Page 64 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Might she not misconstrue the compassion that had led him to encourage her to talk out her sorrows last night, even misunderstand his motives for making love to her?
And yet, he had to tell her the truth, let her know what danger she risked by going ahead with a plot that might at any moment be betrayed. How would she react? Would she help him uncover the counterspy?
Sinclair studied Belle’s serene profile, the golden lashes fanning her cheeks. He had learned enough of Belle to know that her loyalties were to people above nations. If Lazare were the one, Sinclair did not doubt that she would aid him gladly. But Englishwoman or no, if the traitor should prove to be Baptiste or even if Jean-Claude were somehow involved, then Sinclair did not know how far he could trust to Belle’s support.
He ground his fingers against his weary eyes. Everything had seemed simplified when he had discovered Belle could not be the counterspy. But he now saw clearly that matters were more complicated than ever. He still could not risk telling Belle the truth.
In any case, the present opportunity for confession had passed. While he had debated the matter, Belle had fallen soundly asleep. Slipping quietly from the bed, he donned his breeches. By the time he retrieved his shirt, he had reached a decision. He would not tell her, not until he had proof certain the traitor was Lazare. In the meantime, he must keep a vigilant watch over Belle and make sure she remained safe.
He tiptoed over to the bed and adjusted the coverlets more snugly about her. But as he bent to kiss her smooth untroubled brow, he could not rid himself of the nagging sensation that by keeping silent he was making a grave mistake.
A mistake he might heartily come to regret one day.
Twelve
When Belle awoke hours later, she bore vague memories of Sinclair tucking her in, the feel of his warm lips grazing her forehead. The recollection was marred by the impression of a tension in the hands that had so tenderly pulled the coverlet up to her chin, a glimpse of an anxious frown.
Though why that should be, she could not say. She tried to recall the conversation they had been having when she had drifted off to sleep, but her memories of it were hazy. In the end she dismissed her misgivings as imagination, more pressing matters crowding forward to occupy her mind.
The promised invitation from Bonaparte arrived that afternoon, setting the date of their supper for a week hence, to be held at his private apartments in the palace of Saint-Cloud, some twelve miles outside of Paris.
One week, Belle reflected as she smoothed her hand over the crisp sheet of vellum. That did not give her much time.
The ensuing days passed in a flurry of activity. To avoid any hint of suspicion, she and Sinclair continued to play their role asthe typical English couple touring abroad, accepting invitations to some of the salons, being seen walking along the Petite Coblentz at the fashionable hour, exploring the Louvre like the other foreign visitors to gawk at the masterpieces Napoleon had plundered from the nations he had conquered.
Contrasting to these public appearances were the clandestine meetings with Baptiste, Crecy, and Lazare to finalize the plans for the abduction. These sessions proved long, the arguments many. Lazare favored waylaying the first consul’s coach en route, The road to St. Cloud contained quarries where a contingent of armed men might easily be hidden.
But as Belle pointed out, Bonaparte was no fool. She had gleaned the information that these quarries were always checked before Napoleon set out for St. Cloud. She favored a more subtle approach. Their own men disguised as members of the consular guard would have a greater chance of drawing near to the coach, overpowering the escort before the deception was discovered,
While the merits of this suggestion were debated at length, Belle frequently found her attention wandering, her gaze tracking toward Sinclair. It was most strange, she thought. Part of her reluctance to succumb to Sinclair’s charm had been her fear of the distracting effect it would have on their work. Yet at most, when their eyes met, the warmth of a knowing glance would pass between them. An accidental brushing of his hand upon hers would send a tingle rushing through her veins. But she doubted that any could have guessed from the cool sophistication of their manner that their relationship was anything other than professional.
By day Monsieur and Madame Carrington presented the image of the well-bred married couple, courteous and dispassionate. Ah, but by night, in Sinclair’s arms, in the dark of her bedchamber, that was entirely another matter.
By the morning of the military review, five days had passed since the reception, and Belle felt able to relax somewhat. Her plan had been adopted in the teeth of Lazare’s objections; most of the details had been settled. Work on the light coach to which Bonaparte would be transferred was complete, some reliable men for added force recruited from Crecy’s servants, the stitching on the duplicate guard uniforms nearly finished.
Belle had naught to do but wait and continue to enact her part as the alluring Mrs. Carrington. As she prepared to dress to attend the review, she paused long enough to force open the window casement in her bedchamber.
The weather had turned unseasonably warm these past few days, the breeze whispering past the curtains seeming more borne of May than October. Belle selected her lightest gown, a high-waisted walking dress of pearl-colored jaconet, the hem bordered with narrow tucks, then summoned Paulette to help her with her hair.
But the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be found. Belle pulled a wry face. Paulette had been more flighty than usual of late, unreliable. She supposed it might be the weather or the woman’s excitement at being back in Paris again. It would not have surprised Belle if Paulette had found herself a lover somewhere.
Shrugging off her annoyance, Belle scooped up the hairbrush from the dressing table. She had indeed allowed herself to become a pampered dolt if she did not still know how to do her own hair.
Brushing the strands into an arrangement of soft curls, Belle donned a gypsy hat of straw, bending it into bonnet shape by use of a sky-blue ribbon. Fetching her silk-fringed parasol and a lace shawl, she headed briskly downstairs.
It did not surprise her to find both antechamber and drawing room empty. Punctuality, at least for social functions, she was rapidly discovering, was not amongst Sinclair’s list of virtues.But this particular time, for the military review, she did not intend that they should be late.
Marching back up to his room, she delivered a thundering summons against his door, but was disconcerted to discover that Sinclair was not in the apartment at all. He surely would have had no place to go at such an early hour. She could not imagine where he might be unless …
She had noted that Sinclair found time each day to stop below to pass a few minutes with Baptiste in his lodgings or the fan shop, a fact that pleased Belle. Once accustomed to being surrounded by a large family, she knew that Baptiste was often lonely, the gregarious little Frenchman always glad of any company, ever proud to display his crafts. Despite Baptiste’s initial wariness of Sinclair, she sensed that a liking had developed between the two men.
Likely that was where Sinclair was now. If she hurried down, she could visit with Baptiste herself for a moment, and they would still have time to attend the review.
Hastening below, she again met with disappointment. A placard bearing the word closed had been placed in the shop’s front window. That was as odd as Sinclair’s unexplained absence, Belle thought. Today was thedecadi, a proclaimed holiday. But Baptiste had ever ignored the Revolutionary calendar, the decree that every tenth day should be treated as a day of rest.
Frowning in puzzlement, she went round to the back of the building where Baptiste had his lodgings behind the shop. She half-feared again to meet with no answer, but the door swung open at once with her first knock.
“Oh! Baptiste, you are here. Is Sinclair with—” She broke off in surprise as she obtained a better look at her old friend. This was Baptiste as she had never seen him before. Gone were the much-darned brown clothes and the leather apron. Dressedin an old-fashioned, but immaculate green frock coat, he had knotted a modest white cravat and black tie about his throat. In one work-worn hand he carried a gray felt hat trimmed with silk cord, his straggly salt and pepper hair smoothed back in neat waves.
