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With one of his bland smiles Warburton beckoned slightly with his head for Sinclair to follow him. Sinclair stole a glance at Belle, but she appeared too absorbed by the spectacle to notice his defection.

Edging cautiously away, Sinclair trailed Warburton at a distance. But he thought the ground could have opened to swallow him and no one in the crowd would have paid any heed. At that moment Bonaparte had arrived upon the scene, and all eyes were trained upon him.

The first consul rode down the ranks astride a white horse, wearing a black beaver hat and gray greatcoat, surrounded by the more dazzling uniforms of his staff. The throng of spectators appeared mesmerized.

Sinclair and Warburton drew back further into the gardens of the Tuileries. Standing beneath the stark, sprawling branches of a poplar tree, they feigned an avid interest in the troop inspection taking place.

“So, Mr. Carrington,” Warburton said, “how goes your tour of Paris? Rewarding, I trust?”

“Not so much as I would have hoped, Mr. Warburton.”

“That is most disappointing.”

“I am all but convinced I know the identity of the—er, gentleman we both seek. But proving it! He is quite a slippery devil.”

“I suppose I don’t have to remind you, Carrington. You are running out of time. According to the message you sent me the other day, Merchant’s society plans to make its move in—in what?”

“Two days’ time,” Sinclair said through gritted teeth. “And you are sure that no word of the plot has reached the Tuileries?”

“As sure as I can be. Oh, we did think our informant had returned to the guardhouse yesterday, but it turned out to be only a wench, come for a lover’s tryst. Besides”—one of his rare smiles touched Warburton’s lips—”if the plot were discovered, I imagine you and your group would know of it before I did. ”

“That is what I am afraid of,” Sinclair said grimly.

There seemed no more to discuss, and he was prepared to move on, but Warburton asked almost desperately, “And you have learned nothing more, Mr. Carrington? Nothing whatsoever?”

Sinclair hesitated. The one new bit of information he had uncovered appeared to him so vague as to be not worth mentioning.

However, when Warburton persisted, he said, “Well, I have questioned the porter at our lodgings. Someone has been seen leaving our building and returning late at night. It was too dark for the porter to remark who the person was beneath the hood of the cloak, but the fellow was familiar with the driver of the cabriolet. I tracked him down just yesterday, but all the cabman could do was give me the address he had delivered his passenger to, somewhere in the vicinity of the Palais?Royal.”

“Then that is something surely,” Warburton said eagerly. “Have you checked this address?”

“No, not yet.”

Sinclair stiffened defensively at Warburton’s incredulous look. “I am supposed to have nothing on my mind, Warburton, other than participating in a certain plot. It is a little difficult for me to get off by myself during the day.”

“What about your nights, man? What are you up to then?”

Sinclair compressed his lips. He did not feel that the answer to that concerned either Warburton or the British army. Yet perhaps it did. Perhaps it concerned them greatly that one of their agents was allowing himself to be dangerously distracted.

The truth was Sinclair did not know if he could have absented himself from Belle’s side at night even if he tried.

He made love to her each time as though it might be the last, for which all he knew it could be.

He could not delude himself that this affair was like countless others, that the passion would burn itself out.

It was different with Belle, had been from the first. He had always known that, though even yet he feared to acknowledge how deep his feelings for her ran.

And as for her? What did she feel? He had asked himself that question so many times, asked it now as his gaze tracked toward the crowd of onlookers, toward where she sheltered beneath her parasol, her face shaded from his view, even as her heart continued to be.

He would like to believe she was learning to experience some deeper emotion other than gratitude and desire when he took her in his arms. But, Sinclair thought sadly, he could not delude himself on that score, either.

He realized with some chagrin that while their lovemaking might have distracted him somewhat from his task, Belle remained absorbed with her work, nothing seeming to sway her from her purpose.

Even now, her gaze focused intently upon Bonaparte, only shifting when she bent to exchange some comment with Baptiste about the review.

Bonaparte had dismounted and was barking out maneuvers to the troops in a clear resonant voice, which they executed with precision.

The first consul was more in his element doing this, Belle thought, than he had been mingling with the guests at the reception.

