Page 56

Although the set of his jaw remained stubborn, she could tell her words were giving Sinclair pause.

“Baptiste has already risked enough with nothing but a failed plot to show for it,” she continued passionately. “To be exiled from Paris—I believe it would kill him. I won’t see him make such a sacrifice. Not without making some attempt to prevent it.”

She and Sinclair squared off for a long moment. He was the first to concede. “All right, Angel, what do you want to do?”

“Find Paulette.” She was gathering up her cloak. “I intend to start by going back to that brothel—if you haven’t burned it to the ground—and ask some questions.”

“I will go with you.”

“I doubt you will be welcome there. I will have a much better chance if I go alone. Paulette may even still be hiding there.”

Sinclair regarded her with folded arms. “And what do you expect me to do?”

In his condition Belle thought the best he could do was gain a few hours’ rest, but she knew he was unlikely to do so.

After thinking a moment, she asked, “Is it possible you could contact your friend Warburton at this hour? If he and your other agent keep as close a watch upon that guardhouse as you say, it is possible they will know if Paulette has been there.”

Sinclair appeared to turn this possibility over in his mind, and nodded in agreement. He seemed far from pleased at the prospect of letting her venture off on her own, but after gruffly ordering her to take care, he turned to go.

Yet as he stalked toward the door, he paused to look back. “I only want to tell you one more thing, Belle. I did not lie when I said I love you.”

She froze, trying to steel herself against the low-spoken words, yet they stirred her all the same, touching upon a memory. Her heart constricted when she recalled what it was. Sinclair’s words were almost an echo of her plea to Jean-Claude so long ago.

She turned away, not wanting to understand the misery her rejection was inflicting upon Sinclair at this moment, not wanting to, but understanding it all too well.

She heard the door open behind her, and somehow she could not let him go like that. She whipped about. “Sinclair?”

He stopped. She could almost hear his breath still. “Yes?”

She drew in a deep breath, but her pain at his deception was yet too raw for her to do more than confess, “About the pistol. It wasn’t loaded.”

He offered her a sad smile before exiting. “I never really thought it was, Angel.”

Dawn found Belle’s eyes gritty from lack of sleep, her limbs aching from exhaustion, and she had accomplished nothing.

Paulette appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth.

Some judicious bribes at the brothel to the sleepy-eyed femmes earned her only the knowledge that Paulette had slipped out during the fight and had never come back.

Most of Belle’s time had been wasted listening to Madame Margot bemoaning the recent events. “One of our best chambers ruined by fire,” the elderly dame had wailed, “to say nothing of the brutes we had tromping through here, wild-eyed Englishmen, loutish soldiers, scarred rogues?—”

“ Oui , Madame,” Belle said soothingly, making her escape from these vapid outpourings as soon as she could. The visit to the brothel having proved useless, she made her way to Crecy’s. At least she could alert him to the danger and solicit some of his servants to join in the search.

The morning had considerably advanced by the time she made her way back to the apartment. Gray and overcast, the day was an accurate reflection of her spirits. Dragging herself down to the apartment’s tiny kitchen, she brewed a cup of tea while she attempted to decide what to do next.

She had just sagged down at the wooden table when a footfall alerted her to Sinclair’s return.

“Belle?” he called.

“In here,” she replied wearily.

He appeared shortly in the doorway, looking as exhausted as she, a stubble of beard rimming his jaw, a heavy circle under his one eye, the other now darkened to a shade of purple.

At least the swelling had gone down. His dark hair spilled over his brow, concealing the cut on his forehead.

When he collapsed down on the chair opposite her, the instinct to reach across and reach for his hand was strong.

With great difficulty, she hardened herself against the impulse.

“Any luck?” she asked, although his downcast expression gave her the answer.

He shook his head. “Neither Warburton nor the other agent has seen any trace of her. Not that she couldn’t have somehow slipped past them and already be inside the Tuileries. But they promise to keep as close a watch as they can and intercept her if they see her.”

Sighing, Belle stared into her teacup, but she made no move to taste the bitter brew, merely warming her hands upon the steaming china. After long thought she said, “I doubt if Paulette made it to the Tuileries. If she had, we would likely have soldiers thundering at our door by now.”

“Then where do you think she has gone? Does she have other friends in Paris?”

