Page 51 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“That all depends.” Sinclair shifted his gaze back to Belle, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you intend to adopt it?”
“Alas, no, I am supposed to be a proper English lady on this journey, remember?”
“More’s the pity.” Sinclair sighed. But his teasing expression vanished as he slipped the cloak the rest of the way from Belle’s shoulders.
He had seen Belle’s beauty in many guises, but tonight she appeared an ethereal vision, a queen stepped from the pagesof legend, a Helen of Troy. Her womanly curves were accented by a high-waisted gown of white silk, gleaming beneath an overtunic of silvery gauze, with a long train sweeping behind. Gloves drawn up to the elbow emphasized the slenderness of her arms. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, the soft curls wisped about her cheeks and forehead, a netting of tiny pearls winding mistlike through the golden strands.
“On second thought,” Sinclair murmured in her ear, “forget the Paris fashions. I will settle for the proper English lady.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Although she acknowledged his compliment with a mocking smile, the color heightened in her cheeks. Gracefully gathering the train of her gown over one arm, she linked her other arm through Sinclair’s, resting her hand lightly on his coat sleeve.
As they joined the line moving into the reception room, Sinclair glanced down at her with a swelling of pride. Absurd, he thought. He behaved as though she belonged to him. But in a sense tonight she did. To the world about him she was Mrs. Sinclair Carrington, his wife. He could see the curious, half-envious stares of the other women, the open admiration of the men.
Did Belle realize the sensation she caused? There was no way of telling from the proud, unconcerned lift of her chin. On one level Sinclair believed that she did, not out of vanity, but with an almost cynical acceptance, regarding the men who ogled her as foolish. But he doubted that Belle would ever really appreciate what havoc her beauty could wreak upon a man’s heart.
As they stepped inside the reception room, Belle felt tempted to reach for her fan. The press of people, the fire banked high in the great marble fireplace, the glow of candles shining off the bright yellow cast of the walls gave her the feeling of having walked into a blaze of sunshine. Obviously neither the first consul nor his lady had yet made their appearance through thehuge double doors at the opposite end of the room. The guests milled about talking, giving Belle the leisure to observe a crowd no less brilliant than the glittering candelabra.
The ladies appeared in a profusion of diamonds, feathers, and silks, their cheeks rouged with the Parisians’ unashamed regard for cosmetics, which made Belle feel pale as a ghost by comparison. As for the gentlemen, dashing uniforms weighted with medals mingled side by side with crisp evening coats and the more fantastic wasp-waists of those French dandies known as the Incroyables.
Perhaps it was not the same august assemblage that had once graced the halls of a king. Here and there Belle caught snatches of vulgar language, the odor of doubtful linen, a glimpse of muddy shoes, which never would have been tolerated at Versailles, but this was still the respectable world of Paris.
The world that she had once sought to belong to as Jean-Claude’s wife. But she had never been quite at ease, ever aware of being the actress’s daughter from Drury Lane, always waiting to be found out. So many years had passed since then, but so little had changed. She crept into their midst, still the imposter.
Belle snapped out of her musings as she realized she and Sinclair were being approached by the English ambassador. He introduced himself and as they were supposedly there according to his auspices, Belle favored him with a gracious smile. His lordship must have been quite accustomed to his staff selling invitations to unknown English travelers. His interest in them was polite, but distant.
As the ambassador moved on, Sinclair whispered in her ear, “You look ravishing tonight, Angel. But I fear that gentleman’s stares over there are a little excessive. Do you know him?”
Following Sinclair’s nudge, Belle casually fixed her attention upon a lean man standing in the shadow of one of the chamber’s massive pillars. The fellow studied her from beneathan unprepossessing shock of yellow hair, his wan skin appearing stretched too tautly over sharp features.
“Fouché!” Belle tightened her grip on Sinclair’s arm. At his enquiring gaze, she explained in low tones, “He was Napoleon’s minister of police up until a few months ago. He is believed to have been dismissed because Bonaparte feels secure enough to deem Fouché’s services no longer necessary. Theon ditis that Fouché would give a great deal to prove Monsieur Bonaparte wrong.”
“Marvelous,” Sinclair said through gritted teeth. “The former minister of police. And now he is coming this way.”
“So he is.” Belle fluttered her fan before her eyes. “Keep smiling, my dear husband.”
She would have wagered that no other man in the room looked more relaxed or gracious than Sinclair, only she herself aware of the tension that stiffened his arm, perhaps because she felt that same tension knotting in her stomach as Joseph Fouché edged toward them through the press of people.
Fouché pulled up short, snapping into an ingratiating bow, but Belle noted his eyes never wavered from her face. Ferret-like eyes, she thought, repressing a shudder. She had never liked the cast of them.
“Forgive my impertinence, madame, monsieur,” Fouché said. “May I make so bold as to present myself—Joseph Fouché.”
“Sinclair Carrington,” Sinclair replied easily, “and my wife, Isabelle.”
“Isabelle. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” Fouché compliment seemd as insincere as his smile.”I must confess that it was the sight of you, madame, that rendered me so bold. As foolish as it may sound, I have the feeling we have met before.”
Belle’s heart thudded, but she met Fouché’s speculative stare. “I do not believe so, monsieur.”
There was finality in her tone, but Fouché was not so easily dismissed. “But such beauty one does not forget.” He stroked his chin, his eyes narrowing. “In Paris, I believe, during the Revolution?—”
“No one with any wisdom lived in Paris during the Revolution, monsieur.”
“I did.” Fouché’s manner of strained geniality vanished for a moment. “You look so extraordinarily like an unfortunate lady I saw summoned to face charges of treason before the Revolutionary Tribunal.”
“Ridiculous, monsieur,” Sinclair growled. “This is the first time my wife has ever been to Paris.”
Belle affected to lay a soothing hand on Sinclair’s arm. “Please, my dear. I am sure Monsieur Fouché intends no offense. It would not be unusual if I did resemble at least one of those wretched people. It is my understanding that half of Paris was called to trial before that court.”
“Not quite so many as that, madame, but most who were did not survive to talk about it.”
