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Suppressing a shudder at his touch, she preceded him into the brightly lit theater salon.

All around them gaiety and laughter spilled forth, jewels and silks mingling with the coarse dress of the common man.

Everyone anticipated the play, taking no notice of lesser drama in their midst. Lazare had the pistol concealed beneath his cloak, but he no longer had need of it to control her.

He whispered in her ear, “We must separate now, Isabelle. I will watch until you enter the box. Then I will be below you in the pit. My eyes will be upon your every move. One false start, one hint of anything strange, and remember I can find my way back to Carrington much faster than you can.”

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. She stalked away toward the door to the box where she knew the first consul awaited her.

As she slipped inside, she cherished the wild hope that perhaps Bonaparte would fail to come. It would make this tense situation so much easier.

But he was there. He arose from his seat at her approach. He was garbed simply in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. Here in the shadows of the box, she doubted if many in the theater were even aware of the first consul’s presence.

His greeting smile was stiff. “You are late, madame. I had begun to fear you meant to disappoint me.”

Belle took a deep breath, hoping her nervousness did not show. Never had she felt less capable of coolly playing out a role. “I beg your pardon, sir. I have never been very punctual.”

“Like most women. Yet why did I have a feeling you would prove different?” He stared at her.

Was it her imagination that he looked at her differently than he had at their first meeting?

He appeared to have taken no notice how she looked, yet she knew she must appear an astonishing sight.

She could feel disheveled wisps of her hair clinging to her cheeks.

She knew she must be pale. Did her eyes reveal her desperation?

His own gray ones appeared too shrewd, not quite as warm as she remembered, even perhaps a little wary.

No, it must all be attributed to her own nervousness, for he stepped closer. Carrying her hand to his lips, he said, “You need not look so worried. I will not have you shot.”

Belle jerked away, unable to conceal the tremor that coursed through her at his words. “What?”

“For being late.” He arched one brow. “I am only teasing you.” His voice gentled somewhat. “Do I frighten you? I assure you I hold nothing but admiration for you.”

His hands reached up to help her off with her cloak.

Belle struggled to find some measure of her old composure.

When she saw him stare at her gown, she said hastily, “You must forgive my appearance, sir. It was most difficult to escape here tonight without arousing my husband’s suspicion. He is a most jealous man.”

“You must not apologize. You look lovely.” He held out the chair himself for her to sit down. Belle started to ease herself down when he added, “Quite like an angel.”

She froze, her startled gaze flying back at him. It seemed even the most innocent remarks were flinging her off balance tonight, but Bonaparte had clearly meant nothing other than a compliment. His smile disarmed her.

She was beset by a sudden urge to confide in him. But what would she say? “I beg your pardon, sir. I meant to abduct you tonight, but I would as soon call the whole thing off since one of my fellow conspirators has run mad.”

The thought nearly caused her to break into hysterical laughter. Instead, she turned to stare into the theater. Bonaparte offered her the use of his opera glass. She accepted it, pleased to note that her hand was somewhat steadier.

The box she shared with Bonaparte was the closest to the right side of the stage.

She had but to reach out and she could have touched the heavy velvet curtain.

It afforded her an excellent vantage point of the rest of the theater.

The blazing chandeliers lit the interior as bright as the day.

Although the occupants of most of the boxes were lost in shadow, Belle could make out clearly the faces of those filing in to fill the benches of the pit.

Lazare had ensconced himself in the first row; directly behind the orchestra pit. She could see quite clearly that his gaze was not trained upon the stage but directed toward where she sat.

Hastily she began to inspect the other seats, fearing she would find Jean-Claude present.

The vague idea occurred to her that Lazare’s revenge might well consist of a scheme to abduct Napoleon himself and see that both she and Jean-Claude were implicated, left to the mercy of the mob.

Yet she did not quite see how Lazare could carry out such a plan.

In any event, Jean- Claude was not present.

She scarce knew whether to find that a cause for relief or not.

She tensed when she did spy a familiar face near the last row of the pit.

Baptiste. Her heart sank. He must have never seen her note warning him not to go to the theater.

He had assumed his place, faithfully preparing to enact his part in stirring up the riot, believing that all was going according to plan, and she had no way to let him know any different.

Belle saw only one course open to her. If Jean-Claude did not put in an appearance, she would act. When the riot did begin, the theater would be in a state of confusion. She might be able to slip away, alert Baptiste, and the two of them exit the theater before Lazare could get out.

Vaguely she became aware that Bonaparte addressed her. “I despise comedy,” he said. “Tragedy is the only true art. Do you not agree, madame?”

She hardly knew what she replied, nervously rubbing her hands together. Something crinkled beneath the fabric of her gown, and it was then she remembered the note she had stuffed up her sleeve.

She cherished little hope that it might be of any use to her, but as the curtain parted and the stage claimed Bonaparte’s full attention, she drew out the note to examine it.

It was difficult to make out the words, but she recognized it as Lazare’s handwriting at once, laboriously crude. It appeared to be a message Lazare had begun to Merchant.

“When you read this, you will know your orders have been carried out. I have already disposed of Carrington.

Belle sucked in her breath. Merchant had ordered Sinclair’s death before they ever left England. She strained to see the rest of the writing.

“And tonight will see the end of the business, Isabelle Varens arrested, Paris in chaos, and Bonaparte …”

Belle gasped, the last words blurring before her eyes. She nearly dropped the paper.

