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He heard a click as though a door had been closed. With great effort he forced his eyes to open. Even that caused his head to swim with pain, made him feel as though he would be ill. He fought down the sensation of nausea, fought to stop the room around him from continuing in a dizzying whirl.

Gradually he could bring the room into focus, but he stared blankly at the fading plaster walls, unable to place his surroundings.

If only the throbbing in his head would cease so he could think.

If only he could move. He realized with another sharp stabbing pain that his arms were bound behind his back and the thickness suffocating him was a gag.

What the devil had happened! Although the pain shooting through his head threatened to spin him back into blackness, Sinclair forced himself to concentrate.

He and Belle had gone to find Lazare. Yes, that was where he was—Lazare’s lodgings above the confectioner’s shop. He and Belle had been searching the place. Belle had gone into the other room while he had examined the trunk and found the letters.

The letters! Memory came back to Sinclair in a searing flood.

Those writings that had clearly revealed to him Lazare’s treachery—even worse, the treachery of that damned Merchant, who had sent them on this mission.

And Jean-Claude Varens! Sinclair’s suspicions about the fool had been right all along.

Lazare had the idiot duped, was using him in an effort to destroy Belle.

Sinclair had to warn her. He groaned softly, remembering that had been what he had been about to do when she had cried out to him. He had caught the barest glimpse of Lazare when—Sinclair flinched, the dull pain in his head telling him clearly what had happened next.

But where were Belle and Lazare now? Despite the fading light in the apartment, he could see that he had been left alone. Dimly he recalled the shadowy figures, the voices that had seemed to be part of a dream.

“The first consul does not like to be kept waiting.”

No, that had been no dream. Lazare had said that. He was forcing Belle to keep that appointment at the theater. The man had invested far too much in his plan to give up now. And Belle had no idea of what awaited her.

How long had they been gone? Sinclair strained backward, his gaze flashing up toward the window. Even through the dingy panes, he could see twilight settling over the city. Raw panic threatened to consume him.

Yet he could not afford to panic. Forcing himself to remain calm, he tested his bonds.

Tight, he thought, but not impossible, and the gag already felt a little loose.

Given time, he was sure he could free himself.

But time was in precious short supply. Sweat beading his forehead, Sinclair set to work.

The fiacre lurched through the darkened streets, the seats creaking out a rhythm that rasped at Belle’s already raw nerves.

She faced Lazare across the ancient cab’s shadowy interior.

He held the pistol negligently, no longer guarding her with such care.

But he did not need to. She had no intention of trying to escape until she obtained an answer to the question tormenting her.

“What do you know of Jean-Claude?” she demanded again.

Lazare merely smiled. “Poor Isabelle. Tell me, Do you still have those dreadful nightmares? The ones about returning to the Conciergerie, about Jean-Claude parting with his head in the company of Madame Guillotine?”

Belle strove not to reveal how his words startled her.

How could Lazare possibly know about her nightmares?

He had never been near her while she slept except—except, she realized with a jolt, that time he had nursed her through her delirium.

Dear God, what weaknesses had she inadvertently revealed to this madman, and what use did he intend to make of them?

He leaned back against the seat, balancing the pistol upon his knee.

His soft laugh chilled her blood. “I often wondered about this man Jean-Claude, who so haunted your dreams. I rather hoped to meet him one day. I finally had my chance in London last summer. It was most enlightening. We became close companions.”

“Liar,” she said hotly. “The Comte de Egremont would never have anything to do with the likes of …” But her voice faded along with her conviction.

Had she not made a similar declaration once to Sinclair?

He had tried to warn her then that there might be a link between Lazare and Jean-Claude. But she had not wanted to listen.

Her mind drifted back to that afternoon with Jean-Claude, when they had walked together upon the Pont Neuf. She had sensed then he might be in some sort of trouble, or may have fallen under the influence of some intriguer. The possibility that it was Lazare made her blood run cold.

“So you met Jean-Claude by chance,” she asked, trying to make some sense of all this.

