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Fourteen

B y day the Palais-Royal appeared nearly the same as it had for the generations when it had been owned by the D’Orleans family.

The gardens were a place of great charm with rows of lime trees and broad expanses of lawn.

The quadrangle structure itself stretched upward in a series of galleries, connected on the ground floor by a colonnade done in the neoclassic style.

But the palace that had once sheltered the household of a duke with claim to royal blood was now broken into a series of small businesses and apartments.

In the bright sunshine it was a whirl of activity, one of the favorite shopping spots of Paris with its collection of restaurateurs, confectioners, florists, milliners, hair-dressers, watchmakers.

But by night the gardens rustled with shadows, the shops were all shuttered, and the denizens of the upper floors stirred to life, the Palais becoming a hive of the most respectable vice to be found in Paris.

The galleries boasted a seemingly endless array of gambling salons, to say nothing of the discreet apartments of those women known as the femmes du monde , their daring low-cut gowns replacing those demure muslin of the ladies who had strolled about shopping in the afternoon.

These bold creatures lay claim to the gardens, lingering in the shadows of the colonnades along with the cutpurses and scores of other rogues.

One such pert dame, what youthful attractions she possessed buried beneath a layer of rouge, eyed with speculation two strapping soldiers lounging near one of the colonnades.

The older of the two, a fellow with a pointed chin, appeared more interested in swilling from a bottle of gin. But the younger, crudely handsome with a fine set of bristling mustaches, offered the wench every sign of encouragement.

When she tried to approach, the weasel-faced one glared at her. “Off with you, slut. Go peddle your wares elsewhere.”

“Ah, you are hard and cruel, m’sieur,” she started to whine, but when he menaced her with upraised fist, she cursed him, melting back into the night.

“You didn’t have to drive her off, Giles,” the youth protested. “I could have used a bit of diversion.”

“We are here for business, Auguste, not diversion.” Giles took another gulp from his bottle. “Lazare is already wroth with us.”

Auguste snorted. “You may fear the displeasure of Monsieur Scar Face, but I promise you that I— oof!” He broke off with a grunt when his older brother poked his stomach in warning fashion.

A figure stalked toward them, draped in a black cowl and cape like some sinister monk of the Inquisition, a man seeming spawned of the night shadows. Moonlight rendered the wisps of Lazare’s hair ghost-white, his handsome scarred face like some grotesque mask depicting good and evil.

For all his bravado, young Auguste went pale, and Giles’s hand, yet clutching his bottle, was seen to tremble.

Lazare’s mouth thinned to a smile. They feared him, both the brothers Marboeuf, despite their bluster to the contrary.

Their courage was about as real as the false uniforms they wore upon their backs, a clever device they had long ago adopted to avoid being pressed into the army.

If any officer ever questioned them or examined their regimentals too closely, the Marboeufs were quick to take to their heels.

But against an unarmed opponent in the dark, Lazare thought cynically, the two bore courage enough. After ascertaining they were sufficiently cowed by his stare, Lazare said, “You are on time for once, citizens. You show great wisdom.”

“Been waiting for nigh half an hour,” Giles ventured to grumble. “Damned chilly tonight.” He lifted his bottle to his lips for another swallow.

Lazare’s hand shot out, knocking the bottle from Giles’s grasp. The glass shattered against the colonnade. But in a night already disrupted by raucous laughter, the shameless squeals of the lightskirts pursuing their trade, the splintering sound went unremarked.

Giles glowered at Lazare, but he dared not comment, merely rubbing the back of his hand across his lips.

“I want you sober,” Lazare hissed. “There will be no mistakes such as you made yesterday morn.”

“We done our best,” Giles whined. “Who’d of thought the Englishman could move so fast? I never did see the likes of how he fair dived from beneath the hooves of my horse.”

“We could scarce take another pass at him, either,” Auguste added. “Not in broad daylight.”

“Well, it is dark enough now,” Lazare said.

“Oui.” Auguste fingered the ends of his mustache and slapped his sword in a swaggering manner. “This time we will see how well Monsieur Carrington can dodge a blade.”

“I care not how you do it.” Lazare eyed him coldly. “But sunrise tomorrow must find Carrington quite dead.”

