Page 96 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
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.
