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The world that she had once sought to belong to as Jean-Claude’s wife.

But she had never been quite at ease, ever aware of being the actress’s daughter from Drury Lane, always waiting to be found out.

So many years had passed since then, but so little had changed.

She crept into their midst, still the imposter.

Belle snapped out of her musings as she realized she and Sinclair were being approached by the English ambassador.

He introduced himself and as they were supposedly there according to his auspices, Belle favored him with a gracious smile.

His lordship must have been quite accustomed to his staff selling invitations to unknown English travelers.

His interest in them was polite, but distant.

As the ambassador moved on, Sinclair whispered in her ear, “You look ravishing tonight, Angel. But I fear that gentleman’s stares over there are a little excessive. Do you know him?”

Following Sinclair’s nudge, Belle casually fixed her attention upon a lean man standing in the shadow of one of the chamber’s massive pillars. The fellow studied her from beneath an unprepossessing shock of yellow hair, his wan skin appearing stretched too tautly over sharp features.

“Fouché!” Belle tightened her grip on Sinclair’s arm.

At his enquiring gaze, she explained in low tones, “He was Napoleon’s minister of police up until a few months ago.

He is believed to have been dismissed because Bonaparte feels secure enough to deem Fouché’s services no longer necessary.

The on dit is that Fouché would give a great deal to prove Monsieur Bonaparte wrong. ”

“Marvelous,” Sinclair said through gritted teeth. “The former minister of police. And now he is coming this way.”

“So he is.” Belle fluttered her fan before her eyes. “Keep smiling, my dear husband.”

She would have wagered that no other man in the room looked more relaxed or gracious than Sinclair, only she herself aware of the tension that stiffened his arm, perhaps because she felt that same tension knotting in her stomach as Joseph Fouché edged toward them through the press of people.

Fouché pulled up short, snapping into an ingratiating bow, but Belle noted his eyes never wavered from her face. Ferret-like eyes, she thought, repressing a shudder. She had never liked the cast of them.

“Forgive my impertinence, madame, monsieur,” Fouché said. “May I make so bold as to present myself—Joseph Fouché.”

“Sinclair Carrington,” Sinclair replied easily, “and my wife, Isabelle.”

“Isabelle. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” Fouché compliment seemd as insincere as his smile.”I must confess that it was the sight of you, madame, that rendered me so bold. As foolish as it may sound, I have the feeling we have met before.”

Belle’s heart thudded, but she met Fouché’s speculative stare. “I do not believe so, monsieur.”

There was finality in her tone, but Fouché was not so easily dismissed. “But such beauty one does not forget.” He stroked his chin, his eyes narrowing. “In Paris, I believe, during the Revolution?—”

“No one with any wisdom lived in Paris during the Revolution, monsieur.”

“I did.” Fouché’s manner of strained geniality vanished for a moment. “You look so extraordinarily like an unfortunate lady I saw summoned to face charges of treason before the Revolutionary Tribunal.”

“Ridiculous, monsieur,” Sinclair growled. “This is the first time my wife has ever been to Paris.”

Belle affected to lay a soothing hand on Sinclair’s arm. “Please, my dear. I am sure Monsieur Fouché intends no offense. It would not be unusual if I did resemble at least one of those wretched people. It is my understanding that half of Paris was called to trial before that court.”

“Not quite so many as that, madame, but most who were did not survive to talk about it.”

“And some,” Belle retorted before she could stop herself, “possessed the uncanny ability to survive no matter what the cost.”

Fouché’s pale skin washed a shade of dull red, his lips giving an angry twitch. “Well, it would seem I was quite mistaken. Your pardon for having disturbed you, madame.”

He bowed stiffly and stalked away. Sinclair vented his breath in a manner that was part curse, part a sigh of relief. Belle discovered that her hand was shaking, but more from anger than alarm.

“Disgusting viper,” she said. “He dares talk to me of surviving when he made his own way through the Revolution along a path paved in blood. He was one of those who found the guillotine too slow, and organized a plan to have the condemned lined up in front of cannons.”

“Disgusting he might be, Angel, but vipers can also be dangerous. Did Fouché see you on trial?”

“He might have, but I doubt it. He had had a falling out with Robespierre at that time and was running for his own miserable life.”

