Page 56 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
In fact, he was willing to talk to her of anything, as long as it concerned matters of no real importance. Belle detected a certain hint of male patronage in that he would never burden a woman’s mind with anything beyond her comprehension such as military or political matters.
Still, he had behaved in a gentlemanly fashion, and Belle could not deny that she had enjoyed the hour spent in his company. But she felt no further along with finding a way to accomplish her purpose in coming to Paris.
She had no choice now but to allow him to conduct her back to the reception salon. Before they crossed the threshold, he surprised her by stopping suddenly, placing his hand on her arm. She noted the whiteness of his fingers not much larger than her own.
“I should like to see you again, madame,” he said in his usual direct fashion. “Would you sup with me some evening?”
Before she could reply, he added, “Alone.”
Belle did not pretend to be coy or to misunderstand his meaning. She had to lower her lashes to conceal her elation. A supper alone with him, presumably without his guards inattendance. Her heart pounded so violently she feared he would hear it.
“I should like that,” she said. “My husband frequently goes out to enjoy the gaming houses in the Palais¬Royal, but I have no taste for such.”
“Nor have I.” He raised her hand to his lips and saluted it with a brusque kiss. “I shall send my valet Constant to you to settle the date.”
Belle hoped he mistook the excited flush mounting into her cheeks as gratification at this mark of his favor. But she saw she need not have worried. His attention had already been claimed from her by the reception salon. He surveyed the crowded chamber with satisfaction.
“The Due de Nanterre has finally put in his appearance,” Bonaparte said, nodding toward an elderly gentleman. “Many of those stiff-necked emigres have been accepting my invitation to return. They finally see that France can be better rebuilt through me than a doddering Bourbon king. When the Comte de Egremont arrives, I shall count this evening a complete success.”
Bonaparte’s last remark brought an abrupt end to Belle’s mood of elation, driving the blood from her cheeks. “The Comte,” she faltered.
“Egremont. Jean-Claude Varens.”
“You expect him here tonight?” How Belle kept her voice steady, she did not know.
Bonaparte angled a curious glance at her. “You know him?”
Belle concealed her dismay behind her fan. “I met him in London once.”
“He emigrated to England. I am glad a man of such ancient family now chooses to resume his life in France.” Despite his expressed pleasure, the consul’s brow was marred by a frown. “Except that he is a divorced man. Did you know that?”
“I—I—no, I didn’t.”
“Apparently he separated from his wife during the Revolution, as so many men did. I suppose divorce was bound to come under our legislation, but I think it a great misfortune that it should become a national habit. What becomes of husbands and wives who suddenly become strangers, yet unable to forget one another?”
Belle shook her head, glad to see that he did not expect an answer to his impassioned speech. Her throat had become so constricted she doubted she could have given him one. She felt grateful to see Sinclair approaching, although he was not looking quite calm himself.
“Ah, Mr. Carrington,” Bonaparte said. “I have enjoyed the company of your lovely lady. As you see, I have brought her back to you.”
“Excessively gracious of Your Excellency.” Sinclair’s voice carried a hard edge to it. For one playacting the jealous, suspicious husband, Belle feared he was doing too good of a job.
But Bonaparte looked more amused than annoyed by Sinclair’s scowl. He extended an invitation to both of them to attend his upcoming military review and then moved off and was soon seen to be deep in conversation with Talleyrand.
Sinclair glowered after the first consul before shifting his gaze to Belle. “What the devil has Bonaparte been saying to you? You look pale as a sheet.”
“Nothing,” Belle lied. “It all went splendidly. I am to have supper with him. It is only I have developed the most dreadful headache. I would appreciate leaving now.”
Sinclair favored her with a hard stare, but he asked no further questions, much to Belle’s relief. She wished for nothing but to retrieve her cloak and be gone as quickly as possible. She felt herself to be a coward, but knew she could not endure the prospect of encountering Jean-Claude again, not here.
Leaning upon Sinclair’s arm for support, she permitted him to guide her through the press of people, but once more her luck was out. A familiar slender figure blocked the doorway, his somber black attire and melancholy air seeming out of place amidst all the gay chatter.
Belle felt her heart sicken within her. Sinclair halted with a sharp intake of breath. “Varens. What the devil—” His gaze shifted to Belle. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he was due to arrive.”
Belle abandoned any further attempt at pretense. “Yes, Bonaparte mentioned it to me just a moment ago.”
“What in blazes is Varens doing here? I assumed he had retired to his estates in the country.”
“So did I.” Belle’s mind reeled in disbelief as she watched Bonaparte approach Jean-Claude. The comte greeted the first consul with obvious reluctance.
