Varens.
Merchant said, “Nothing remains but to
settle a few details. First, this mission is to be kept entirely
between ourselves. No one, not even any of our own agents, is to be
told of it, except for those necessary to carry out the plot. The
fewer who know, the less likely any chance of betrayal."
Unless the wrong person already knows
of it, Sinclair thought, his troubled gaze resting on
Belle.
"All necessary funds will be placed at
your disposal," Victor continued. "The actual details of the plot I
leave to you. There will be no need for contact with myself until
the abduction takes place. Then send a message to alert me of your
expected arrival. Use old Feydeau as your courier."
Sinclair started at the sound of the
name, banging up against the fire screen. Obviously Merchant had
not yet received word about his own agent. Use old Feydeau? Not
likely when the man was dead. Sinclair caught Belle staring at him
and carefully composed his features so as not to betray a knowledge
he would have difficulty explaining.
While Sinclair straightened the fire
screen, Merchant went on. "I won't be returning to London. My
headquarters will be at Mal du Coeur until the abduction is carried
out. It is here where you will bring Monsieur Bonaparte.
"I have already sent word to Baptiste
to expect our agents' arrival, telling him it would be most likely
to you, Madame Varens. He will find lodgings in Paris for yourself
and Monsieur Carrington." Victor droned on, offering his advice
about obtaining passports, their travel arrangements, even the time
of their departure.
Belle and I might well be a newly
wedded pair about to embark on our bridal trip, Sinclair thought
with a sardonic lift of one brow, as commonplace as Merchant made
it all seem.
The clock chimed one just as Victor
finished with his instructions. Sinclair stared in disbelief at the
ticking pendulum. Had it really been only one hour since he had
first entered this room, one hour in which arrangements had been
made to abduct one of the most powerful men in Europe?
The whole affair bore an aura of
unreality about it as though they were all merely actors in some
farfetched play. Victor ended the meeting as abruptly as he had
begun, clearly expecting Sinclair and Belle to take their
leave.
As Sinclair moved forward to help Belle
rearrange the cloak about her shoulders, he studied her face for
any sign that she also was having doubts about what they had
undertaken. Her eyes were beclouded, subdued. If she was
Bonaparte's spy, Sinclair would have liked to have thought she
harbored regrets at the prospect of betraying her new partner. More
than that, he would like to think she was innocent. He had always
told Chuff only a fool trusted a woman in any matter of real
importance. But, God, how Sinclair wanted to trust this
one.
Victor bestirred himself to rise. He
unbent enough to offer Sinclair his hand in parting, but stayed the
gesture at the sound of a sharp rapping against the salon
door.
Merchant's eyes narrowed with
annoyance. "Damn Crawley. I told him he was no longer needed
tonight."
As the rapping came again, Victor
strode over to the salon door and flung it open. But the tall lanky
man hovering on the threshold was not Quentin Crawley. The shadows
from the hallway made it difficult for Sinclair to see the
stranger's entire face, but from what he glimpsed, he remarked a
profile of almost perfect masculine beauty with a strongly sculpted
jaw, an aquiline nose, and a broad forehead accented by silky hair
swept back, hair so bleached by the sun, it was almost
white.
That neither Belle nor Victor was glad
to see the newcomer was obvious. But while Merchant merely appeared
irritated, Belle had tensed, her features pinched white.
"Belle?" Sinclair whispered in her ear.
"Who is it?"
"Lazare," she hissed back.
The name meant nothing to Sinclair. He
watched as Merchant continued to bar the doorway, rebuking the man
in a spate of low, urgent French that Sinclair could not
Merchant said, “Nothing remains but to
settle a few details. First, this mission is to be kept entirely
between ourselves. No one, not even any of our own agents, is to be
told of it, except for those necessary to carry out the plot. The
fewer who know, the less likely any chance of betrayal."
Unless the wrong person already knows
of it, Sinclair thought, his troubled gaze resting on
Belle.
"All necessary funds will be placed at
your disposal," Victor continued. "The actual details of the plot I
leave to you. There will be no need for contact with myself until
the abduction takes place. Then send a message to alert me of your
expected arrival. Use old Feydeau as your courier."
Sinclair started at the sound of the
name, banging up against the fire screen. Obviously Merchant had
not yet received word about his own agent. Use old Feydeau? Not
likely when the man was dead. Sinclair caught Belle staring at him
and carefully composed his features so as not to betray a knowledge
he would have difficulty explaining.
While Sinclair straightened the fire
screen, Merchant went on. "I won't be returning to London. My
headquarters will be at Mal du Coeur until the abduction is carried
out. It is here where you will bring Monsieur Bonaparte.
"I have already sent word to Baptiste
to expect our agents' arrival, telling him it would be most likely
to you, Madame Varens. He will find lodgings in Paris for yourself
and Monsieur Carrington." Victor droned on, offering his advice
about obtaining passports, their travel arrangements, even the time
of their departure.
Belle and I might well be a newly
wedded pair about to embark on our bridal trip, Sinclair thought
with a sardonic lift of one brow, as commonplace as Merchant made
it all seem.
The clock chimed one just as Victor
finished with his instructions. Sinclair stared in disbelief at the
ticking pendulum. Had it really been only one hour since he had
first entered this room, one hour in which arrangements had been
made to abduct one of the most powerful men in Europe?
The whole affair bore an aura of
unreality about it as though they were all merely actors in some
farfetched play. Victor ended the meeting as abruptly as he had
begun, clearly expecting Sinclair and Belle to take their
leave.
As Sinclair moved forward to help Belle
rearrange the cloak about her shoulders, he studied her face for
any sign that she also was having doubts about what they had
undertaken. Her eyes were beclouded, subdued. If she was
Bonaparte's spy, Sinclair would have liked to have thought she
harbored regrets at the prospect of betraying her new partner. More
than that, he would like to think she was innocent. He had always
told Chuff only a fool trusted a woman in any matter of real
importance. But, God, how Sinclair wanted to trust this
one.
Victor bestirred himself to rise. He
unbent enough to offer Sinclair his hand in parting, but stayed the
gesture at the sound of a sharp rapping against the salon
door.
Merchant's eyes narrowed with
annoyance. "Damn Crawley. I told him he was no longer needed
tonight."
As the rapping came again, Victor
strode over to the salon door and flung it open. But the tall lanky
man hovering on the threshold was not Quentin Crawley. The shadows
from the hallway made it difficult for Sinclair to see the
stranger's entire face, but from what he glimpsed, he remarked a
profile of almost perfect masculine beauty with a strongly sculpted
jaw, an aquiline nose, and a broad forehead accented by silky hair
swept back, hair so bleached by the sun, it was almost
white.
That neither Belle nor Victor was glad
to see the newcomer was obvious. But while Merchant merely appeared
irritated, Belle had tensed, her features pinched white.
"Belle?" Sinclair whispered in her ear.
"Who is it?"
"Lazare," she hissed back.
The name meant nothing to Sinclair. He
watched as Merchant continued to bar the doorway, rebuking the man
in a spate of low, urgent French that Sinclair could not
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