Page 95 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
She cast him a glare filled with loathing, but his taunting words fired her determination. She would never have such a choice forced upon her. She would cut through this dark web of Lazare’s weaving, save both Sinclair and Jean-Claude, see Lazare in hell.
She pushed open the door to the fiacre herself, leaping down. Lazare followed close behind. The cool night breeze felt bracing against her heated cheeks. She hoped it would help to clear her mind, help her to think.
Some sort of bizarre trap awaited her within the confines of that theater, she was certain, something that involved Jean-Claude. Yet she saw no other course than to see this nightmare through. Her head whirled, her fears as intangible as phantomsin the dark, the truth of this situation eluding her like a nagging puzzle whose solution is obvious at once when it is revealed, but always too late.
As they approached the theater doors, observing the other silk-clad women, an absurd thought flitted into Belle’s mind.
“I am not dressed for this,” she said, gesturing to her plain gray woolen gown. “The first consul will be less than charmed.”
“I am sure he will find, as so many men do, that your beauty needs no silken trappings.” Lazare’s cold fingers stroked her cheek. “Your unblemished beauty.”
She felt his suppressed quiver of rage, the hatred long held in check. It would be so easy to goad him to violence, finish this right here and now. But that would not tell her what the man plotted.
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?”
