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Fifteen

C recy’s sketch of the theater lay unheeded beneath Belle’s hand. She could scarce remember when she had stopped speaking, when the study had fallen quiet with her, Baptiste, and Marcellus simply staring into the fire upon the hearth.

The wine Crecy had poured out went untasted, no one of a humor to propose a toast tonight, all three of them, she sensed, sobered by the realization of what they would undertake tomorrow night.

She knew that Marcellus had prepared a little packet, some money, a farewell message to be sent to his married daughter in Marseilles should the worst happen.

And Baptiste … Earlier Belle had watched him close up his fan shop, lovingly fingering each tool, looking rather wistfully at a design he had yet to finish.

He had handed her a folded fan then. “Just a little trinket for you to carry with you tomorrow, mon ange,” he had said. “For luck.” Slipping the fan inside her cloak, Belle had been tempted to tell Baptiste he need proceed no further. They could manage the enterprise without him.

But he was as determined to go forward with the new plan as she Out of the four men she at least knew she had the full support of Crecy and Baptiste, And it was not because of the money this time—not for any of them.

They all pursued some more intangible reward. Crecy, perhaps because he had grown weary of playing lord to a gaming house and wanted his birthright returned; Baptiste, because he sought peace for himself, for his beloved Paris.

As for Lazare? Who ever knew what went on in the dark corners of his mind? Likely his reasons were just the opposite of Baptiste’s—the hope that Bonaparte’s removal would bring back the return of violence and turmoil.

And her own motives? Belle wondered as she slowly refolded the diagrams and the map. She hardly understood her own determination. Perhaps Sinclair was partly right when he had accused her of doing it for Jean-Claude, upending the world to turn back time for one man.

But how far did she wish for Jean-Claude’s future to concern herself—of that she was no longer certain. Time was not so easily turned back for her. In the interval there had been Sinclair.

Belle harbored no doubt of Sinclair’s reluctance to go ahead with this scheme, his opinions of their chance of success. Why, then, was he going through with it? Did it have anything to do with the words he had whispered to her yesterday? I have fallen in love with you .

What joy such words were supposed to bring to a woman, not the almost bittersweet ache they had brought to her, a mingling of fear and guilt.

It might well have been different, if she had never known Jean-Claude, if she had ever learned to know her own heart.

A most strange realization, she mused, to be having at this time of her life.

She was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of the clock upon the mantel chiming out the hour.

“Midnight already?” Crecy said, also bestirring himself. “I wonder what has become of Monsieur Carrington and Lazare? They certainly are nonchalant about this business. I wish I possessed such sangfroid.”

“I was beginning to wonder about them myself,” Belle said. She did not wish Sinclair to think she was trailing after him, controlling his every movement as though she were indeed a possessive wife. But the meeting did seem to have broken up.

Sinclair had been in a strange humor all day, moody, most unlike himself.

She knew that he did not want to go ahead with the abduction, but she was beginning to feel that his reluctance was owing to something more than misplaced gallantry, his concern for her.

Yet what other motive could he possibly have?

She shoved herself up abruptly from the desk. Excusing herself, she went to find Sinclair. After the quiet of the study it took her senses a moment to adjust to the glitter and noise of the gaming salon.

It seemed strange. While they had been behind that oak door, planning such a dramatic event, one that could change the entire course of France—perhaps the world—Crecy’s establishment had gone on heedlessly.

Belle wondered if that was true with most earth-shattering moments in history.

The bulk of mankind simply went on with their lives.

To those here tonight, nothing seemed more important than the numbers on the dice or the flick of the next card.

But this world appeared to have gone on without Sinclair. He was nowhere to be seen.

Belle summoned the servant who had taken their cloaks. She found him lingering in conversation with the doorman, behavior that would have earned them both a sharp rebuke from Crecy. She asked, “Have you seen a tall, dark, good-looking gentleman? The one I came in with?”

“Monsieur Carrington? Oui , madame,” the servant relied. “He left some time ago.”

Left? The information startled her. Sinclair had said nothing about venturing off the premises.

