Rendezvous (9781301288946) (38 page)

Sinclair found both agreements hard to
keep, and he wondered if Belle was feeling the same. She
continually avoided meeting his eyes.

Sinclair's attention was drawn back to
Crecy as he held open another door, indicating they should precede
him into his private study. The dark paneled room was as solemn and
businesslike as the gaming salon was full of light and
frivolity.

Lazare and Baptiste were already there
waiting. A dour silence pervaded the chamber and was little
dispelled even when Crecy rang for extra candles. A waiter appeared
bearing a silver tray laden with tempting morsels, oysters, cold
tongue, grilled partridges, cream cheese a la rose. But the
delicacies went untouched, even Crecy bearing little
appetite.

This meeting tonight differed from any
thus far, Sinclair thought as they gathered about Crecy's
mahogany-topped desk. No repartee, no squabbling, only their faces
taut with purpose as they all focused their attention on Belle. She
unfolded a diagram of the theater that Crecy had sketched that very
afternoon.

Her plan was familiar to all of them by
this time, but she took them through the details of it one last
time as though determined to dispose of any last-minute
objections.

"To begin with," she said, "Marcellus
will see to it that Monsieur Georges does not reach the theater
tomorrow night."

Crecy nodded. "That will not be
difficult. Many of the actors frequent my establishment. Georges is
heavily in my debt. He will not like it, but I can coerce him into
taking ill so that my unknown nephew from the provinces can make
his debut."

"And that unknown nephew will be one of
Crecy's footmen," Belle added.

"Will he be able to learn his lines
that fast?" Baptiste asked.

"If I know the people of Paris," Belle
said, "the poor man will never have to open his mouth. Once they
see he is not their favorite leading actor, they will begin pelting
him and hissing him off the stage."

Sinclair could not help giving voice to
his chief concern. "You are counting a great deal on the audience's
adverse reaction, Belle."

"Their reaction will be helped along by
Lazare." Belle pointed to a spot on the diagram. "He will be
sitting here in the pit."

"Lazare bears a great talent for
rousing a crowd to a state of violence, Monsieur Carrington,"
Baptiste explained quietly.

"And my talents have grown
considerably, old man." Lazare's lips split in a sneering smile,
but his gaze seemed more centered on Belle. "You would be surprised
at some of the places, some of the people over whom I have
influence."

A strange sort of boast, Sinclair
thought. What was Lazare hinting at? Belle chose to ignore the
remark, continuing on. "In any case, Baptiste will place himself
here." She indicated the rear section of the pit. "He will do what
he can to aid Lazare. Once the riot has begun, it will be my turn.
I shall be up here, with Monsieur Bonaparte in one of the first
tier boxes, closest to the stage. It has been a long time since I
simulated a swoon, but I think I can still manage.

"Bonaparte will have his hands quite
full by the time Crecy's men burst into the back of the box, garbed
in the uniform of the consular guard."

"And Bonaparte's own guards?" Sinclair
demanded.

"He is likely to have one or two at the
most," Crecy said. "When he attends the theater in this discreet
fashion, the first consul usually is not closely
attended."

"These guards will be dealt with if
necessary," Belle said. "It only remains for Crecy's men to tell
Bonaparte they were alerted as to his possible attendance at the
theater and have come to escort him from the riot scene in safety.
Once outside we must rely upon the dark and the hysterics I will
have to keep the general from noticing it is not his own carriage
he is being bundled into."

"Sinclair-" Belle dared a brief glance
at him—"will be waiting with the coach, to help me subdue Bonaparte
if necessary. After he has been bound, we will hide him beneath the
false seating of the carriage and be off. Forged papers, a bribe if
necessary, will get us out the city gates before it is even known
Bonaparte is gone."

With a final sweep of her hand across
the map, she concluded, "I will already have sent Paulette out of
Paris with our luggage. We will meet at the rendezvous point in
Rouvray Forest for a change to swifter horses. As we make all speed
for the coast, Lazare will hasten ahead to make sure the fishing
ketch is waiting."

Belle made it sound so simple. Indeed,
perhaps her plan was not so farfetched after all. Sinclair tried to
be objective. Extremely daring the plot was, but Sinclair's past
experience told him that often the more outrageous schemes were the
ones that did work, being so unexpected. Under other circumstances,
the challenge of it all might have intrigued him—but for the
traitor in their midst. Sinclair's gaze tracked to Lazare. Every so
often the Frenchman's lips thinned in a narrow smile, a smile that
iced Sinclair's blood.

Tonight was his last chance, Sinclair
thought. The address he had uncovered in this district, his only
clue, as yet remained not investigated. It was tonight or never.
Sinclair could only hope the luck would be with him.

If the address turned out to be but one
more blind alley, he would have to admit defeat. He had let matters
proceed too far by not taking Belle into his confidence sooner. Now
he would have to confess the truth to all these people, even at the
risk of losing forever his chance to uncover the spy he sought. And
what Belle's reaction would be, Sinclair scarce dared to
think.

When Belle began to go over their
escape route to the coast, where they would change horses, Sinclair
forced a yawn and took a chance of excusing himself.

"I am sure I can leave all that in your
capable hands, Angel," he said. "I will gain nothing by going
through it all again. Since this is likely my last night in Paris,
would you mind if I tried my luck at one of Crecy's
tables?"

Crecy looked mildly surprised, Baptiste
thunderstruck with disapproval.

"Somehow I never set you down for a
gamester." Belle shrugged. "Suit yourself, Mr.
Carrington."

She was obviously annoyed, probably
seeing this as more of his disinterest in her plan. But the
situation was growing far too serious for him to worry about
quarreling with Belle. He could smooth things over
later.

