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“What time did the meeting with this hooded figure take place? Do you have any idea?”

“I know precisely. Quarter past one.”

“Quarter past one! Are you certain?” Sinclair could not conceal the excitement in his voice.

“Yes, I am. Is the time important?”

Not to you, Mr. Warburton, Sinclair thought, or the British army. But to Sinclair Carrington it was as though the world had been lifted off his shoulders. At quarter past one Belle had been in the apartment with him, staring out at the rain.

Sinclair wanted to fling back his head and shout his relief aloud. He had the urge to laugh and astonish the solemn Mr. Warburton with a hearty slap on the back. He could have embraced the fellow except there was someone else he would far rather embrace instead.

Sinclair contented himself with a broad grin. “Well, you gentlemen seem to be doing an excellent job of settling this affair. I scarce see what you need me for.”

Warburton shot him a reproachful glance. “There is the small matter that this counteragent supplying the information has still not been identified. We had rather hoped you would start doing something from your end.”

“I have a notion who your man might be, but I have no proof as yet.” Sinclair thought of how Lazare’s whereabouts at the crucial time were unaccounted for, to say nothing of Lazare’s furtive behavior later in the afternoon.

Some of Sinclair’s relief at discovering Belle’s innocence evaporated as a grim fact occurred to him.

As long as the real counteragent remained unchecked, she, as the leader of this plot to abduct Napoleon, stood in more danger than anyone. The thought sobered Sinclair at once.

“Was any other information passed?” he asked Warburton.

The under secretary looked puzzled by Sinclair’s abrupt demand.

“The group I have infiltrated is plotting to abduct Bonaparte,” Sinclair explained. “Was there any hint of that in the message passed today?”

Warburton frowned. “Not as near as we could tell.”

Sinclair found the man’s answer far from satisfactory and not a little strange. If Lazare was the counteragent, what was he waiting for? Perhaps for Belle to finalize the details so that the information he passed would be specific?

“It would be a good thing if this counterspy could be stopped before he does decide to lay information about the plot,” Warburton said.

Sinclair heartily concurred.

“I say, Carrington. Do you think there is any chance Merchant’s group could succeed in their endeavor?”

Sinclair shrugged. Between trying to detect the counteragent and worrying it might prove to be Belle, he had not given the objective to capture Napoleon much serious consideration.

“If the counteragent could be stopped,” Warburton said, “and you could still bring about the abduction of Bonaparte, I do not think either the army or the diplomatic corps would raise any objections about your participation in such a maneuver.”

“How very generous of them, I’m sure,” Sinclair said wryly. He dropped his cheroot and ground it out beneath his heel. “I trust you will find a way to keep me posted of any further developments here at the palace.”

“Of course,” Warburton said.

Judging that they had been in each other’s company long enough, Sinclair suggested they return to the salon. Any longer an absence might draw unwanted attention.

As the two men reentered the reception area, they drifted apart, Sinclair’s thoughts already no longer with Warburton.

The under secretary’s remarks had raised a new problem for him.

If he did expose Lazare in time, should he permit Belle to go ahead with Merchant’s mad scheme?

Could she succeed in abducting the most important man in France—perhaps in all of Europe?

He glanced about the crowded reception chamber. Both Belle and the first consul were conspicuous by their absence. He experienced a growing sense of unease as he consulted his watch.

He would give her five more minutes. If she was not back, the abduction plot, the British army, and Bonaparte could all be damned. He didn’t care if all of Paris sneered at him for a jealous husband. He was going after her.

“And over there”—Bonaparte tapped his finger against the window’s night-darkened pane—“is the house where I once watched the mobs break through the fence to get at the king.” He indicated the outline of a distant building beyond the iron fence surrounding the Tuileries Gardens. “It was a very hot summer’s day.”

Belle remembered it well herself. August tenth.

She had not been there to witness the event, but the word had spread fast about the mob descending upon the king’s palace, the king and his family forced to flee for protection to where the assembly sat.

But Belle’s concern had not been for the fate of the gentle King Louis.

She had been terrified that the unreasoning mob might also attack the assembly, of which Jean-Claude had been a member.

