Page 42

Yet she still did not relish the prospect of a tete-a-tete with him, something she had managed to avoid thus far.

His lips thinned to a sneer. “What, ma chére Isabelle? Never tell me you have misplaced the estimable Monsieur Carrington?”

“No,” she said coldly, not about to display any of her anxiety before Lazare’s sarcastic gaze. “Sinclair has simply gone out. When I heard you on the stair, I hoped it was him returning. We do have the review to attend this morning.”

“Ah, yes, one of Bonaparte’s infamous military displays. It would be a thousand pities if Monsieur Carrington did not return in time.”

Belle did not like the smile that accompanied Lazare’s words. He seemed to be taking a kind of sly amusement from the situation.

In no humor to be baited by the Frenchman’s blunt wit, she said nothing more, but turned and made a dignified exit, to stand outside, observing the morning bustle of pedestrians and carriages thronging the Rue St. Honoré, peering anxiously for some sign of Sinclair.

To her annoyance, Lazare followed her. He lounged in the open doorway, paring the dirt from beneath his nails with his knife. The sunlight accented the angel-white tint of his hair and flushed his scar a shade of dull angry red.

“Monsieur Carrington, he has a habit of wandering off, does he not?” Lazare asked as though making idle conversation.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” Belle said.

“It is just that I have noticed each day he has an errand that takes him somewhere, n’est pas ?”

Belle had not given the matter much consideration. At other times she had been much too occupied herself to keep track of the length of Sinclair’s brief absences. But now that she thought about it, she supposed that Lazare was right.

“Now, where do you imagine he goes?” Lazare purred.

“Out for a walk, to make a purchase, I don’t know,” Belle said. “Since I am not in truth his wife, I don’t keep him on that tight of a leash.”

A hint of irritation crept into Belle’s voice, although she determined to ignore Lazare and whatever he was attempting to insinuate about Sinclair. The Frenchman had a penchant for making mischief. It seemed as necessary to him as breathing.

“Very much the man of mystery, our Monsieur Carrington,” Lazare continued to muse, rubbing the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. “Have you ever found that strange, Isabelle? I have. After all, we all know a little something of one another, yet we know next to nothing about him.”

Although Belle kept her features impassive, she tensed.

How like Lazare to hit upon the one fact that did yet disturb her about Sinclair.

As intimate as she and Sinclair had become, his background did remain closed to her.

When he took her in his arms, touched her heart with that look of soul-deep understanding, she could tell herself she knew Sinclair well enough.

That his reluctance to discuss his own past did not matter and yet …

“Merchant considered Sinclair suitable enough to employ him,” Belle snapped at Lazare. “That is sufficient for me,”

“Is it? For moi , I am afraid not. I have never placed that much faith in Merchant’s judgment. Now, this Carrington—” Lazare wagged the tip of his knife at her. “He never seems to show that much enthusiasm for the little project that has brought us all to Paris.”

“I don’t ask for enthusiasm, just efficiency.”

Once more she had to admit to herself that Lazare spoke true.

At all their meetings Sinclair remained silent, never putting forth any suggestions, though Belle was certain his mind equaled her own when it came to weaving plots.

Sinclair had been reluctant from the first, yet he had undertaken the mission.

His lack of enthusiasm signified nothing.

All the same, Belle wished that Lazare would take himself off.

His voice was beginning to affect her like the rasp of a file on an iron bar.

She glanced once more up the street, annoyed to feel her foot begin to tap out a rhythm of nervous impatience.

“Maybe Carrington has lost his nerve,” Lazare said softly. “Maybe he has simply gone off and does not intend to come back.”

“I hardly think so.” She spun about to glare at Lazare. “Do you have nothing better to do than stand here jawing at me?”

Lazare ignored her tirade. His teeth glinted as he continued inexorably, “Maybe you will find yourself a widow again. Maybe I will have to take over Carrington’s role

“That will not be necessary, Lazare.”

The sound of that familiar resonant voice flooded Belle with a welcome sense of relief. She caught a glimpse of Lazare’s stunned expression before she turned to face Sinclair.

“Sinclair, where have you …” Her words trailed off in dismay as she took in Sinclair’s appearance, his hair wildly disheveled, dirt smudging his cheek, the capes of his garrick torn and smattered with mud, the curly-brimmed beaver hat he gripped in his fist smashed beyond recognition.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I went out to find a tobacconist,” Sinclair said, “when I was nearly run down by two soldiers on horseback.”