Marcellus Crecy’s gaming den was located upon the second-floor arcade of the Palais-Royal.

The discreet looking door opened onto a vast chamber glittering with light.

Large gilt mirrors reflected back the fashionable men and women of Paris gathered about tables, lost in the pursuit of roulette, vingt-et-un, and other card games.

Sinclair blinked, taking a moment to adjust his eyes after the darkness outside. By the time he moved to help Belle off with her cloak, a servant had intercepted him in the task. The fellow’s powdered wig and maroon-colored livery with gold buttons would have done justice to a ducal household.

Crecy, who ambled forward to greet them, might well have been the duke, his girth elegantly garbed in a silk coat and knee breeches, his leonine mass of silvery hair swept back from his broad forehead.

“Ah, Madame and Monsieur Carrington.” Marcellus’s round face creased into a bland smile. “So good of you to grace my establishment.”

While Belle offered her hand to be kissed, Sinclair could only manage a curt nod.

He had not much more capacity for keeping up this pretense.

Today had already proved enough of a strain.

His hope that the others in the society would dissuade Belle from pursuing her reckless plan had proved unavailing.

To a man, they had all approved her idea.

The day had been spent in another frenetic round of preparation.

Tonight would see the confirmation of the plot’s final details.

Crecy leaned forward conspiratorially. “You could not have chosen a better night. The most discreet game of euchre is being played in a private room in the back. Perhaps it would be more to your taste than this crowd.”

Belle’s low reply gave nothing away. “Thank you, monsieur. You are the perfect host.”

With a graceful bow, Marcellus led the way.

I’ve got to put a stop to this thing soon, Sinclair thought desperately, as he had more than once these past hours. Yet how he was to do so without revealing to all of them his true identity and purpose, Sinclair did not know.

For the moment all he could do was to keep step with Belle, trailing after Crecy.

Marcellus appeared very much the master of his establishment, pausing here and there to greet some of his clientele, to deliver a sharp rebuke to a footman not leaping swiftly enough to attend the guests’ wants, thereby allowing them to wander too far from the tables with money still in their pockets.

Fortunes seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, swept away beneath the croupier’s nimble rakes.

Despite the seriousness of their purpose in coming there tonight, Marcellus was not too preoccupied to display to Sinclair the amenities of his house.

When they passed by a curtained alcove, he gestured proudly toward it.

“In there I have what I call the refuge of the wounded, Monsieur Carrington. Those gentlemen who ruin themselves at the tables have access to a private balcony, a selection of pistols, also ink and paper for any farewell message.”

“How excessively civil of you,” Sinclair said dryly. Crecy did not seem at all perturbed by this hint of his disapproval.

“Ah, well, we French have always been more sophisticated about such things than you English.”

“God preserve me from such sophistication,” Sinclair muttered. He stole a glance at Belle to see what she made of Crecy’s accommodation, but she had paid little heed. He did not know where her thoughts were, but he judged from her distant expression that she was miles away.

With Jean-Claude, he wondered, then forced the painful supposition aside. He and Belle had made a pact after rising from her bed last night. They would discuss neither the Comte de Egremont or the future until their mission was resolved. Nor would they seek to touch or embrace.

Sinclair found both agreements hard to keep, and he wondered if Belle was feeling the same. She continually avoided meeting his eyes.

Sinclair’s attention was drawn back to Crecy as he held open another door, indicating they should precede him into his private study. The dark paneled room was as solemn and businesslike as the gaming salon was full of light and frivolity.

Lazare and Baptiste were already there waiting.

A dour silence pervaded the chamber and was little dispelled even when Crecy rang for extra candles.

A waiter appeared bearing a silver tray laden with tempting morsels, oysters, cold tongue, grilled partridges, cream cheese a la rose.

But the delicacies went untouched, even Crecy bearing little appetite.

This meeting tonight differed from any thus far, Sinclair thought as they gathered about Crecy’s mahogany-topped desk.

No repartee, no squabbling, only their faces taut with purpose as they all focused their attention on Belle.

She unfolded a diagram of the theater that Crecy had sketched that very afternoon.

Her plan was familiar to all of them by this time, but she took them through the details of it one last time as though determined to dispose of any last-minute objections.