Page 53 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Flushing with chagrin, she scarce dared look at Sinclair. He had good cause to be aggravated with her clumsiness, but his eyes reflected only concern.
“What a wonderful beginning,” she muttered. “I shall have to go after him and apologize.”
“The man should apologize to you, Angel. He was damned impertinent.”
Yes, but she was the one hoping to ingratiate herself with Bonaparte with a view to arranging his abduction, not the other way around. Belle refrained from reminding Sinclair of that fact, lapsing into a dour silence.
Her spirits did not improve as the evening wore on. Bonaparte, making his rounds of the guests, took great care not to come near her again. Although it was far from being the end of her plans, Belle could not help reflecting how much easier her task might have been, if only she had managed to exert a little charm.
“Why don’t you join Madame Bonaparte’s circle?” she suggested to Sinclair at last. “Perhaps you can glean some information from her that might be useful. I have not proved to be much help.”
“Belle.” Sinclair’s tone was warm, admonishing.
“Away with you,” she said. “There is nothing more ridiculous than a husband hanging upon his wife’s sleeve. You will have all the men of Paris saying I have you under the cat’s paw.”
He gave her a wry grin. With some reluctance he moved off to obey her command. Belle unfurled her fan before her face and continued to brood over her error. What had happened to her customary sangfroid? Ever since her return to Paris, her emotions seemed far too near the surface. It was as though the carefully constructed barriers around her heart were beginning to crumple.
She began to find the reception room unbearable. The heat, the crush of people, the endless chatter started the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. When she noticed Fouché about to close in on her again, she felt unequal to dealing with him. Seeking escape, she slipped out the main door. If nothing else, she might at least glean some notion of the layout of the palace.
But she soon dismissed any idea of attempting the abduction from the Tuileries as absurd. Although she was permitted to wander the corridors, the members of the consular guard appeared everywhere, discreetly following her movements with their eyes.
She did not find herself alone until she reached a dimly lit hall ornamented with busts set upon pedestals. Most of them depicted classical figures: Brutus, Cicero, Hannibal, Alexander, but a few represented more modern statesmen, Frederick the Great, Washington and Mirabeau.
She paused before the last statue, absently returning the figure’s vacant stare of stone. A low voice came from behind, startling her.
“That is Julius Caesar, possibly the greatest general who ever lived, in my opinion.”
Belle spun about to find Napoleon Bonaparte watching her, barely a yard away. Was he now further annoyed to find her wandering in a part of the palace where she did not belong? His grave expression told her nothing.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I daresay I should not have wandered in here.”
When he did not reply, she made a stiff curtsy and attempted to slip past him.
“Stay,” he said, then softened the command with an added, “Please. It is I who must ask your pardon for the distress I caused you earlier. Madame, can you forgive a soldier’s blunt manners?”
Belle expelled a long, slow breath, her thoughts racing. Could it be that she was being offered another chance? This time she must weigh her remarks far more carefully.
“The fault was mine, sir,” she said, “for being so foolish. I am not usually oversensitive, but some things I have not found easy to bear. I should not blame you if you held me in contempt. Being such a bold soldier yourself, you must?—”
“Madame, there is as much courage in bearing with a sorrow of the heart as in facing a battery of guns.”
His solemn answer surprised her, a surprise that she could not quite conceal.
“Do I astonish you, madame?”
“Yes, you are quite different from what I had been led to expect.”
“No doubt by your British papers. I forbid their circulation here in France. The lies they spread. They make me out a gorgon with two heads, do they not? Come, tell me.”
With a slight smile Belle said, “Well, I have heard mothers warning their children, ‘Baby, baby, he’s a giant. Tall and black as Raven steeple. And he dines and sups, rely on’t, every day on naughty people.’ “
Bonaparte looked nonplussed, and for moment Belle feared she had gone too far. Then to her relief, the first consul flung back his head and laughed.
“And what about you? Are you a naughty person, Madame Carrington?”
Touching her fan to her cheek, a wicked arch of her brows was the only answer Belle gave.
Napoleon’s mouth widened into a smile, warmth firing his stern gaze as he stepped closer. “I confess that I have not a high regard for your country, madame. I thought naught came from London but pestilence, all the great evils of the world. But 1 might be persuaded to change my mind.”
