Rendezvous (9781301288946) (12 page)

As the candlelight fell full upon
Lazare's face, Sinclair bit back a startled exclamation. The left
side of that perfect countenance was a mass of thick red scar
tissue as though someone had attempted to scorch a grotesque map on
Lazare's flesh, the burn markings stretching back from his cheek to
the stump where his left ear should have been. His hair was shagged
in such a way as to flaunt the deformity.

Victor hastened after Lazare, looking
agitated. "What are you doing here, Lazare? I told you there was no
need for you to attend the meeting tonight."

"So you did. I thought you would be
finished by now."

His gaze passed over Sinclair with as
much indifference as though Sinclair did not exist. He stalked
toward Belle, a strange passion firing beneath the pale lashes of
his silvery eyes. The malice emanating from the man was as palpable
as waves of heat pouring off a destructive flame. Sinclair had a
strange urge to wrench Belle out of the man's path.

"The fair Isabelle," Lazare
drawled. "It has been a long time since I've had the
pleasure,
ma chére
."

"Not nearly long enough, Lazare." Belle
drew her cloak more tightly about herself, as though any contact
with the man would contaminate her. She turned toward Merchant, her
eyes blazing with accusation. "What is he doing here,
Victor?"

Merchant did not seem able to meet her
gaze. He answered hesitantly. "Lazare. will also be accompanying
you on your mission."

"Will he indeed! And when, pray tell,
did you plan to inform me of that fact?" Belle asked.

Victor moistened his lips to answer,
but he was given no opportunity.

"No!" Belle fairly shouted. "I won't
have it. I told you after the last time that I would never work
with Lazare again."

The last time? Sinclair wondered. His
gaze flicked from Belle's pale face to Merchant's flushed features,
then to Lazare's impassive expression. Lazare was obviously another
agent in Merchant's employ, but he was not anyone whom Sinclair had
been informed about. He made a mental note to add Lazare's name to
his list of suspects.

"You forget yourself, Madame Varens,"
Merchant blustered, trying to reassume a semblance of authority. "I
will decide who goes on these missions. Only I."

But as Belle's lips thinned to a
stubborn line, Victor apparently thought better of his words and
adopted a more conciliatory manner. "You may have need of
Lazare—"

"I would have more need of the devil,"
Belle snapped.

Merchant darkened with anger, but he
controlled it. "There will be no trouble this time, I assure you.
Lazare fully understands that you are in charge. He pledges to take
his orders from you, is that not so, Lazare?"

Lazare acknowledged the words with a
stiff bow. Belle's look of contempt showed clearly what she thought
of such a promise.

"You must bury the past," Merchant
continued, "and give Lazare a second chance."

"
Oui
," Lazare said. He fixed Belle with
his compelling gaze. "You owe me that much,
ma chére
."

The low-spoken words had a curious
effect on Belle. She turned away in almost guilty
fashion.

"Very well. Lazare may come," she said
at last, although the concession seemed wrung from her. "But the
first time that Lazare seeks to challenge my authority . . ." She
left the threat unfinished, but Lazare appeared to understand her
well enough.

Without another word to anyone, she
pushed past Lazare and strode from the room, slipping through the
French doors into the garden beyond. Sinclair hesitated for a
moment, but neither Merchant nor Lazare looked likely to offer him
any explanations for the scene that had just taken place. Sinclair
knew Belle disliked questions, but this was one time he had to have
some answers. Bidding a curt farewell to the two men, Sinclair went
after her.

She was halfway down the path to the
beach by the time Sinclair caught up with her, her expression as
stormy as the sea-tossed wind tangling her hair. Her breath came
rapidly, but whether from fury or fear, Sinclair could not tell.
Maybe a combination of both.

"Would you mind telling me what that
was all about?" he asked.

"We have acquired another accomplice,
that is all," Belle flung back at him. She started to rush on when
Sinclair caught her by the wrist, pulling her back.

