Page 62

That, Belle supposed, was an improvement over the tribunal, whose condemnation she had read even before her trial had begun. When she could endure his steady regard no longer, she asked, “How did you know my name?”

He arched one brow. “I think it is my place to ask the questions here, madame. But I will gratify your curiosity. You met an old acquaintance at my reception, did you not?”

Understanding broke over Belle. “Fouché.”

“Exactly. You are quick, madame. Fouché, my former minister of police and I have one trait in common, a memory for faces, although Fouché’s is not quite as excellent as mine. He did finally recollect who you were, did some ferreting out of your past and presented the facts to me.”

Bonaparte tapped the papers before him. “Isabelle Varens, once wife to Jean-Claude Varens. Known by some as the Avenging Angel. You came to trial in the summer 1794 for helping people proscribed escape from Paris,”

“I was never actually condemned,” she reminded him.

“Merely because you were released as were so many others with the downfall of Robespierre.”

Bonaparte thrust the papers from him. “I have no desire to retry you on ancient charges, madame.

I admire you for what you did. I helped a family escape myself once when I was a young officer during the siege of Boulogne.

Aristocrats were being murdered outright. I helped a family to hide in crates.

“I have no quarrel with the role you played in the Revolution.” He subjected her to a hard stare. “It is your more recent activities that I find less than tolerable.”

Belle drew in a deep breath. She did not know why it was suddenly important to her that he should know the truth. The abduction plot alone was more than enough reason that he should send her to her death. But she did not want Bonaparte thinking of her as a murderess.

“I know this cannot be construed as a defense,” she said. “But I was not part of any assassination plot. My intent was solely to arrange your abduction.”

A glimmer of humor appeared in those cool gray eyes. “ Merci, madame.”

Belle’s lips thinned as she continued, “I have never betrayed any of my comrades before. But I will give you a name—Etienne Lazare. He was the man with the scar who fired on you. He alone is responsible for the attempt on your life.”

Although Bonaparte dipped his quill into the ink and made note of the name, he said, “That may well be true, madame. But the fact remains that the pistol was first in the hands of your former husband. He had me dead in his sights. I am only alive because he lost his courage.”

“It was not a loss of courage! Jean-Claude stopped because it is not in his nature to commit murder. It was only that Lazare had filled his head with so many lies. He manipulated Jean-Claude into making the attempt.”

Belle saw with despair that her plea was having little effect in erasing Bonaparte’s contemptuous frown.

There was no way to make a strong-willed man like the general ever understand the weakness, the confusion of a broken?hearted dreamer like Jean-Claude.

She asked the question whose answer she most dreaded.

“Has Jean-Claude been arrested?”

“No,” Bonaparte said. “But it is only a matter of time. He will not get out of Paris, nor will this Lazare, nor Mr. Carrington, whom I assume also shares some part in all of this.”

Despite Bonaparte’s aura of confidence, Belle felt a surge of relief. No mention had been made of Baptiste or Crecy. Their part in the plot had gone undetected. They would find a way to help Sinclair and Jean-Claude escape.

She became aware of Bonaparte’s thoughtful gaze upon her. “You puzzle me, Madame Varens. You obviously would have gone to great lengths to arrange my abduction. Yet this Lazare person was in the right of it. It is easier to kill than to abduct. Why did you save my life?”

“Because I too have my own code.” A slight smile curved her lips. “I will admit that I am more rogue than lady. I do a great many things respectable women would frown upon. But assassination does not fall within that realm.”

Bonaparte leaned back in his chair, lapsing once more into a frowning silence.

As he stared out the window into the court beyond, Belle could tell that he strove to reach some sort of decision.

For all that had happened, Belle sensed a grudging admiration in him.

One thing yet puzzled her, and she made bold enough to interrupt him by asking, “So you did know my real name, something of my past, before you came to the theater last night?”

Bonaparte nodded. “Fouché provided me with that much, although he could not discover what you might presently be doing in Paris. Fouché, you see, would like me to believe he is indispensable for ferreting out plots, but I preferred to see what I could do on my own. I confess I was still struck by your beauty, intrigued by you.”

“But you took a dreadful risk.”

