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He shook his head, gently pressing her hands to silence her protest. “Even worse than a fool, I was a villain of the worst sort.

I did France more harm than any of those murderous scoundrels who marched in the streets.

“I discovered too late that the careless tossing around of ideas is more dangerous than the blaze of cannonfire. All I did was muse and dream of Utopia, and while I did so, I let them murder my king.”

Jean-Claude raised one trembling hand to cup her cheek. “I failed you as well, didn’t I, my Isabelle? I let my pride murder our love.”

“You could not help it,” she assured him. “After all you had been through?—”

“After all I had been through, I foolishly flung away the one precious possession I had left. My Isabelle.”

For a moment she thought he meant to catch her up in his arms. How often had she prayed for such a thing. She was surprised at the relief she felt when he didn’t. It was just that she was so confused. Her head was reeling.

“You do still care for me, don’t you, Isabelle? A little?”

“Yes, of course, I do,” she stammered. “A great deal”

Pressing her fingertips fervently against his lips, he said, “Dare I hope that perhaps—” He checked himself with great difficulty. “No, at the moment all I can ask is that you be my friend until after …”

“After what?”

“After my prospects improve.” He stood up abruptly. “I think it best if we walk back now before I am betrayed into saying something most unwise.”

Now thoroughly in control of himself, she could sense him trying to put some distance between them, except for a certain warmth in his eyes.

He had all but declared he had forgiven her, even intimated that his love for her might once more be revived. There had been a time when she would have been contented with much less from him. And here he stood, promising so much more, yet she could feel nothing but alarm.

Jean-Claude had no more notion of how to conduct himself in an intrigue than a babe. He was bound to end in disaster.

But he’s not exactly your responsibility anymore, is he? a surprisingly irritable voice inside her demanded. Haven’t you got enough to contend with? Yes, but she would never forgive herself if she let anything happen to him.

Still, there seemed nothing she could do but fall into step beside him as they wended their way back across the bridge

“Sinclair will be wondering what has become of me,” she remarked.

At the mention of Sinclair a shadow crossed Jean-Claude’s face. “Sinclair,” he repeated, as though the very way she had pronounced his name had dealt Jean-Claude a blow. “The other night at the reception you told me?—”

He stopped himself, stiffening his jaw resolutely. “No, I won’t ask you any more about him. We will pretend he does not exist. He does not matter.”

Belle nearly protested she could pretend no such thing, that indeed Sinclair did matter. But she kept silent, not wishing to shatter the tentative peace between them.

She permitted him to escort her back across the bridge, but back on the quay she saw no sign of Sinclair. Jean-Claude refused to take his leave of her.

“I could scarce leave you here unescorted with no male protector.”

Belle heaved an impatient sigh. Sinclair would have sensed at once her need to be alone, that she was capable of shifting for herself.

It seemed to have never occurred to Jean-Claude to inquire after her manner of life during these intervening years.

He simply assumed she had continued to live like a lady.

He might no longer be a day-dreamer, but he was still as impractical.

The critical thought startled her. She suppressed it and after much firm insistence persuaded him to go. As Jean-Claude took his leave of her, she could not forbear making one last attempt to draw him out.

“You worry me. I fear you are in some sort of trouble. I don’t think it was wise for you to return to Paris.”

“If it eases your mind,” he said, “I plan to leave very soon, in a few days’ time.”

“That would be for the best,” she urged. “You should go back home.”

“If only I knew where that was.” He gave her a sad smile and looked deep into her eyes one last time. Then he brushed a hard kiss against her brow. Turning abruptly, he vanished into the crowd thronging the quay.

“Damn!” Belle muttered as she stood staring after him. It was as though the solid ground she had forged for herself all these years had been swept from beneath her feet. She had never had any doubts that she would know what to do if Jean-Claude came back into her life and opened his arms to her.

And now she stood cursing him. It was not that she did not still care for him. Indeed she did, too much. Cared for him and ached for him as well. He needed her now more than ever, although he might not know it himself.