Outside in the salon Sinclair summoned
a servant to produce his cloak. The thought occurred to him that he
had neglected to provide himself with a weapon. He did not know
exactly what awaited him behind the door of No. 32, but some sort
of protection might be a wise precaution.

He wandered toward the alcove that
concealed Crecy's refuge of the wounded. The little room was empty
except for a small desk with the writing materials Crecy had
described previously, but along one wall was a shelf containing
pistol cases. Sinclair examined several of them before selecting a
small lightweight pistol, finding ball and powder conveniently at
hand. What a cool devil that Crecy was! After loading the pistol
Sinclair slipped it carefully inside his cloak pocket.

After peeking behind the curtain,
making sure he was not observed, Sinclair slipped back into the
main salon, heading casualty for the main doors. He paused only
long enough to inquire of the doorman the exact location of the
address he sought, then he stepped out into the cool night
air.

Lazare paced the study, immune to the
charms of the crackling hearth, the fine wine Crecy had provided.
The others—Belle, Baptiste, and Marcellus—were going through the
entire plan one more time, checking it for any glaring flaws.
Lazare's lip curled with contempt. He did not possess Belle's
fastidious attention to detail, nor her need to drill a plan over
and over again until it was letter perfect.

Besides, he already knew that tomorrow
evening's events were going to proceed in far different fashion
from Belle's carefully laid designs. At the moment Lazare felt far
more interested in discovering what Carrington was
doing.

Clearing his throat, he bluntly excused
himself from the room on the grounds of answering the call of
nature.

Crecy sniffed, looking disgusted, but
Belle merely waved him away with a distracted gesture of her hand.
For a second Lazare's eyes narrowed, unable to disguise the ugly
thoughts churning through his brain. She dismissed him so easily,
looking right through him, all memory of that day by the ditch
erased from her mind. But he hadn't forgotten. How could he when he
bore the imprint of it seared upon his flesh. And after tomorrow
night Isabelle Varens would bear the memory of Etienne Lazare and
his vengeance for the rest of her life . . . whatever remained of
it.

His hatred of her flared up inside of
him so strong that he quit the study more rapidly than he intended,
lest he at last reveal to her some of his purpose. Bursting out
into the hum of noise that was the gaming salon, Lazare drew
several calming breaths before he looked around for
Carrington.

There appeared to be no sign of the
blasted fellow. Lazare pushed through the midst of the wealthy,
glittering throng, their heads adorned with diamond aigrettes,
pomaded locks, beribboned ringlets, heads that would have looked
better stacked in the basket at the foot of the guillotine. But no
Carrington.

Lazare located Giles and Auguste
Marboeuf at one of the roulette tables. They appeared very much out
of place in Crecy's exclusive establishment, placing their modest
bets beneath the croupier's supercilious stare. Obviously being
admitted to such a place had gone to their heads.

With a snarl, Lazare strode over and
dragged them both aside. "Where's Carrington?"

"Isn't he yet in the back room?" Giles
asked.

Lazare swore. "You fools."

He had set the pair of them to keep an
eye out, watch for a chance to get Carrington alone if possible,
otherwise waylay him en route to the carriage later. Now Carrington
had presented them with the perfect opportunity, and they had lost
it.

There might yet be a chance. Carrington
could not risk being gone from the meeting for too long, so he
could not have gone far.

"Come on," he growled at Giles and
Auguste. Lazare had taken great pains not to arouse suspicion in
Belle by sharing a part in Carrington's demise. But now he could
see he must take a hand in the affair himself.

His umbrella hooked over his arm,
Sinclair moved at a hurried pace, accustoming his eyes to the
darkness beneath the Palais's first-floor colonnade. The lamps from
the gardens cast but dim illumination here, the darkened shop
windows only serving to add to the sense of isolation.

Other shadows moved about beneath the
colonnades, a pair of lovers entwined in a hot embrace, a
beady-eyed fellow who studied Sinclair as though to gauge the
location of his purse. But something in Sinclair's stance made him
think better of it, and he slunk away.

Sinclair located No. 32, the last door
at the far end of the Palais, the placard in the curtained window
proclaiming it as a seamstress's establishment. His shoulders took
on a disheartened slump as he feared he had but come on a fool's
chase.

Still a light glowed beyond the filmy
curtains along with the chatter of voices. Strange that such a shop
should still be open this time of night.

When Sinclair knocked at the door, a
feminine voice bade him enter. He stepped cautiously inside. He had
not much experience of seamstresses' shops, but he wagered that
most did not look like this. The sitting room wore an aura of
tawdry luxury, all crimson velvet and gilt, the cloying scent of
perfume heavy in the air. Gold curtains framed an arch which led to
some other mysterious area beyond.

Draped upon a settee were two ladies of
dubious virtue, a redhead and a blonde. If they did possess any
talent for sewing, Sinclair doubted they were expending much of it
upon their own scanty attire.

An elderly woman bustled forward to
greet Sinclair, her rouged cheek puffed out with a smile. "Good
evening, m'sieur. How may we serve you?"

Sinclair swept off his hat.
"
Bonsoir
, madame.
I—er- am looking to have some alterations done."

His words sent the young women upon the
settee off into a fit of giggles. One called out, "On your breeches
perchance, m'sieur?"

The elderly dame silenced them with a
dignified glare.

"M'sieur must understand. We do not
serve any gentleman who walks in off the streets. All our callers
come here by recommendation."

Sinclair decided to take a great
chance, watching the woman carefully for her reaction. "Lazare sent
me."

Her puzzlement appeared genuine.
"Lazare? I have never heard of this Lazare." She glanced toward the
two girls as though soliciting their help.

The blonde one cooed, "I am sure it is
all right, madame. I think I have heard Paulette talk of a
Lazare."

"Paulette?" The name sent a jolt
through Sinclair.