somber mood was most unlike him.

“I wish Merchant had sent someone else,” he continued. “My Paris has never been good for you.”

“Perhaps this time will be different. Who knows? If we succeed in removing Napoleon, restoring the king, perhaps you will finally be able to show me that glorious Paris of the old days which you have always told me about, the city that you so adore.”

Baptiste merely shook his head, his dour expression calling forth to Belle once more the image of the brooding dwarf king.

“Eh bien , in any event you are here. There is naught to be done about it now.” He sighed. Detaching the apartment key from his belt, he pressed it into her hand. “So! And what else would you have me be doing besides procuring you an apartment?”

His abrupt question caught her off guard. She had focussed so much of her energies into the task of simply getting to Paris, surviving the floodtide of memories, she had given little thought to the next step. As she ran her hand distractedly through her hair, her mind worked quickly.

“Give me the rest of the day to settle in, then tomorrow afternoon I want a meeting to lay out our strategy, you, myself, Sinclair, and Lazare. I also want you to get word to Marcellus Crecy and old Feydeau.”

“That might prove difficult. Old Feydeau has been summoned by an angel with higher authority than yours.”

Belle frowned at him in confusion.

“The Angel Gabriel.” Baptiste rolled his eyes heavenward. “Feydeau is dead, mon ami .”

Feydeau dead? Belle thought she should have been accustomed by now to the uncertainty of life, but Baptiste’s words sent a shock through her all the same. Had it not been only a month ago that she had stood in the innyard of the Golden Sun, listening to Feydeau swear at her for having no outriders?

“When did he die? How?”

“A coaching accident, not long after your little adventure with the Coterins. Feydeau was believed to have been drunk.”

“Feydeau had his faults,” Belle protested, “but he loved his horses. I never saw him take the reins into his hands when he was anything less that stone-cold sober.”

“There is always a first time, mon ange . Regrettably for Feydeau, it was also the last.”

Belle frowned. It still made no sense to her, but she supposed the important fact was not how Feydeau had died, but that she had lost a reliable fellow agent.

“We shall need to find someone else to drive coach for us,” she said.

“Leave that to me. I will see to it.”

And Belle knew that Baptiste would. She had always been able to depend upon him.

She caught his hand and squeezed it. “Despite the fact you were so unkind as to be wishing me gone, I am very glad you are here, my old friend. I would not have thought of accepting such a dangerous undertaking for one moment without your support.”

The little Frenchman had never been in the least shy about accepting any sort of compliment. It therefore surprised Belle when he tugged free of her, his cheeks mottling with red.

“Bah! You’ve little use for an old stick like me, not with a strapping specimen like your Mr. Carrington about.”

“He is not my Mr. Carrington,” Belle said. “What is your opinion of Sinclair?”

She tried to make the question sound casual, but knew she had not succeeded when Baptiste eyed her shrewdly. “How eagerly she asks that. Like a shy little maid, bringing her latest swain home to meet Papa.”

Belle tried to laugh at his raillery, but felt the color seep into her cheeks. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Eh bien , I think Monsieur Carrington is tall, young, handsome, everything that I am not. I also think you should take care, mon ange .” Baptiste abruptly averted his gaze. “You should not place too much trust in any man.

“And now, I have more important things to consider than abducting the first consul of France. Mademoiselle Pierrepont will have my head if I don’t have her fan finished by five of the clock.”

Baptiste stood on tiptoe to plant a brusque kiss upon Belle’s cheek before skittering out of the apartment. Belle stared at the door long after it had closed behind him, his words echoing through her mind. “You should not place too much trust in any man.”

It was not like Baptiste to offer such platitudes or needless advice. Perhaps what disturbed her the most was that his words had not really seemed so much like advice. They had carried more the ring of a warning.

But a warning against whom? Sinclair? What could Baptiste have possibly detected about Sinclair upon such short acquaintance?

This was absurd, Belle thought, rubbing her hand across her eyes.

She was reading far too much into one casual remark.

Likely she was tired. It had been a long day, a long journey.

She would feel much better after a good night’s rest.

But that notion brought a bitter smile to her lips.

When had she ever enjoyed a restful night in Paris?

Her gaze strayed back to the window. Her earlier excitement and her joy in seeing Baptiste again had fled.

With a feeling of dread, she marked the sun’s downward course, shedding a final burst of golden glory above the rooftops, the street shadows lengthening.

In a few hours it would be night, and eventually she would have to try to sleep.

She might assure herself that she had survived the return to Paris in full light of day, but the dark would release all those phantoms she had subdued.

The moment she closed her eyes, the nightmares would crowd forward: of Jean-Claude, of the Revolution, the massacres, the guillotine and the heavy, dank walls of the Conciergerie

No one has ever been slain by a memory, she told herself again. Then why could she already feel herself dying a little inside?