“I have no idea. It should be rather obvious I didn’t know the woman that well. But Crecy’s men are searching the vicinity of the Palais-Royal. I told Marcellus to do nothing more until he hears from me.”

Sinclair nodded. He shifted upon the chair as though seeking a more comfortable position.

Belle did not miss the way he flinched, one hand going surreptitiously toward his ribs.

Despite her lingering anger with him, she could not help feeling a stab of remorse and empathy.

He had taken the devil of a beating last night with no chance to rest and recover.

Silently she pushed her cup of tea across the table to him. He flashed a grateful look, but said, “No, thank you, Angel, I am not that close to death’s door as to be drinking that.”

“I’d offer you something stronger, but there’s not much here. Thinking that we would be gone, I told Paulette to clear most everything out.”

The mention of the woman’s name brought them back to the problem.

“So what do we do now?” Sinclair asked. “I gather you learned nothing of any use at Madame Margot’s?”

“Only that she will never let an Englishman cross her threshold again,” Belle said, forcing down a swallow of the tea. “Nor any soldiers or men with?—”

She broke off, startled by the recollection of some of the elderly woman’s meanderings. Had her mind simply been too numb at the time to take heed, or was she reading too much significance into a certain fact now?

“Men with scars,” Belle mused aloud.

“What was that?” Sinclair asked.

“Madame Margot. She said something about a man with a scar lurking in her parlor.”

Some of Sinclair’s fatigue appeared to be forgotten. “Lazare?” he asked eagerly.

“Lazare is certainly not the only man with a scar to be found in Paris, yet he did leave the meeting shortly after you did.” Belle frowned.

“But it makes no sense. Why would Lazare be there? I cannot believe he had anything to do with Paulette’s business.

He hates Bonaparte far too much to have had a hand in that. ”

“That may be true, but I have had my suspicions of Lazare all along,” Sinclair said. “I never mentioned it last night, but I am almost certain those two who attacked me were the same men who nearly ran me down in the street. I think they were paid to do so.”

“By Lazare?”

“I don’t know, but I would wager my last farthing that he knows more about what went on in that brothel last night than anyone else does.”

Belle shoved to her feet, her resolution returning. “Then perhaps it is time he shared that information with us.”

Sinclair also stood, a steely look of anticipation in his eyes. “I shall be only too happy to flush the rat down from his garret for questioning.”

Belle scowled, moving to intercept his retreat from the kitchen. The last thing she wished for was any more brawling. But Sinclair seemed to bear no more sense than most men in that regard.

She need not have worried, however, about the upcoming confrontation. Lazare was not in his garret apartment. The porter furnished the information that Lazare had not returned last night.

“People have a nasty habit of disappearing in this city,” Sinclair grumbled. Belle did not have the energy to set off on another wild chase, so she persuaded Sinclair to wait awhile for Lazare’s return.

In the meantime, it occurred to her she had yet to warn Baptiste what had transpired. Again, she met with frustration. She had forgotten that after Baptiste closed up shop the night before, he had told her he meant to spend the day with an old friend.

She knew well what he meant by that. Likely Baptiste was out strolling the streets of his Paris, visiting all his old haunts as though this might be the final time.

Belle prayed that it was not. Since she had no way of tracing him, she had to content herself with slipping a carefully worded note under his door, warning him not to go to the theater that night.

Then she returned upstairs to keep her vigil with Sinclair. By early afternoon their nerves were stretched wire taut.

“I can’t believe Lazare won’t be back,” Belle said. “It would not be like him to abandon the plot. He despises Bonaparte too much.”

“Well, I am going mad, simply waiting here,” Sinclair said, fairly pacing a hole in the drawing room carpet. Indeed, this inaction was making Belle nigh insane herself.

“Is there nowhere you can think of that we could find the blasted rogue?” Sinclair asked.

Belle rubbed her temples in an effort at memory. “Well, I do know Lazare does not usually stay here above the fan shop when he comes to Paris. He once mentioned other lodgings.”

Sinclair tensed “It would not happen to be above a chocolate shop, would it?”

“Yes, I think he did say something about a confectioner’s, but why?—”

“Because I have an idea where it is, if I can only find the shop again.” Sinclair tugged at her hand, dragging her after him.