Bonaparte dead .

The plot flashed into place for her with alarming clarity.

This was no abduction she had arranged for tonight, but an assassination that had been planned all along by Lazare and Victor Merchant, knowing she would never consent to commit murder.

They had effectively used her as their tool, their dupe.

Belle’s gaze flickered frantically to the man at her side.

Bonaparte leaned forward in his seat, his gaze rapt upon the stage, oblivious to the danger.

Lazare had to be the assassin. And he would act, she felt sure, when the riot began.

But how had he planned to involve Jean-Claude, or had Lazare only held out such a possibility to torment her?

Belle focused on the stage, realizing they were nearing the point when Monsieur Georges would be expected to make his entrance. As soon as the wrong actor appeared on stage, the uproar would start.

Yes, there he was. The male lead strode out, his nervousness apparent even beneath the elaborate powdered wig and layer of white and red lead paint coating his cheeks.

Already the hisses had begun as some of the audience realized the substitution.

Lazare said nothing, but Baptiste, on cue, shouted out, “Bah! We did not pay to see this clown. Does the manager think to cheat us?”

As the rumblings in the theater grew, Belle saw Lazare start to rise. No matter what the cost, she had to do something. She could not sit by and see murder done.

She grasped Napoleon by the elbow. “Your Excellency. You are in danger. You must?—”

But he shook her off impatiently, staring at the stage with a frown. “What is going on? I know that man. He is no actor,”

“Please,” Belle said.

“It is, I think- yes, it is the Comte de Egremont.”

“What!” Belle whipped toward the stage as she too stared at the fake actor. It took her stunned eyes but a moment to recognize Jean-Claude clearly outlined in the glow of the candles that composed the footlights.

As though in some horrible dream, she watched him pace toward the end of the stage, so close to their box she could tell that his eyes glittered like pieces of glass. He reached beneath the dark purple cloak of his costume and drew forth a pistol.

“No! Jean-Claude, no!” But her cry was lost in the din.

The hubbub of excited and angry voices in the theater sounded in Belle’s ears like a dull roar.

The stage, the lights, the actors all became a blur of color.

Belle saw no one but Jean-Claude leveling his pistol at Bonaparte.

The first consul met the prospect of death unflinching, staring deep into Jean-Claude’s face, his expression slightly contemptuous.

They seemed frozen in this horrible tableau, time itself having come to a standstill. Jean-Claude blinked, his hand beginning to tremble.

“Fire! Damn you!” Belle heard Lazare’s enraged scream.

Jean-Claude braced his arm, but he could not stop the shaking. Sweat trickled down his brow, and with a strangled sob he lowered the weapon.

Belle sagged back in her seat with relief. But the next instant she saw Lazare. She knew not how he had managed to clamber past the orchestra pit or gain the stage so swiftly. With a bellow of rage, he leaped at Jean-Claude, wrestling the pistol from his grasp.

With a hate-filled snarl, Lazare whirled to fire into the box, but Belle found herself released from the daze that had taken possession of her. She dove at Bonaparte, carrying him, chair and all, to the floor of the box. The sound of the pistol shot blazed above their heads.

A moment of breathless silence descended over the theater, then the voices that had seemed so distant crashed over Belle. She could hear screams and curses as total confusion erupted upon the stage and the pit below.

Glancing up, she met Napoleon’s gaze. Their eyes locked for a second, and she felt as though he read the entire contents of her mind.

But he said nothing as he struggled to his feet, helping her to do the same. Upon the stage she saw no sign of Lazare but at that moment a familiar figure emerged from the wings.

Sinclair. A glad cry choked her. Somehow it did not astonish her to see him. He charged across the stage, trying to reach her through the mill of terrified actors who gaped at Jean-Claude.

The comte stood immobile, staring off into the lights, seeming oblivious to the storm erupting around him.

“Who was the fellow shooting at?” someone demanded.

Lazare’s voice unmistakably shouted out. “Look in the box. It’s Bonaparte. That actor plotted to kill Bonaparte.”

Astonishment rippled through the crowd, swelling to outrage. As Sinclair drew nearer, there was no way Belle could make her voice heard above the crowd. She only hoped that somehow Sinclair would understand her silent plea for him to help Jean-Claude.

Sinclair pulled up short; the understanding that had ever existed between them did not fail her. When the first man made an effort to lay hands upon the comte, Sinclair felled the one howling for vengeance with his fist.

Before any more of the audience could gain the stage, Sinclair yanked at Jean-Claude, thrusting the dazed man through one of the trapdoors in the floor of the stage and disappearing after him.

Belle judged that she could not linger herself to see more. Bonaparte appeared calm, watching the proceedings with almost an air of detachment. She backed toward the door of the box, preparing to bolt.

At that moment, the door was flung open. By her prearranged cue, two guards appeared, one of them saying, “Citoyen Consul. We were alerted you were in the theater. A riot has begun. We have come to escort you to safety.”

But one glance at the men’s faces was enough to tell Belle that these were indeed the real guards and not Crecy’s agents. Still, she prepared to bluff it out.

“There has been as assassination attempt,” she said. “You must get the first consul away at once.”

But when she tried to move past the guards to the freedom of the corridor beyond, she heard Bonaparte say in a level voice, “Detain that woman.”

Glancing back at him she feigned a look of surprise. “I fear I don’t understand.”

“You understand perfectly well, Isabelle Varens,” he said coldly. “You are under arrest.”