Deeply engrossed in the orderly demonstration, Baptiste murmured, “It is a great deal different than in the old days, eh, mon ange ? I can remember the time when the gathering of a crowd such as this would have raised a knot in my stomach.”

Belle remembered all too well. A crowd could so easily turn into a mob bent upon violent and vengeful purposes.

Yet as she gazed about her, she too felt the difference Baptiste spoke of.

Even the throng that clustered against the gates seemed remote from that unruly crowd who had once overrun the Tuileries.

Everywhere there was a new sense of order, which seemed to emanate from the short man in gray with his booming voice.

Bonaparte might not be an impressive figure on horseback, but rapping out commands to his troops was another matter. Belle turned to gauge Sinclair’s impressions and was surprised to find him gone.

Searching about for him, she saw him some little distance away, in earnest conversation with a quiet-looking man Belle did not recognize.

Belle frowned. Something in Sinclair’s manner made her feel as if the man was an acquaintance, but Sinclair had said he had never been to Paris before, that he knew no one. Was this a friend from England perhaps?

When Sinclair finally rejoined her, she asked casually, “Did you chance upon an old crony of yours?”

Sinclair replied easily enough. “No, that was only a fellow I met at the reception the other night, a secretary or clerk or some such to the ambassador. Boring chap, but it seemed rude to cut him.”

“Oh, I see,” Belle said, but she didn’t.

Why did she once more have that uneasy feeling that Sinclair was not telling her quite the entire truth?

Perhaps it was the way his eyes, ever bold, skated away from making contact with hers.

And yet what reason would he have to lie?

She felt guilty herself for being so suspicious.

She was worse than a jealous wife thinking her husband had acquired a mistress.

It was only that she had made herself so vulnerable, given so much of herself to Sinclair, if she should once more be proven a fool …

Suppressing such thoughts as best she could, she realized that the review had come to its end, the troops filing off. If Bonaparte had remarked her attendance or even recalled inviting her, he gave no sign of it. He mounted his horse and rapidly rode away.

But as the crowds began to disperse, Belle was approached by a dapper little man.

In a low voice he introduced himself as Napoleon’s valet, Constant.

With a low bow he slipped her a note with the Napoleonic seal holding it closed before turning and vanishing back through the gardens as quickly as he had appeared.

Sinclair glanced at the paper with a jaundiced eye. “Another billet-doux, I suppose?”

“We will know soon enough when we return to the apartment.” She gave him an arch smile and proceeded to outline her plans for the rest of the afternoon. “I think we should go over the details of the plan one more?—”

But she was interrupted by a heartfelt groan that issued from both Baptiste and Sinclair at once.

“Have mercy, mon ange ,” Baptiste pleaded.

“This plan—we could recite it in our sleep. Such a beautiful day to spend in the stuffy apartment. Surely you could spare an hour. It is so rare that I take a holiday. I thought to treat you and Monsieur Carrington to a petite repast at a small café that I know.”

“What an excellent notion,” Sinclair was quick to agree.

“Out of the question—” Belle began, but Sinclair and Baptiste exchanged a glance past her. She found herself firmly seized by one man on either side and propelled forward.

“I think I am the victim of a conspiracy,” she grumbled, but her resistance was only token.

To say truth, she felt in something of a holiday mood herself.

Perhaps it had something to do with the stirring notes of the brass band, the warmth of the sun on her face, or even more the warmth in a certain wicked pair of green eyes.

In any case, she gave over all resistance, allowing herself to be whisked away by Sinclair and Baptiste.

The Café D’Egalité was a modest establishment, not far from the river, its rough-hewn walls giving the impression that it had stood nearly as long as the Seine flowed.

The aroma of spirits and fresh-brewed coffee hung in the air so strong it might have been steeped into the woodwork of the tables.

A placard hung on the wall, slightly askew, proclaimed, “Here we still honor one another with the title of Citoyen.”

Even this obviously half-forgotten reminder of revolutionary days was enough to curtail Belle’s pleasure in the café’s quaintness. As though sensing her stiffen, Baptiste suggested they occupy one of the tables in the small garden. The day was certainly warm enough.

While Belle ordered bavorosie and Baptiste his wine, Sinclair opted for some “genuine English beer.”

“I thought you did not like beer,” Belle said as she stripped off her gloves.