“The king was too soft. He should have ordered his Swiss guard to fire. He could have scattered that rabble.” Bonaparte mused. “It is not enough to inhabit the Tuileries. One must remain here.”

The consul’s eyes darkened with ferocity. “But just let the mob ever try to come here again?—”

He left the threat uncompleted, but a chill coursed through Belle.

From the hour’s conversation they had shared, she sensed that for all his unexpected charm, this Bonaparte knew how to be ruthless to his enemies.

If her plan failed, despite his seeming admiration for her beauty, she knew she could expect little mercy.

His fierce expression faded as quickly as it had come. “I fear I have absented myself from the reception too long. These affairs are a boring nuisance, but necessary. One who governs should not be aloof. In any case, I fear I have wearied you with my discourse.”

Belle assured him this was not the case.

He was a fascinating talker, extremely gregarious.

It had not been difficult to draw him out, elicit his most decided opinions on art, history, and literature.

He had not much use for novels, declaring them fit reading only for chambermaids, but he was fond of music, and most especially the theater.

In fact, he was willing to talk to her of anything, as long as it concerned matters of no real importance. Belle detected a certain hint of male patronage in that he would never burden a woman’s mind with anything beyond her comprehension such as military or political matters.

Still, he had behaved in a gentlemanly fashion, and Belle could not deny that she had enjoyed the hour spent in his company. But she felt no further along with finding a way to accomplish her purpose in coming to Paris.

She had no choice now but to allow him to conduct her back to the reception salon. Before they crossed the threshold, he surprised her by stopping suddenly, placing his hand on her arm. She noted the whiteness of his fingers not much larger than her own.

“I should like to see you again, madame,” he said in his usual direct fashion. “Would you sup with me some evening?”

Before she could reply, he added, “Alone.”

Belle did not pretend to be coy or to misunderstand his meaning. She had to lower her lashes to conceal her elation. A supper alone with him, presumably without his guards in attendance. Her heart pounded so violently she feared he would hear it.

“I should like that,” she said. “My husband frequently goes out to enjoy the gaming houses in the Palais?Royal, but I have no taste for such.”

“Nor have I.” He raised her hand to his lips and saluted it with a brusque kiss. “I shall send my valet Constant to you to settle the date.”

Belle hoped he mistook the excited flush mounting into her cheeks as gratification at this mark of his favor. But she saw she need not have worried. His attention had already been claimed from her by the reception salon. He surveyed the crowded chamber with satisfaction.

“The Due de Nanterre has finally put in his appearance,” Bonaparte said, nodding toward an elderly gentleman.

“Many of those stiff-necked emigres have been accepting my invitation to return. They finally see that France can be better rebuilt through me than a doddering Bourbon king. When the Comte de Egremont arrives, I shall count this evening a complete success.”

Bonaparte’s last remark brought an abrupt end to Belle’s mood of elation, driving the blood from her cheeks. “The Comte,” she faltered.

“Egremont. Jean-Claude Varens.”

“You expect him here tonight?” How Belle kept her voice steady, she did not know.

Bonaparte angled a curious glance at her. “You know him?”

Belle concealed her dismay behind her fan. “I met him in London once.”

“He emigrated to England. I am glad a man of such ancient family now chooses to resume his life in France.” Despite his expressed pleasure, the consul’s brow was marred by a frown. “Except that he is a divorced man. Did you know that?”

“I—I—no, I didn’t.”

“Apparently he separated from his wife during the Revolution, as so many men did. I suppose divorce was bound to come under our legislation, but I think it a great misfortune that it should become a national habit. What becomes of husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers, yet unable to forget one another?”

Belle shook her head, glad to see that he did not expect an answer to his impassioned speech. Her throat had become so constricted she doubted she could have given him one. She felt grateful to see Sinclair approaching, although he was not looking quite calm himself.

“Ah, Mr. Carrington,” Bonaparte said. “I have enjoyed the company of your lovely lady. As you see, I have brought her back to you.”

“Excessively gracious of Your Excellency.” Sinclair’s voice carried a hard edge to it. For one playacting the jealous, suspicious husband, Belle feared he was doing too good of a job.