While Belle exclaimed, taking Sinclair’s arm to assure herself he had not been hurt, she thought she heard Lazare mutter a low curse. But when she glanced his way, his head was ducked down as he slid his knife back into its sheath.

“You should be more careful where you walk, Carrington,” Lazare grunted.

“I was being careful enough. Those two had to have been blind not to see me.”

Lazare shrugged. “Ah, well, you know these soldiers. They think they own the streets of Paris. A pity they ruined your pretty coat, but it could have been your head.”

So saying, Lazare turned and lurched back into the building. Sinclair stared hard after him. “Now, why do I get the feeling that our good friend Lazare is disappointed it was not my head?”

“Never mind him,” Belle said, making a brisk attempt to brush some of the dirt from Sinclair’s sleeve. Although relieved to have him returned unharmed, her mind was already racing ahead. “I am glad to see you back safe.”

“Are you, Angel?” Sinclair glanced down at her, his look becoming warm.

“Certainly. Have you entirely forgotten about the review?”

“Ah, yes, Bonaparte. And to think I imagined your joy to see me was entirely for my own sake.”

Although Sinclair spoke in his usual jesting fashion, she thought she detected a flash of hurt in his eyes. She would have liked to reassure him in a most intimate manner, but Baptiste joined them just then and she had no choice but to urge Sinclair upstairs to quickly change his coat.

The sunlight flooded the Place du Carrousel, glinting off the bayonets as the troops marched into place for the review, their colorful regimental flags snapping in the breeze.

Flanked on either side by Sinclair and Baptiste, Belle unfurled her parasol to shield her face.

Baptiste’s height placed him at a disadvantage when some taller gentlemen moved in front of him, but he craned his neck, leaning to one side straining eagerly for a view as the soldiers maneuvered into position.

Belle noted with some amusement that his enthusiasm was little different from the small boys who stood at the vanguard of the crowd gathered outside the gates, pressing their faces against the bars.

Sinclair, however, observed the entire proceedings with folded arms, a half-frowning expression upon his face. Belle supposed that one could not expect an Englishman to be much diverted by a display of French military might.

“You do not seem to be much impressed, Mr. Carrington,” she murmured to him in a low voice.

“This is not the way I would choose to spend such a fine morning, watching a parcel of saber rattling.”

She arched one brow. “We are a little surly today, are we not?”

“What do you expect, recollecting that the entire purpose of this expedition is to escort my wife here to flirt with another man. I am acting out the part of the jealous husband.”

“And you do it so well, sir,” she teased, “though I doubt you have much to fear from Monsieur Bonaparte this morning. He will be fully occupied.”

Sinclair smiled, but said nothing. He made greater effort to appear more himself, but the truth was, he was worried.

He had accomplished little these past five days, for all his subtle questioning, attempting to delve deeper into the backgrounds of Baptiste and Crecy, trying to keep a close watch upon Lazare.

Sinclair felt that Lazare almost mocked him with the correctness of his behavior.

On the surface Lazare appeared to be working as industriously to achieve the abduction as any of them, and yet something in the Frenchman’s manner left Sinclair continually uneasy.

His mistrust of Lazare had grown to the point of superstition, where he had all but fancied the miscreant had had something to do with his own near accident this morning.

That, Sinclair reluctantly conceded, had to be absurd.

If there was anyone Lazare wished to harm, it was not himself.

It was Belle whom Sinclair frequently caught the fellow watching like an adder about to devour its prey, waiting, always patiently waiting.

But for what? That was the question that tormented Sinclair.

“Mr. Carrington?”

Lost in his own thoughts, Sinclair scarce heard the voice speaking his name above the blare of the military band. “Good morrow, Mr. Carrington.”

Sinclair felt a nudge against his arm. Glancing around, he discovered that George Warburton had edged his way through the crowd and now stood at Sinclair’s side.

The man bore his usual phlegmatic expression as he studied the distant figures of the soldiers lining up in columns. Never averting his gaze, he continued to address Sinclair. “Such a fine spectacle, don’t you agree, Mr. Carrington? But I find the noise a little excessive.”