Page 32

Ten

T he iron gates stood guarded by the towering statuary, the famed winged horses of Coysevax, each ridden by a figure of Mercury.

Tonight the myth-born sentinels seemed almost benign, the gates flung back to admit the stream of elegant equipages inching their way past the tree-lined square toward the Tuileries.

But Belle shifted away from the coach window that framed the brilliance of the distant palace beyond the iron bars.

Drawn against her will, she peered out the opposite side of the carriage toward the shadowy darkness of the square.

The stark branches of the trees bent gently with the wind, the stone pavilions appearing silvery in the moonlight.

Lush fountains sprayed wreaths of water with a peaceful hush.

The Place de la Concorde, Baptiste had told her the square was now called. To those who knew no better, the name would seem apt. But in Belle’s mind it would always be the Place de la Revolution.

The guillotine was gone now. Even the scaffolding had been torn down. So many lives lost, so many innocents swept from the face of the earth, and nothing marked the place other than a handful of brittle autumn leaves being swirled by the night breeze.

Belle had only attended the executions once.

What a fool she had been! She had thought to find some way of rescuing victims from the very steps of the scaffolding.

Donning a tricolored cockade, she had mingled with the crowd at the Place de la Revolution.

But she had seen almost at once such a scheme was hopeless.

The press of spectators was too great, the guards leading the tumbrils too many.

She had tried to retreat then, but it had been too late.

Caught up in the eager crowd, she had been pushed and shoved, until she found herself at the base of the scaffolding.

She had had no choice then but to remain.

With her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, she had uttered a silent prayer for each unfortunate as he mounted the steps.

She had never looked up, but she never had to.

There was no escaping the sounds; the dull thud of the board being fixed into place, the deadly hiss of the blade and the merciless cheers of the crowd.

And the blood that had spattered the hem of her gown.

“Angel?”

She dragged her gaze from the carriage window to meet Sinclair’s concerned eyes.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. He had leaned forward from the seat opposite, his hand reaching out to cover hers. For the first time she realized how rigid she held herself.

“No.” She drew in a steadying breath, relaxing her muscles.”I was woolgathering, that’s all.”

She could not tell whether he accepted this explanation or not. But he withdrew his hand, leaning back. His touch had called her back to the present. She did not look out the window again, but focused her concentration upon Sinclair and the night ahead of them.

He looked magnificent in his black evening clothes and white silk waistcoat, his dark hair swept back, his cravat tied with his customary careless grace.

The only ornament he wore was a heavy ruby ring, which flashed against his tanned fingers.

He could have been a gentleman bent on a night of carousing at some discreetly fashionable gaming hall or a courtesan’s salons, equally as well as prepared to attend this sort of government reception.

He could take his place anywhere by right of a kind of arrogance, that cheerful ‘take me as I am or be damned’ aura that Belle envied him.

She wondered again where he had spent the afternoon.

He had been gone a long time, or had it only seemed that way to her, ever alert for his return?

She had been bathing when she heard him stirring about in the room next to hers, but she had not seen him until she stood in the antechamber ready to leave and be handed into the carriage.

She had expected a certain awkwardness between them.

After all, the man had nearly made love to her on the drawing room floor, but any constraint was dispelled by Sinclair’s remarking that since his afternoon’s jaunt, he was now thoroughly familiar with all the sorts of mud to be found in Paris.

She had laughed, and once more they were at ease with each other.

Indeed, Belle was finding it difficult to imagine ever being estranged from Sinclair for long.

He appeared completely relaxed as their coach finally crept past the gates, drawing closer to the palace itself.

The Tuileries was ablaze with light. Time appeared to have been turned back to the days of the glorious Sun King, Louis XIV, for whom the palace had been built.

Moonlight skimmed over the palace’s massive seven stories, revealing to Belle that the scars to the woodwork and the broken windows had all been repaired as though the angry mob had never dared storm this majestic dwelling.

