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Flushing with chagrin, she scarce dared look at Sinclair. He had good cause to be aggravated with her clumsiness, but his eyes reflected only concern.

“What a wonderful beginning,” she muttered. “I shall have to go after him and apologize.”

“The man should apologize to you, Angel. He was damned impertinent.”

Yes, but she was the one hoping to ingratiate herself with Bonaparte with a view to arranging his abduction, not the other way around. Belle refrained from reminding Sinclair of that fact, lapsing into a dour silence.

Her spirits did not improve as the evening wore on.

Bonaparte, making his rounds of the guests, took great care not to come near her again.

Although it was far from being the end of her plans, Belle could not help reflecting how much easier her task might have been, if only she had managed to exert a little charm.

“Why don’t you join Madame Bonaparte’s circle?” she suggested to Sinclair at last. “Perhaps you can glean some information from her that might be useful. I have not proved to be much help.”

“Belle.” Sinclair’s tone was warm, admonishing.

“Away with you,” she said. “There is nothing more ridiculous than a husband hanging upon his wife’s sleeve. You will have all the men of Paris saying I have you under the cat’s paw.”

He gave her a wry grin. With some reluctance he moved off to obey her command.

Belle unfurled her fan before her face and continued to brood over her error.

What had happened to her customary sangfroid?

Ever since her return to Paris, her emotions seemed far too near the surface.

It was as though the carefully constructed barriers around her heart were beginning to crumple.

She began to find the reception room unbearable.

The heat, the crush of people, the endless chatter started the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes.

When she noticed Fouché about to close in on her again, she felt unequal to dealing with him.

Seeking escape, she slipped out the main door.

If nothing else, she might at least glean some notion of the layout of the palace.

But she soon dismissed any idea of attempting the abduction from the Tuileries as absurd. Although she was permitted to wander the corridors, the members of the consular guard appeared everywhere, discreetly following her movements with their eyes.

She did not find herself alone until she reached a dimly lit hall ornamented with busts set upon pedestals. Most of them depicted classical figures: Brutus, Cicero, Hannibal, Alexander, but a few represented more modern statesmen, Frederick the Great, Washington and Mirabeau.

She paused before the last statue, absently returning the figure’s vacant stare of stone. A low voice came from behind, startling her.

“That is Julius Caesar, possibly the greatest general who ever lived, in my opinion.”

Belle spun about to find Napoleon Bonaparte watching her, barely a yard away. Was he now further annoyed to find her wandering in a part of the palace where she did not belong? His grave expression told her nothing.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I daresay I should not have wandered in here.”

When he did not reply, she made a stiff curtsy and attempted to slip past him.

“Stay,” he said, then softened the command with an added, “Please. It is I who must ask your pardon for the distress I caused you earlier. Madame, can you forgive a soldier’s blunt manners?”

Belle expelled a long, slow breath, her thoughts racing. Could it be that she was being offered another chance? This time she must weigh her remarks far more carefully.

“The fault was mine, sir,” she said, “for being so foolish. I am not usually oversensitive, but some things I have not found easy to bear. I should not blame you if you held me in contempt. Being such a bold soldier yourself, you must?—”

“Madame, there is as much courage in bearing with a sorrow of the heart as in facing a battery of guns.”

His solemn answer surprised her, a surprise that she could not quite conceal.

“Do I astonish you, madame?”

“Yes, you are quite different from what I had been led to expect.”

“No doubt by your British papers. I forbid their circulation here in France. The lies they spread. They make me out a gorgon with two heads, do they not? Come, tell me.”

With a slight smile Belle said, “Well, I have heard mothers warning their children, ‘Baby, baby, he’s a giant. Tall and black as Raven steeple. And he dines and sups, rely on’t, every day on naughty people.’ “

Bonaparte looked nonplussed, and for moment Belle feared she had gone too far. Then to her relief, the first consul flung back his head and laughed.

“And what about you? Are you a naughty person, Madame Carrington?”

Touching her fan to her cheek, a wicked arch of her brows was the only answer Belle gave.

Napoleon’s mouth widened into a smile, warmth firing his stern gaze as he stepped closer. “I confess that I have not a high regard for your country, madame. I thought naught came from London but pestilence, all the great evils of the world. But 1 might be persuaded to change my mind.”

