Page 41

Twelve

W hen Belle awoke hours later, she bore vague memories of Sinclair tucking her in, the feel of his warm lips grazing her forehead. The recollection was marred by the impression of a tension in the hands that had so tenderly pulled the coverlet up to her chin, a glimpse of an anxious frown.

Though why that should be, she could not say. She tried to recall the conversation they had been having when she had drifted off to sleep, but her memories of it were hazy. In the end she dismissed her misgivings as imagination, more pressing matters crowding forward to occupy her mind.

The promised invitation from Bonaparte arrived that afternoon, setting the date of their supper for a week hence, to be held at his private apartments in the palace of Saint-Cloud, some twelve miles outside of Paris.

One week, Belle reflected as she smoothed her hand over the crisp sheet of vellum. That did not give her much time.

The ensuing days passed in a flurry of activity.

To avoid any hint of suspicion, she and Sinclair continued to play their role as the typical English couple touring abroad, accepting invitations to some of the salons, being seen walking along the Petite Coblentz at the fashionable hour, exploring the Louvre like the other foreign visitors to gawk at the masterpieces Napoleon had plundered from the nations he had conquered.

Contrasting to these public appearances were the clandestine meetings with Baptiste, Crecy, and Lazare to finalize the plans for the abduction.

These sessions proved long, the arguments many.

Lazare favored waylaying the first consul’s coach en route, The road to St. Cloud contained quarries where a contingent of armed men might easily be hidden.

But as Belle pointed out, Bonaparte was no fool.

She had gleaned the information that these quarries were always checked before Napoleon set out for St. Cloud.

She favored a more subtle approach. Their own men disguised as members of the consular guard would have a greater chance of drawing near to the coach, overpowering the escort before the deception was discovered,

While the merits of this suggestion were debated at length, Belle frequently found her attention wandering, her gaze tracking toward Sinclair.

It was most strange, she thought. Part of her reluctance to succumb to Sinclair’s charm had been her fear of the distracting effect it would have on their work.

Yet at most, when their eyes met, the warmth of a knowing glance would pass between them.

An accidental brushing of his hand upon hers would send a tingle rushing through her veins.

But she doubted that any could have guessed from the cool sophistication of their manner that their relationship was anything other than professional.

By day Monsieur and Madame Carrington presented the image of the well-bred married couple, courteous and dispassionate. Ah, but by night, in Sinclair’s arms, in the dark of her bedchamber, that was entirely another matter.

By the morning of the military review, five days had passed since the reception, and Belle felt able to relax somewhat.

Her plan had been adopted in the teeth of Lazare’s objections; most of the details had been settled.

Work on the light coach to which Bonaparte would be transferred was complete, some reliable men for added force recruited from Crecy’s servants, the stitching on the duplicate guard uniforms nearly finished.

Belle had naught to do but wait and continue to enact her part as the alluring Mrs. Carrington. As she prepared to dress to attend the review, she paused long enough to force open the window casement in her bedchamber.

The weather had turned unseasonably warm these past few days, the breeze whispering past the curtains seeming more borne of May than October.

Belle selected her lightest gown, a high-waisted walking dress of pearl-colored jaconet, the hem bordered with narrow tucks, then summoned Paulette to help her with her hair.

But the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be found.

Belle pulled a wry face. Paulette had been more flighty than usual of late, unreliable.

She supposed it might be the weather or the woman’s excitement at being back in Paris again.

It would not have surprised Belle if Paulette had found herself a lover somewhere.

Shrugging off her annoyance, Belle scooped up the hairbrush from the dressing table. She had indeed allowed herself to become a pampered dolt if she did not still know how to do her own hair.

Brushing the strands into an arrangement of soft curls, Belle donned a gypsy hat of straw, bending it into bonnet shape by use of a sky-blue ribbon. Fetching her silk-fringed parasol and a lace shawl, she headed briskly downstairs.

It did not surprise her to find both antechamber and drawing room empty. Punctuality, at least for social functions, she was rapidly discovering, was not amongst Sinclair’s list of virtues. But this particular time, for the military review, she did not intend that they should be late.