But in the interval there had been Sinclair, a man who at last had broken through the barriers she had constructed around her heart, who had taught her how to live again.

She could not delude herself that Sinclair only fulfilled a need of her flesh.

Their relationship went much deeper than that.

There had been a bond, an understanding between them from the very beginning.

But was that love? It was very different from the feeling she had cherished for Jean-Claude for so long. She rubbed a hand over her throbbing temples.

Only one reality remained crystal clear to her. Jean-Claude was deeply unhappy, more tormented than she had ever seen him. If only there was something she could do to help him now, something that would at last truly make up for that ancient hurt she had inflicted upon him.

He belonged back at Egremont, with his treasured books, watching his little son romp in those quiet gardens, sheltered once more behind the high walls of the chateau of his ancestors. She could not turn back time for Jean-Claude, but if only she could restore him to his own.

Perhaps she might have accomplished that if she had succeeded with her plot to abduct Napoleon. With the monarchy returned to France, all the dispossessed nobles would likely have their estates returned.

But these were all absurd speculations. With her own carefully laid plans in ruins, she might as well leave Paris herself. She scarce saw much reason to keep her rendezvous with Bonaparte unless perhaps to lay the groundwork for a future plot.

Why did the damned man have to change the site of their engagement to the theater?

Belle all but tossed her head with contempt.

As if she had ever had much use for French theater.

The stage had been so heavily censored since the days of the Revolution, the sentimental and preachy tripe that remained was scarce worth the bother.

And she doubted if conditions had improved much under Bonaparte’s strict regime.

The playbill plastered over there on the wall of the quay was a prime example.

The Dutiful Wife—likely an overdone drama about a virtuous and doubtless patriotic French lady wrongly suspected by her husband.

After he ends by killing her, he would discover the truth and be so remorseful.

And the playbill promised the lead role would be enacted by none other than the renowned Monsieur Georges Carribout.

And, God help the theater owner, Belle thought with scorn, if for any reason the said Monsieur Georges failed to appear.

She knew these emotionally charged Frenchmen.

Their fury that day at the Bastille would be as nothing if denied their favorite actor.

Likely there would be a riot and the theater would be thrown into a state of utter confusion?—

Belle broke off, catching her breath. A state of utter confusion. The words triggered something in her mind, an idea, a daring idea that seemed to burst inside her head like the shattering of a skyrocket.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Sinclair coming up behind her until he touched her lightly on the shoulder. With a startled gasp, she spun around.

“Belle?” He frowned, staring down at her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He peered at her more closely. “Are you all right?”

Well might he ask that. Belle knew that she was trembling, but with excitement.

“Yes, I am,” she breathed. “You see, I know how we can abduct Bonaparte.”

Beyond the gauzy curtain of Belle’s bedchamber window, the sun set over Paris, stippling the sky with rose, mauve, and gold, the colors bleeding together like an artist’s canvas left in the rain.

Yet as he stood moodily near the window, Sinclair remained impervious to the sun’s glorious display, only aware of the shadows lengthening between him and Belle.

She sat at her dressing table, rearranging the bottles of lotion, hair ornaments, and other toiletry articles as though she could find no pattern of order that suited her.

Both of them had lapsed into a discontented silence.

They had been arguing for the better part of the afternoon over Belle’s newest plot for the abduction.

Yet Sinclair sensed that it was not in truth Bonaparte who fueled this quarrel, but rather another solemn gentleman whose name each of them was reluctant to mention.

“Your plan will never work, Belle,” Sinclair muttered for about the tenth time.

“How can you be so all-fired certain?” She snatched up a brush from her dresser, venting her frustration upon the soft tangle of her curls. “It is no more risky than the old plan, and you appeared willing enough to go along with that.”

“That one had some chance of success. This one is pure madness.”

Belle slammed the brush down. She drew in a steadying breath before she spoke in a voice almost too taut with control.

“I will present my plan to the others, see what they think, but I am sure they will agree with me. If you are still so strongly opposed after hearing what they have to say, why, then, you are free to go. I don’t need you. ”