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But Bonaparte looked more amused than annoyed by Sinclair’s scowl. He extended an invitation to both of them to attend his upcoming military review and then moved off and was soon seen to be deep in conversation with Talleyrand.

Sinclair glowered after the first consul before shifting his gaze to Belle. “What the devil has Bonaparte been saying to you? You look pale as a sheet.”

“Nothing,” Belle lied. “It all went splendidly. I am to have supper with him. It is only I have developed the most dreadful headache. I would appreciate leaving now.”

Sinclair favored her with a hard stare, but he asked no further questions, much to Belle’s relief.

She wished for nothing but to retrieve her cloak and be gone as quickly as possible.

She felt herself to be a coward, but knew she could not endure the prospect of encountering Jean-Claude again, not here.

Leaning upon Sinclair’s arm for support, she permitted him to guide her through the press of people, but once more her luck was out. A familiar slender figure blocked the doorway, his somber black attire and melancholy air seeming out of place amidst all the gay chatter.

Belle felt her heart sicken within her. Sinclair halted with a sharp intake of breath. “Varens. What the devil—” His gaze shifted to Belle. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he was due to arrive.”

Belle abandoned any further attempt at pretense. “Yes, Bonaparte mentioned it to me just a moment ago.”

“What in blazes is Varens doing here? I assumed he had retired to his estates in the country.”

“So did I.” Belle’s mind reeled in disbelief as she watched Bonaparte approach Jean-Claude. The comte greeted the first consul with obvious reluctance.

“Belle, there is something I need to ask you,” Sinclair said, his voice low, urgent. “Does Jean-Claude know Lazare?”

Belle dragged her eyes from Jean-Claude long enough to frown at Sinclair, astonished by his peculiar question. “Of course not. Lazare came into my life long after Jean-Claude and I were divorced.”

“But is it possible that Jean-Claude met Lazare somewhere on his own? I never mentioned the matter before, but there was a moment aboard the packet boat when I had the impression they knew each other.”

“Lazare is not the sort of man Jean-Claude would know.” Belle scarce knew why her reply came so sharp.

Sinclair’s suggestion sounded harmless enough on the surface.

Why then did she feel as though he had slandered Jean?Claude’s honor?

She passed her hand wearily over her brow.

“I would truly appreciate it if you would summon our carriage. I just want to get out of here.”

Sinclair appeared as though there was much more he would like to have said, but he nodded, giving her shoulder a compassionate squeeze. As he hastened off to fulfill her request, Belle had a strong urge to lose herself in the crowd.

Her pride rebelled, and in the end she placed herself so that inevitably, she must fall under Jean-Claude’s gaze. He had just finished speaking to Napoleon and was stepping farther into the room.

He blanched at the sight of her, the shock obviously greater to him. She at least had been forewarned. But Jean-Claude was quick to recover. Looking right through her, he prepared to turn in the opposite direction.

Anger flashed through Belle. Did he think she was going to keep letting it be that easy for him?

She had allowed him to brush her off in Portsmouth.

Napoleon’s words echoed through Belle’s mind-husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers to each other.

But she and Jean-Claude were not strangers.

She had to acknowledge that fact; so should he.

With a quick movement she placed herself in his way. “Monsieur le Comte,” she said, sweeping him a brittle curtsy.

He started, the muscles in his face working, making a great effort at keeping his features impassive. “Madame Carrington.”

“How astonished I am to see you here in Paris. I thought you had gone back to Merevale.” She had not meant her remark to be an accusation, but somehow it came out that way.

“Egremont is no longer mine, madame,” Jean-Claude said “Although the first consul has been gracious enough to pardon emigres, lands were only returned if they had not been sold off. Unfortunately for me, that was not the case.” He could not disguise his bitterness or his pain.

“Jean-Claude, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.” She touched his hand, but he flinched from her.

“Still so unforgiving?” she cried. “How long, Jean-Claude? I know I once did you a great injury, but how long will you continue to curse me for it?”

“I believed we had settled that issue years ago, madame.” The coldness in his voice struck deep into her heart.

“Nothing was ever settled,” she said. “You refused to listen to me.”

His gaze skated past her to the door. “Your husband awaits you, madame. You’d best be going.”

Belle gritted her teeth, beset by a desire to lash out, to hurt him as he was hurting her. “Sinclair is not my husband. I only live with him.”

Jean-Claude’s eyes widened with shock.

“You should not be so surprised,” she taunted. “What more would one expect from the lowborn bastard of an actress?”

He flinched, and Belle knew that she had drawn blood at last, but she took no satisfaction in it. Blindly she turned, seeking the door and the support of Sinclair’s strong arm.

White-lipped, Jean-Claude watched her go.

He saw Carrington wrap Isabelle’s cloak about her, noted with agony the tenderness conveyed in the simple gesture.

Carrington, her lover. The knife Belle’s words had plunged in Jean-Claude twisted.

Despite all the bitter recriminations he spoke against her in his heart, he did not want to believe that she was capable of playing the harlot in any man’s bed.

Whore? It was not a word he could bring himself to apply to Isabelle. In spite of her background, her deceits, he knew that some part of her remained innocent, untouched.

There had been such longing, such genuine sorrow in her lovely face when she had reached out to him a moment ago. He rubbed his hand where she had caressed him, her touch so butterfly soft. He thought he would have given anything not to have pulled away.

It would have been better had he never seen her again. Better still if he had not returned to France at all, trembling once more on the brink of events that portended to sweep beyond his control.

And yet he had a debt to repay, to his ancient family name, to his son’s heritage, to the gentle king whom Jean-Claude had failed. In a future so fraught with danger and uncertainty, he had no business to be thinking of Isabelle at all.

But her image persisted, her words echoing through his mind.

“Sinclair is not my husband.” Isabelle had not married again.

No matter what else she had said in the heat of her anger, one fact remained.

She had bound herself to no other man. Despite the bleakness that was his life, for the first time in years, Jean-Claude Varens felt a thread of hope.