“But if he should remember you,” Sinclair persisted, “as the woman tried for being the Avenging Angel and rescuing aristocrats?—”

“No one could possibly remember me from those days,” Belle said. “Do you have any notion what I looked like after weeks in prison? The rats that scurried along the floor of the Conciergerie were more attractive.”

Sinclair said nothing more, but his doubts remained. Belle possessed a beauty that no prison pallor could have disguised. Her eyes alone would have been enough to haunt a man’s dreams.

All concerns about Fouché had to be set aside for the moment. The double doors at the end of the room were flung open. A hush fell over the room as the assembled company divided into two respectful lines, leaving a path between them.

Josephine Bonaparte made her entrance on the arm of that wily old statesman, Talleyrand.

The Creole beauty’s braided hair was fixed into place with a shell comb, her graceful form garbed in a silk robe with short sleeves.

Her regal bearing attracted so much attention that the man who slipped into the reception room behind her went unnoticed and unheralded.

But Belle’s attention riveted upon Napoleon Bonaparte.

Attired in a simple uniform, a blue coat with white cashmere breeches, he wore a tricolored sash of silk tied round his waist, his hat tucked under his arm.

He appeared far less dashing in contrast to the other military men with their embroidered coats overloaded with ribbons and jewels.

And yet his very simplicity made Bonaparte seem so much more the soldier.

Still, it was hard to credit that this unassuming person could be the man whose ambitions set most of Europe atremble, the brilliant general who had spilled his share of English blood. He bore no resemblance to the formidable villain depicted in the British press.

As Bonaparte moved down the line of guests, Belle was struck once more by his sense of restrained energy.

She had a clearer view of his face than when he had passed her by on horseback.

His skin was of a marble whiteness, his brow wide and high, his smile surprisingly gracious.

She could discern none of his remarks until he stood but two persons away from her.

Disconcertingly blunt, he put more than one lady to the blush.

Pausing before one of the young demoiselles Belle and Sinclair had noticed earlier, Bonaparte remarked to his equerry, “See to it that the fires are banked higher in here. I fear for the ladies’ health, as some of them are nearly naked. ”

A choke of laughter escaped Belle at the pert misses’ disconcerted expressions.

The sound drew Bonaparte’s attention. As he turned in her direction, Belle felt the full force of his eyes, large and bluish-gray.

The first consul studied her, appearing not to miss a single detail.

It would have been Belle’s manner to meet his challenge boldly as she always did Sinclair’s raking gaze.

But Sinclair enjoyed their silent battles of will.

Somehow Belle sensed that such a thing would not serve with Bonaparte, who reportedly liked his women all soft femininity.

As Napoleon approached, she sank into a low curtsy, her eyes cast demurely down.

“And this is?” he asked.

Belle heard the English ambassador’s bored voice intone, “Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, newly arrived in Paris, Your Excellency.”

Sinclair bowed and murmured his greeting. Stealing a glance upward, Belle noted how the two men measured each other.

Bonaparte commented at last, “You are tall, Monsieur Carrington. You have the build of a cavalry officer.”

Sinclair started perceptibly at his words, but he said smoothly, “The build, sir, but not the ability. I have no taste for the soldiering life.”

“That is as well.” Bonaparte offered him a taut smile. “You would be fighting in the wrong army.” He turned abruptly to Belle. “You are possessed of a most beautiful wife. She should provide you with many handsome children.”

It was all Belle could do to stifle a small gasp. She was accustomed to dealing with compliments, but none so roughly delivered.

“How many babes have you?” Bonaparte demanded.

“None so far.” Sinclair struggled to hide his amusement. “We are but newly married.”

“See that you get some soon.”

Bonaparte’s words touched Belle on the raw, an unexpected thrust at her own private grief.

“I would be only too pleased to follow Your Excellency’s command, if in my case the doctors did not deem it impossible.” The quiet rebuke in her voice was obvious.

Appearing disconcerted by his blunder, the first consul nodded and moved on. As she watched him retreat, Belle could have slapped herself. What an opportunity she had lost. The admiring light in Bonaparte’s eyes had vanished. She had obviously made him feel like a boorish idiot.

What the devil was wrong with her? She knew far more adept ways of turning aside his blunt remarks. Instead she had let herself be betrayed into being brutally honest. Once she had been far better at concealing her feelings.