As the carriage drew to a halt in front of the palace, the coach door was opened by a footman, but Sinclair leapt down to hand her out himself.

As she placed her gloved hand within his, their eyes met, and although the smile Sinclair gave her was casual, his gaze was not.

She knew then that she had been fooling herself to think that either of them could forget what had happened in the drawing room.

The awareness of something begun and not finished crackled between them.

Although the contact of his hand upon hers was fleeting, it was enough to quicken her blood, adding to the excitement she already felt at the prospect of meeting Napoleon. Anticipation mingled with a sense of danger as she entered the palace.

Within the antechamber to the reception hall, other arrivals were already removing their cloaks, handing them off to servants garbed in blue and gold livery.

Belle and Sinclair found it difficult to move forward for a party of chattering young ladies.

Despite the autumn chill, the demoiselles were attired in gowns of thin muslin cut in the Grecian style, the sheer fabric clinging to nubile young bodies, making it obvious they wore nothing underneath but pink tights.

Sinclair paused in the act of helping Belle off with her cloak, too much the male not to avail himself of an interested stare.

“The latest fashion in Paris, Mr. Carrington. Do you approve?”

“That all depends.” Sinclair shifted his gaze back to Belle, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you intend to adopt it?”

“Alas, no, I am supposed to be a proper English lady on this journey, remember?”

“More’s the pity.” Sinclair sighed. But his teasing expression vanished as he slipped the cloak the rest of the way from Belle’s shoulders.

He had seen Belle’s beauty in many guises, but tonight she appeared an ethereal vision, a queen stepped from the pages of legend, a Helen of Troy.

Her womanly curves were accented by a high-waisted gown of white silk, gleaming beneath an overtunic of silvery gauze, with a long train sweeping behind.

Gloves drawn up to the elbow emphasized the slenderness of her arms. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, the soft curls wisped about her cheeks and forehead, a netting of tiny pearls winding mistlike through the golden strands.

“On second thought,” Sinclair murmured in her ear, “forget the Paris fashions. I will settle for the proper English lady.”

“You are too kind, sir.” Although she acknowledged his compliment with a mocking smile, the color heightened in her cheeks. Gracefully gathering the train of her gown over one arm, she linked her other arm through Sinclair’s, resting her hand lightly on his coat sleeve.

As they joined the line moving into the reception room, Sinclair glanced down at her with a swelling of pride.

Absurd, he thought. He behaved as though she belonged to him.

But in a sense tonight she did. To the world about him she was Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, his wife.

He could see the curious, half-envious stares of the other women, the open admiration of the men.

Did Belle realize the sensation she caused?

There was no way of telling from the proud, unconcerned lift of her chin.

On one level Sinclair believed that she did, not out of vanity, but with an almost cynical acceptance, regarding the men who ogled her as foolish.

But he doubted that Belle would ever really appreciate what havoc her beauty could wreak upon a man’s heart.

As they stepped inside the reception room, Belle felt tempted to reach for her fan.

The press of people, the fire banked high in the great marble fireplace, the glow of candles shining off the bright yellow cast of the walls gave her the feeling of having walked into a blaze of sunshine.

Obviously neither the first consul nor his lady had yet made their appearance through the huge double doors at the opposite end of the room.

The guests milled about talking, giving Belle the leisure to observe a crowd no less brilliant than the glittering candelabra.

The ladies appeared in a profusion of diamonds, feathers, and silks, their cheeks rouged with the Parisians’ unashamed regard for cosmetics, which made Belle feel pale as a ghost by comparison.

As for the gentlemen, dashing uniforms weighted with medals mingled side by side with crisp evening coats and the more fantastic wasp-waists of those French dandies known as the Incroyables.

Perhaps it was not the same august assemblage that had once graced the halls of a king.

Here and there Belle caught snatches of vulgar language, the odor of doubtful linen, a glimpse of muddy shoes, which never would have been tolerated at Versailles, but this was still the respectable world of Paris.