Marching back up to his room, she delivered a thundering summons against his door, but was disconcerted to discover that Sinclair was not in the apartment at all. He surely would have had no place to go at such an early hour. She could not imagine where he might be unless …

She had noted that Sinclair found time each day to stop below to pass a few minutes with Baptiste in his lodgings or the fan shop, a fact that pleased Belle.

Once accustomed to being surrounded by a large family, she knew that Baptiste was often lonely, the gregarious little Frenchman always glad of any company, ever proud to display his crafts.

Despite Baptiste’s initial wariness of Sinclair, she sensed that a liking had developed between the two men.

Likely that was where Sinclair was now. If she hurried down, she could visit with Baptiste herself for a moment, and they would still have time to attend the review.

Hastening below, she again met with disappointment.

A placard bearing the word closed had been placed in the shop’s front window.

That was as odd as Sinclair’s unexplained absence, Belle thought.

Today was the decadi , a proclaimed holiday.

But Baptiste had ever ignored the Revolutionary calendar, the decree that every tenth day should be treated as a day of rest.

Frowning in puzzlement, she went round to the back of the building where Baptiste had his lodgings behind the shop. She half-feared again to meet with no answer, but the door swung open at once with her first knock.

“Oh! Baptiste, you are here. Is Sinclair with—” She broke off in surprise as she obtained a better look at her old friend.

This was Baptiste as she had never seen him before.

Gone were the much-darned brown clothes and the leather apron.

Dressed in an old-fashioned, but immaculate green frock coat, he had knotted a modest white cravat and black tie about his throat.

In one work-worn hand he carried a gray felt hat trimmed with silk cord, his straggly salt and pepper hair smoothed back in neat waves.

“Why, Baptiste! You look trés beau .”

He blushed at her compliment, the red spreading from the tip of his nose across his leathery cheeks. He shrugged. “It is nothing, only the habillement I wear to mass.”

“But it is not Sunday. What is the occasion?”

“Did not Monsieur Carrington inform you?” Baptiste regarded her in rather anxious fashion.

“You see, I was telling him but yesterday afternoon that I had never taken the time to attend any of Bonaparte’s reviews.

They are acclaimed as quite the spectacle.

And if our plan succeeds, this could well be the last, so …

” He trailed off, staring humbly down at the brim of his hat.

“So Monsieur Carrington suggested you accompany us?” Belle asked with a smile.

“If you have no objections, mon ange .”

“Of course I do not object. But where is Sinclair? Have you not seen him this morning?”

When Baptiste answered in the negative, she frowned, the first stirrings of unease beginning to niggle at her.

“Are you sure he is not yet upstairs?” Baptiste asked. “Perhaps he lingers in the bath.”

Belle shook her head. “No, he has definitely gone out. Both his cloak and umbrella are missing.” She had noted some time ago, that rain or shine, Sinclair rarely stirred without his umbrella, an unusual affectation for an Englishman.

She could only suppose that he carried it for protection, likely having a swordstick concealed in the handle as many gentlemen were wont to do.

“Do not look so worried, mon ange ,” Baptiste said. “I am sure he will return in good time. I wish to check the shop once more to make certain the doors are secured, then I will meet you out front to search for him if you wish.”

Belle agreed absently. Moving away, she had already decided to check the apartment herself one more time in the event that Sinclair had returned while she talked with Baptiste.

As she started up the outer stairs, she was relieved to hear a footfall on the landing above her that seemed to pause just outside the apartment door.

“Sinclair?” she called out eagerly.

“I fear not,” a silky French voice drawled.

She heard the scrape of a boot as a tall masculine form emerged from the shadows above.

“Oh. Larare,” Belle said in flat tones of disappointment. She froze in mid-step. He continued to saunter down the stairs, taking each one with a slow deliberation, those cool blue eyes of his fixing her like ice picks.

Belle experienced a strong urge to retreat, although she could not have said why.

These past days Lazare had kept to his pledge of not giving her any trouble.

Aside from his usual brand of insolence, he seemed to acknowledge her position as leader, carrying out whatever commands she gave in his own grudging fashion.