"And why does this particular
accomplice look at you as though he were the devil planning to drag
you off to hell?"

Belle compressed her lips in that
closed expression Sinclair was beginning to find so
frustrating.

"Is he a rejected lover?" Sinclair
persisted, trying to goad a response from her. "He has the look
about him of a man scorned. Are you the lady who broke his
heart?"

"No!" Belle wrenched herself free. She
glared up at Sinclair.

"I am the woman who shot off his
ear!"

Lazare examined Madame Dumont's
collection of china treasures displayed upon the salon's console
table, hefting the pastille burner with his rough fingers and
eyeing it with contempt.

Merchant snatched the china from him
and carefully replaced it upon the table.

"There was no need for you to come here
tonight, Lazare." I proposed to lead up to your part in this affair
more gradually."

"Ah, but I did not quite trust your
ability to persuade Isabelle into accepting me." Lazare strutted
into the center of the room, his gaze continuing to rove over the
chamber's aristocratic trappings. The elegance of Madame Dumont's
salon inspired in him nothing more than a desire to see it all
destroyed.

Dimly he became aware that Merchant was
speaking to him, but the fool was addressing his deaf side. Lazare
snapped his head around.

“You nearly ruined everything by
arriving so unexpectedly," Victor was complaining. "You must take
greater care. If Madame Varens should guess the real part you are
to play in her mission—"

"She won't," Lazare interrupted. "Until
it is far too late." He lightly touched the thickened flesh of his
scar. And then, by God, she'll wish that she had, he
thought.

Aloud, he said, "And that silent
dark-haired fellow. Is he going to be working with us?"

"Carrington. Yes, he is." Merchant
scowled. "Only his name is not Carrington. He is a spy planted
among us by the British army, the eldest son of General Daniel
Carr."

"How did you ever manage to discover
that?" Lazare made no effort to hide his scorn. He had a low
opinion of Merchant's powers of deduction.

"Quite by accident," Victor said. "I
recognized him. Sinclair bears a powerful resemblance to his
father. I met the general once when he attended a ball at the house
of Lord Elliot. He rebuked me for my manner of looking after his
horse."

Dull red surged into
Merchant's cheeks as he spoke of this old humiliation. Lazare
suppressed an urge to laugh aloud. He had always enjoyed the tale
of how Merchant, once the proud Chevalier de Nerac, had arrived in
England so destitute, he had been forced to take a job as a groom
for a while. It was probably the only honest toil the damned
aristo
had ever done in
his life.

“When I noticed the resemblance,”
Victor continued, “I did some detailed checking on Carrington,
found out that his tale of being a soldier of fortune was untrue.
He was a soldier, all right, Captain Daniel Sinclair Carr with his
own cavalry regiment. Although no longer in the army, he still
works for British intelligence."

Victor's cold eyes locked with Lazare's
"I very much dislike being spied upon, Lazare. Especially by an
Englishman."

"So do I," Lazare agreed softly. In the
pause that followed, they reached a silent
understanding.

"And Isabelle?" Lazare
asked.

"Madame Varens poses a different
problem. She has never followed my orders to the letter, and has
grown more insolent each time. And the exploits of the Avenging
Angel are becoming too well known. I foresee a time when she will
no longer be of much use to me."

"A very distant time?" Lazare’s pulse
throbbed with anticipation as he awaited Merchant's
answer.

"No. What I am trying to tell you is
that on this mission, both Carrington and Isabelle Varens are quite
expendable."

Lazare's lips snaked back into a smile.
"Thank you, monsieur. That is all that I have been waiting to
hear."

CHAPTER SIX

Dawn broke over the channel, the
pearly-white light strewing the water with diamond-like sparkles.
The waves lapped against the dockside, gently rocking the Good Lady
Nell. Thick ropes creaked as the packet boat tugged against the
moorings, as though the ship itself were eager for the journey to
begin.