“Did he happen to mention where he was going?”

The servant exchanged an embarrassed glance with the doorman. The doorman cleared his throat. “I am sure madame’s husband will return soon. If you wish to leave, I can summon you a cabriolet, or I am sure that Monsieur Crecy will have his own carriage fetched round for you.”

Belle fixed the man with a cool stare. “Where has my husband gone?”

He tried to bluster his way out of it, but he quailed before her haughty gaze. “Well, he did ask the directions to Number 32.”

Belle frowned. The address meant nothing to her. Where in blazes had Sinclair slipped off to which would cause these two men to squirm so? A suspicion occurred to her when she thought of one of the chief businesses of the Palais-Royal besides gaming.

“What sort of establishment is at Number 32?” she asked.

Their continued reluctance to answer confirmed Belle’s suspicion. “It’s a brothel, is it not?”

“Ah, madame!” The doorman reddened with acute discomfort.

Belle heaved an impatient sigh with all this male subterfuge. She commanded a servant to bring her cloak.

The doorman mopped his brow with relief. “And I will see to obtaining a coach for madame.”

“I don’t need a coach,” Belle said, swirling a cloak about her shoulders. “Just the directions to Number 32.”

“It is at the end of the lower arcade-but, madame!” The doorman looked aghast. “You cannot think of going there.”

“I am not just thinking of it.” Belle gave him a taut smile. “I fully intend to do so.”

Over his protests she stalked out into the night air. The cool breeze did nothing to ease the hot flood of anger and confusion coursing into her cheeks. She could think of no reason Sinclair should have wandered off to a brothel—none but the most obvious.

Her judgment rejected this solution almost immediately. For all his pose of being a rake, such behavior seemed most unlike the Sinclair she knew, the Sinclair who had held her in his arms, told her he loved her.

Yet what do you know of him? A voice inside her jeered, a voice that sounded remarkably like Lazare’s. He has a habit of disappearing, our Mr. Carrington. Where do you suppose he goes?

Trying to suppress the memory of Lazare’s mocking questions, Belle quickened her steps. There was only one way to gain answers and that was to find Sinclair.

Belle had no difficulty locating the correct place.

Even without the doorman’s reluctant directions, No.

32 was the only apartment on the lower level erupting with such commotion.

Scantily clad women stood about shrieking in the street while an old lady bellowed for the police, a brassy-haired girl weeping against her shoulder.

When Belle saw the two uniformed guards coming, she ducked into the shadows. This was no time to risk being caught up in a raid, or whatever it was, and find herself getting arrested. But what about Sinclair? Was he still inside?

Belle crept round to the back of the place, trying to figure out what was happening. She had just decided there was a fight in progress within, when she was startled. A dark object came crashing through the window, rolled, and came to a halt almost at her feet.

It was a man. The moonlight rimming down past the trees enabled her to make out the dazed features.

“Sinclair?” she gasped.

Stunned, he stared up at her for a moment. “Angel,” he said in a bemused voice. He shook his head as though to clear it, fragments of glass tinkling to the ground. Leaning upon his umbrella, he attempted to rise. Belle put one hand beneath his elbow to assist him.

“Have you seen Paulette?” he asked.

“What!” The question made no sense to her. Sinclair’s forehead was bleeding. She wondered if a blow to his head was making him disoriented. But at the moment she could think of nothing else but getting him away from here.

As he struggled to his feet, his vision seemed to clear somewhat, but Belle found his next remark equally as confusing. He gave a soft grunt, managing a painful smile through his split lip. “The devil seems to be after me. Or at least two of his henchmen.”

Belle heard the sash of another window being thrown up in the building behind them. A mustached soldier was silhouetted in the opening, brandishing a sword.

“There he goes, Giles. The English pig!” the man shouted, beginning to clamber out the window.

“Two new friends of mine,” Sinclair murmured, reeling slightly on his feet. “Giles and Gus.”

“I don’t think you are in any condition to continue the acquaintance!” Belle exclaimed. “Let’s get out of here.”