Sinclair lingered on the fringes of the laughing crowd surrounding Madame Bonaparte. Although the Creole had smiled upon him, and he was given enough encouragement to wend his way to her side, Sinclair’s heart was not in the task.

He had been aware of the moment when Belle had slipped out of the room, and his gaze had followed her anxiously, knowing how distressed she was, although she sought to conceal it.

He had also observed Bonaparte going after her, realizing the implications as did half the room, judging from the smirking faces.

Sinclair found himself prey to a ridiculous range of emotions, jealousy and suspicion as to her motives warring with fear for her safety.

With sly glances cast toward him, the role of complacent husband became difficult to play.

Despite the fact he would likely make an idiot of himself, the urge to charge after her was strong and only increased as the minutes ticked by and she did not return.

Taking a restless step, Sinclair backed into a young man dogging his heels. Sinclair curtly begged his pardon and started to brush past him.

The man coughed diffidently. “Mr. Carrington?”

“That’s correct.” Although he smiled politely, Sinclair made another attempt to evade the man.

“Warburton’s the name. I am under secretary to the ambassador.”

He looked like one, Sinclair thought. Modestly dressed, with nondescript features, Warburton was the sort of fellow one would forget five minutes after meeting him.

“It was I who arranged for your invitation to the reception,” Warburton said, modestly lowering his eyes.

So this then was the agreeable person Baptiste had bribed. Sinclair swallowed the urge to retort that he hoped Warburton had put the money to good use.

“Most kind of you,” he said, making another effort to slip past the man. But for one so timid-looking, Warburton was persistent.

“I particularly wanted to meet you, Mr. Carrington. You see, we have a mutual friend. Colonel Darlington.”

Sinclair halted, glancing sharply at Warburton. Of a sudden the man appeared not so meek, his eyes knowing.

“Indeed?” Sinclair said in cautious tones. “Myself, I have not heard from the colonel in some time.”

“I have. Quite recently. The colonel is most concerned over the sad state of English coastlines, erosion, that sort of thing, the changing shoreline.” The under secretary flashed a bland smile. “Still, with accurate maps, I suppose one might gain a good idea of the damage to be inflicted.”

“Yes, if such maps were available,” Sinclair said, never taking his eyes from Warburton’s face.

“They seem to be everywhere these days. Some have even turned up here in Paris.” He met Sinclair’s stare without flinching, and in the pause that ensued, Sinclair realized that they understood each other clearly.

“It is very stuffy in here,” Warburton said, still smiling. “Perhaps we could step out through those windows into the garden for a breath of air.”

Sinclair nodded. “I could do with a smoke.”

Nothing more was said until they emerged through the window, the chili of the autumn night striking Sinclair.

He welcomed it after the heat of the reception room, even more so for the fact that the brisk temperature kept all the other guests inside.

The garden was a mass of rustling shadows except for the dim lighting provided by a suspended Argand lamp.

Sinclair moved the glass lantern aside long enough to light his cheroot from the glowing wick.

He offered a cigar to Warburton, who refused.

Sinclair inhaled deeply, then said, “Perhaps now you will explain yourself more clearly, Mr. Warburton.”

“I, too, have been commissioned into service by Colonel Darlington.”

“I gathered that or we wouldn’t be talking now. The colonel told me I could expect to find an ally here in Paris.”

“More than one, sir. Another of our agents is also present on these grounds. He works here as a gardener. It was he who discovered that a very accurate accounting of the warships in Portsmouth naval yard has been passed to the enemy, along with some maps drawn of coastline around that area.”

“And this was a recent acquisition?”

“Passed this very afternoon. At a meeting held in the guardhouse.”

“Did this gardener agent see the spy who brought the information?” Sinclair felt his stomach knot. He almost dreaded Warburton’s answer.

“No, the informant was cloaked and hooded, the meeting brief, broken off when the guard was summoned by a courier demanding admittance at the gates. Our man could not draw near enough to hear clearly, nor could he follow the informant without rousing suspicion. We didn’t even know what was passed, except that later our agent had the opportunity to overhear when the material was passed along to the first consul’s secretary. ”