He gave a fatalistic shrug. “I take a risk every time I ride through the streets. This was not the first assassination attempt, nor will it be the last, I fear. When it is my time to die, there is nothing I will be able to do about it. It is a philosophy I imagine that you share, the difference between a brave man and a coward, n’est-ce pas ? ”

He didn’t seem to expect an answer. Turning purposefully back to the desk, he reached for a blank sheet of vellum and his quill.

From the rapidity of his ink strokes, Belle realized he had arrived at his verdict.

She felt her heartbeat quicken. He was either remanding her to spend the rest of her days within the dank walls of this prison or signing the order for her death.

He stood up with his characteristic abruptness. Coming round the desk, he took her hand with a stiff bow. “This must be our farewell, madame.” He handed her the papers. “Present this to the guard.”

She stared down at the document, unable to focus upon those bold ink strokes. “Is it now the custom for the condemned to carry their own execution orders?”

He gave a short laugh, and then regarded her impatiently. “You are free, madame. Free to go.”

She stared at him, unable to comprehend what he was saying, hardly daring to believe she had heard him right.

“You saved my life,” he said. “I am returning the favor. That makes us even, does it not?”

“Y-yes,” she managed to stammer. Blinding relief weakened her in a way fear had not been able to manage, causing her hands to tremble so that she nearly dropped the precious pardon. Freed a second time, a second miracle offered her, another chance to begin her life again.

She tried to voice her thanks, but Bonaparte strode toward the door. He paused to glance back with his hand upon the knob.

“One word more, madame. As gracious and beautiful as your presence is, I would make one thing clear. I would not care ever to find you in France again.”

Belle recovered enough to offer him an elusive smile. “Believe me, Monsieur le General. You won’t.”

The final set of prison gates opened to allow Belle to pass. The last time she had hurled herself through them with but one thought, to flee Paris. She was older now, she mused with an inward smile, and perhaps not as wise.

She stepped slowly past the guard, taking the time to revel in the freshness of the air after the dank odors of the prison, to feel the bite of the cold wind against her cheeks.

Her younger self would never have allowed a moment to consider how good it was to be alive.

It had taken Sinclair to teach her to do that.

The young guard who released Belle was far more courteous than the gruff turnkey. Her bedraggled appearance did nothing to daunt the admiring gleam in the youth’s eye. He followed her through the gate into the bustling street beyond the prison’s outer walls.

“Is madame all alone?” he asked sympathetically. “Have you no friends to meet you?”

Oh, she had friends all right, Belle thought, but none, she trusted, so fool as to come seeking her here. Aloud she thanked the guard for his concern, saying, “I will manage well enough on my own.”

Her words seemed belied the next instant. She was jostled off balance, nearly tumbled into the mud. The culprit was one of the city’s wood peddlers, his hat brim pulled so far down over his long straggling gray hair that it was a wonder he could see a thing.

“Watch where you are going, you old—” But the young guard had no opportunity to complete the insult. With a movement remarkably spry for one of his years, the old man straightened, leveling the guard with one blow of his powerful fist.

Belle gaped in astonishment. She had barely recovered from her surprise when she was seized roughly about the waist. The wood peddler flung her into the back of a passing hay cart. Leaping up beside her, he growled out a command to the driver.

“ Allez! Allez! Vite .”

More startled than hurt, Belle struggled to sit up, but as the cart lurched into movement, she was slammed back down again. She heard outcries and curses from the startled pedestrians as the cart began a wild plunge through the streets.

The wood peddler tumbled down beside her. Belle met him, ready to defend herself as best she could. Nails bared, she went for the man’s face hidden beneath its layering of beard. He caught her wrists in a strong grip, forcing them down.

“Be still, Angel. It’s me.”

Shorn of its French accent, the resonant voice was achingly familiar. The next instant the peddler boldly crushed his mouth against hers, all lingering doubts of his identity melting away before the heated fury of his kiss.

Belle ceased her struggles, clinging to Sinclair, returning his embrace, his graying wig coming away in her hand.

When he drew back, the beard had gone askew as well, Sinclair’s hunter-green eyes twinkling wickedly at her. “Now do you know me?”

“Mr. Carrington,” she murmured. “And to think I was beginning to feel as if I had not paid enough heed to the wood peddlers of Paris.”