Page 27

You are going to have more than your share of trouble with that one, Angel, Sinclair mused grimly. If Belle thought so, too, no sign of it appeared in her cool demeanor, but Crecy mopped nervously at his brow with a handkerchief.

“It would seem to already be a trifle warm in here,” Crecy muttered.

“I will open the window a crack.” The restless Baptiste was ready to leap up at once to do so, but Belle stayed him.

“You are forgetting the rain.”

“And the infernal noise from the street,” Lazare growled.

“That is the music of Paris.” Although Baptiste subsided back in his seat, he raised his face eagerly to Belle. “Did you happen to notice yester eve, mon ange -the bells of Notre Dame? They ring again.”

Belle relaxed her rigid manner enough to smile at him. “I noticed, my friend.”

“That at least is one good that Monsieur Bonaparte has brought, the restoration of our faith.”

Lazare snorted. “The restoration of superstition, old man. The way of the wealthy to control the minds of the peasants.”

A glint of mischief twinkled in Baptiste’s eyes. “As one of the latter, Lazare, I expect you would know.”

Before Lazare could retort, Belle stepped smoothly in between them. “We already wander from the purpose of this meeting, gentlemen. I don’t think I need to remind you what this is. We had best begin by pooling what information we already possess on Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Damned little—” Lazare began, but Belle cut him off.

“You who have been in Paris for the past few years possess an advantage over me and Sinclair. Thus far we have only obtained a glimpse of the first consul. Does he often parade thus through the streets?”

“Frequently,” Crecy said. “He believes such a display gives the citizens a feeling of security in their government.”

“It works quite well,” Baptiste added in jovial tones. “I know every time I see our brave young general, I sleep a little more snugly in my bed.”

Lazare leaned forward impatiently. “This is the plan, then? To snatch Bonaparte off the streets in full view of the populace of Paris? Wonderfully clever. How brilliant.”

Sinclair shifted on his chair. It was his plan to observe in silence, to have his presence overlooked as much as possible, but he was beginning to have a bellyful of Lazare’s sarcastic remarks.

“Maybe if you could hold your tongue, Lazare,” he said, his pleasant tone not quite disguising his irritation, “Belle might have a chance to explain what she has in mind.”

Lazare’s attention snapped to Sinclair. Giving him a hard stare, his hands jerked a knot in the rope with which he toyed. “And maybe, Englishman, if you want to keep your tongue?—”

“Gentlemen, please. We are not here to quarrel amongst ourselves.” Pacing before the fireplace, Belle heaved a wearied sigh.

She turned back, appearing to gather the ends of her patience.

“Of course I don’t intend to assault Bonaparte in the streets, Lazare.

Part of our course of action will be to determine less public places where he might be found. ”

“Perhaps I should get quill and ink and keep some notes,” Crecy offered.

“No,” Belie said. “I don’t like anything to be put in writing which could wind up as evidence in the wrong hands. Besides it is unnecessary. I have an excellent memory.”

Crecy returned to regarding the crumbs on his empty plate. Did he seem unduly disappointed? Sinclair wondered. Perhaps Marcellus did not have such a keen memory. A damned inconvenience if one were eager to pass the details of this meeting along to Bonaparte.

“Now,” Belle continued. “What other places in Paris does Bonaparte frequent? Where does he go to take his relaxation?”

“Certainly not to my gaming establishment,” Crecy said with a sigh, “or to anyone else’s for that matter.”

“The consul must be given that much credit,” Baptiste added. “He has very few vices.”

“It seems to me you give Bonaparte a little too much credit,” Lazare snapped. “I begin to think you secretly admire the man.”

“Oh, I positively dote upon him. After all, he is the only man in Paris not much taller than I.” Baptiste flashed a wide grin. He was clearly baiting the humorless Lazare and enjoying every moment of it. An angry flush crept up Lazare’s neck.

Sinclair suppressed a smile. He might have enjoyed it, too, if only he could be certain that underneath the jocular manner the little Frenchman was not in earnest with his praises of Napoleon.

With a quelling frown for both Lazare and Baptiste, Belle dragged them ruthlessly back to the topic at hand. “All right. So Monsieur Bonaparte does not care for cards or dice. What does he like?”

Mostly from the observances of Baptiste and Crecy, a sketchy portrait of Napoleon emerged.

When Sinclair thought of Bonaparte at all, it was always as a brilliant general whose bold tactics had made him the scourge of most of the other armies in Europe.

As he listened, he learned of another side to the man, the hardworking first consul, so absorbed in the business of government, he spared little time for anything else.

Except for an occasional visit to the theater, Napoleon made few social outings all but eschewing the fashionable salons and soirees.

Most of his entertaining was done at receptions held at the Tuileries.

Even at supper parties, he barely permitted himself more than twenty minutes to dine.

After a half hour of such discussion, Belle heaved a sigh, apparently finding the information far from encouraging.

Massaging the bridge of her nose as though to rub the weariness from her eyes, she said, “However we decide to proceed, we will still need certain things. A light coach that can travel swiftly, very plain and nondescript.”

“I can supply that,” Crecy volunteered.

“Alas,” Baptiste said. “I have not as yet thought of someone to replace Feydeau as your driver. If it comes down to it, I suppose I can always take on the task myself.”

Lazure broke his unusual stretch of silence to glance mockingly toward Sinclair. “Perhaps Monsieur Carrington knows how to drive a coach. It would give him something more useful to do than sit in a corner and stare at all of us.”