“Not by chance, by design. Once I knew of his existence, I took great pains to track him down.”

She did not need to ask Lazare why. The answer was obvious in the way he deliberately tipped his head so that moonlight filtering through the coach window played across his scar, reminding her, ever reminding her.

So he did want his vengeance, had come for it at last, striking at her in a way she would never have expected.

“Where is Jean-Claude now?” she demanded hoarsely. “Have you seen him? Have you done something to him?”

“Not at all.” Lazare’s feigned expression of innocence mocked her.

“The noble comte is most hale, and as to where, you know he is right here in Paris. Have you not enjoyed seeing him again? You have me to thank for that. It was I who convinced him to return to France, that only he can be the avenger, the restorer of the French people.”

“What lies have you been telling him?” Belle cried.

“Only what he wanted to hear. I discovered a long time ago, you can inspire people to do the most incredible feats, even against their own nature, by simply telling them what they want to hear.”

Belle drew in a shuddery breath. She could bear no more of Lazare’s taunts, the hints of some dark plot unfolding just beyond her comprehension. Damn the villain! She would force the truth from him.

With a quick movement she lunged for his pistol, but Lazare was quicker still. He had not lowered his guard as much as she had thought. Once more he snatched up the weapon, holding it inches from her eyes, forcing her back.

“I think not, Isabelle,” he said. “We will see my little game through to the end. Who knows? You may guess the solution in time and thwart me yet.”

At that moment the fiacre jerked to a halt. Belle’s heart pounded with dread as she realized they had drawn up outside the theater, the dark street that stretched before it bobbing with lantern bearers escorting pedestrians to the door. Other coaches rattled past theirs, disgorging their occupants.

“We have arrived in good time,” Lazare said. “Soon the performance begins.”

She feared he did not mean what would happen on stage. She tried one last desperate gambit. “You know Crecy’s men will not be here. I told Marcellus not to proceed with anything until he heard from me.”

“We will not need them. I have made my own arrangements.”

“But we have no carriage. How will we manage the abduction and our escape?”

Lazare’s only answer was his devil’s smile. She knew in that instant that whatever took place here tonight, escape formed no part of Lazare’s plans for her.

Whatever hellish plot he was weaving, maybe she could best put a stop to it by refusing to enter the theater.

Let him shoot her if he would. It would be better than this tormenting uncertainty.

Yet she thought of Sinclair, captive in Lazare’s lodgings, and Jean-Claude, also in danger, but in what manner she did not know.

Possibly the survival of both men depended upon herself.

“That is right, Isabelle.” With what uncanny ease Lazare seemed able to read her mind. “Think about the men you love. The question is which do you love the more? If you could save only one, I wonder which you would choose.”

She cast him a glare filled with loathing, but his taunting words fired her determination. She would never have such a choice forced upon her. She would cut through this dark web of Lazare’s weaving, save both Sinclair and Jean-Claude, see Lazare in hell.

She pushed open the door to the fiacre herself, leaping down. Lazare followed close behind. The cool night breeze felt bracing against her heated cheeks. She hoped it would help to clear her mind, help her to think.

Some sort of bizarre trap awaited her within the confines of that theater, she was certain, something that involved Jean-Claude.

Yet she saw no other course than to see this nightmare through.

Her head whirled, her fears as intangible as phantoms in the dark, the truth of this situation eluding her like a nagging puzzle whose solution is obvious at once when it is revealed, but always too late.

As they approached the theater doors, observing the other silk-clad women, an absurd thought flitted into Belle’s mind.

“I am not dressed for this,” she said, gesturing to her plain gray woolen gown. “The first consul will be less than charmed.”

“I am sure he will find, as so many men do, that your beauty needs no silken trappings.” Lazare’s cold fingers stroked her cheek. “Your unblemished beauty.”

She felt his suppressed quiver of rage, the hatred long held in check. It would be so easy to goad him to violence, finish this right here and now. But that would not tell her what the man plotted.