Even at this early hour the sailors had
long been awake, scrambling about amongst the riggings, readying
the single-masted ship to catch the tide. The mail for the
continent had already been stowed on board as one lone passenger
made his way up the gangplank. His face muffled in the depths of a
woolen scarf, his flowing white-blond hair all but hidden beneath a
red Phrygian cap, Etienne Lazare attracted little notice or comment
from any of the busy seamen.

Sheltered from the stiff sea breeze,
standing near a silk warehouse, Sinclair and Belle watched Lazare's
progress to the ship.

Sinclair stuffed his hands into the
pockets of his greatcoat. Brief as his acquaintance with Lazare
was, the mere sight of the Frenchman inspired Sinclair to ball his
hands into fists.

“Lazare appears to be taking no chances
of being left behind," he grumbled.

"Perhaps if we are fortunate enough, he
will fall overboard." Although Belle's voice was light, Sinclair
did not miss a certain tightening of her mouth. Her face was
shadowed beneath the brim of her straw bonnet as she studied the
distant form of Lazare

"Why, Angel?" Sinclair demanded. "You
clearly despise the man, so why did you agree to let him come?" It
was a question he had been seeking an answer for ever since her
initial outburst that night outside Mal du Coeur when she had
blurted out that she had been the one to shoot off Lazare's ear and
scar his face.

But Belle had refused to discuss the
incident any further. For the past ten days they had seen little of
each other, both too busy preparing for the journey to France for
Sinclair to pursue the matter. But now that Lazare had crossed
their path again, Sinclair felt he had to have some
answers.

As always, Belle evaded the question.
"Lazare has his uses," she said. "No one knows the streets of Paris
better than he does, not even Baptiste."

Sinclair stepped in front of her,
partly to shield her from the brisk wind that was causing her to
belt her pelisse more snugly about her and partly to force her to
look at him.

"That won't do," he said. "I think it
is time you were a little more forthcoming with me about our friend
Lazare."

"The quarrel between Lazare and me is
personal. I told you before, it doesn't concern you, Mr.
Carrington."

Belle tried to edge past him, but
Sinclair closed in, all but backing her against the wall of the
warehouse. He leaned one hand against the rough planking, using the
length of his arm as a barrier to her escape.

"It concerns me a great deal, Angel."
Sinclair watched Belle stiffen, the soft angles of her face turning
hard. She was not the sort of woman to respond to demands or to
being bullied. He infused a coaxing, almost playful note into his
voice. "After all, I am rather attached to both of my ears. I
wouldn't want to offend you in the same manner Lazare did, whatever
that was." Sinclair allowed his eyes to rove suggestively over the
outline of her lips down to the full curve of her breasts. A
flickering of Belle's lashes told him that she was not unresponsive
to the boldness of his gaze.

"If I was ever tempted to shoot at you,
Mr. Carrington," she said tartly, "I would aim much lower than your
ears."

As Sinclair chuckled, she thrust his
arm aside, breaking past him. But she had taken only a few paces
along the wharf when he caught hold of her arm.

"You might have a little pity on me,
Isabelle. As a new member of your society, it is only natural I am
curious about you and Lazare. Small wonder poor King Louis still
languishes in exile if all you royalists persist in shooting each
other instead of—"

"I told you I am no royalist. And as
for Lazare—" Belle gave a derisive laugh. She spun about to face
Sinclair, her hands on her hips. "He was once a sans-culotte, the
more radical group of the revolutionaries. I daresay he cheered
more loudly than any when Louis XVI was beheaded. According to
Lazare, only the working class in Paris deserved to be left
alive."

Sinclair frowned in confusion. "Then
what the deuce is he doing working for Merchant?"

"Lazare claims to have seen the error
of his ways, to now be a loyal monarchist. He likely thinks he has
fooled Merchant, but I doubt if he has. Victor is far too shrewd
for that. But they both hate Napoleon, the difference being Victor
would replace the Corsican with a Bourbon king, Lazare with
anarchy."