“I am a fair hand with the reins,” Sinclair said, returning Lazare’s stare. “Enough to avoid an accident like the one Feydeau?—”

Sinclair halted. It didn’t take Belle’s sudden intake of breath for him to realize he had just made a serious mistake.

“How did you know about Feydeau’s accident?” she asked. “Baptiste only informed me of it yesterday afternoon.”

The attention of the entire room was suddenly focused on Sinclair.

Although he did not betray his consternation by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, he felt his mouth go dry.

Belle’s eyes clouded with trouble and not a little suspicion.

Baptiste and Crecy merely looked curious, but Lazure’s gaze sparked with malice, an almost predatory gleam.

Sinclair thought quickly, deciding to take a grave risk. “Sorry. I must have forgotten to mention it. Shortly before I met you on the docks at Portsmouth, I received word from Merchant via Quentin Crawley, about the old man’s death, that we needed to look out for a new coachman.”

“It would have been convenient if you had passed the information on to me,” Belle said.

“Between one thing and another, it simply slipped my mind.”

A derisive snort came from Lazare. Belle did not look quite satisfied, but after a lengthy pause, she said, “I suppose it is not that important.”

She turned back to discussing Bonaparte, and the tense moment passed. But Sinclair did not relax. He was going to have to be much more careful. The attention of the others was centered on Belle. Except for Lazare. He continued to regard Sinclair with a smirk and a lift of his brows.

Almost as if he knows, Sinclair thought, then dismissed the notion as ridiculous. There was no reason why Lazare should. Sinclair had been extremely careful to conceal his identity. His recent gaff was simply making him edgy.

With some difficulty he forced his thoughts away from Lazare, trying to concentrate on what Belle was now saying.

“I need to get closer to Bonaparte, observe him for myself. Baptiste, is there any chance that a certain Monsieur and Madame Carrington might be able to attend one of those receptions you mentioned earlier?”

“I anticipated you might ask that, mon ange .” Baptiste’s smile was a trifle smug.

“It so happens one of my customers is Madame Josephine Bonaparte. The lady is a husband’s nightmare, a tradesman’s dream.

She spends with great liberality. I delivered five new fans to her at the Tuileries only last week. ”

What a convenient way that would be of passing along information, Sinclair thought, and without rousing a shade of suspicion.

“Would Madame Bonaparte invite an unknown couple to the palace at her fan maker’s recommendation?” Crecy objected.

“Of course not, imbecile,” Baptiste said. “But visiting the palace gives me access to many other people, people who handle the invitations, people who understand an honest bribe.”

“And how soon could you secure us such an invitation?” Belle asked.

“Would tonight be too soon?” Baptiste produced a square of gilt-edged vellum from his pocket. He handed it to Belle. She slit the seal with her fingernail. Even Lazare craned his neck with curiosity as she examined the paper’s contents. Her lips parted in a brilliant smile.

“You are as much a wizard as ever, Baptiste.”

Belle crossed the room to Sinclair. “Well, Mr. Carrington, I trust you brought along your finest evening attire. It would appear we are going to the palace.”

With a forced smile, Sinclair accepted the invitation she handed to him.

He could not get over the ease with which such a thing had been obtained.

A little too easy perhaps? He was beset by a feeling that from this moment on, he had best walk with great care.

Like traversing a field set with hidden snares, one misstep could bring him to disaster.

Still musing over the invitation, Sinclair did not notice the meeting was breaking up until the other men rose to take their leave.

“But stay one moment more, gentlemen,” Baptiste said. He bustled out of the drawing room only to return bearing a tray laden with a flagon of wine and glasses. “Tonight we take the first step in our perilous venture. I think it only right we drink a toast to its success.”

Crecy smacked his lips in approval of the suggestion as Baptiste poured out the wine. Belle regarded him with amused indulgence. Only Lazare appeared inclined to refuse, but he finally accepted a glass with his customary bad grace.

“Monsieur Carrington?” Baptiste beckoned Sinclair to join them.

The five of them stood before the hearth in a solemn circle, raising their glasses. The wine sparkled blood-red in the firelight’s glow.

“To our success, gentlemen,” Belle said.

“May we all come through unscathed,” Crecy added, “safe from the embrace of Madame Guillotine.”

“If we fail, we need not worry about that, my friend,” the irrepressible Baptiste called out. “The people of Paris would tear us to pieces long ere we reached the scaffolding.”

On this grim note they clinked glasses and drank. As Sinclair sipped his wine, he studied the others—one of whom he was certain was not sincere. One who had toasted, smiled, and drank was secretly planning to betray them all.

The toast finished, they all returned their glasses to the tray. It disturbed Sinclair to note that Belle’s glass alone remained nearly full. She had barely tasted the wine.

She stood by Sinclair’s side as the other men gathered up their hats and cloaks. Crecy was the last to exit, bowing himself out, expressing his thanks for their gracious hospitality.

Sinclair had to suppress an urge to erupt into laughter. Crecy’s words spun the most ludicrous illusion as though he and Belle were indeed an ordinary married couple, on an ordinary afternoon, bidding their callers farewell.

Yet one glance at the chair vacated by Lazare abruptly ended any illusion and equally any desire to laugh. Lazare had left his rope behind. It was fashioned into a perfect noose.