Petals in the Storm

Chapter 9

The next morning Maggie received a note from Helene Sorel reporting that a discontented French officer had asked a group of cafe idlers if anyone wanted to earn some money by shooting the Duke of Wellington. Since the idiot had made his offer before a dozen witnesses, he had been arrested within minutes.

Maggie smiled wryly as she set the note aside. There was plenty of dissatisfied grumbling in the city, but most of it was as harmless as this. Men like the foolish French officer were not the problem.

Her amusement faded as she considered her own lack of progress. Robin had stopped by the night before and they had stayed up late talking, but without reaching any new conclusions. It was vastly frustrating. Too many possibilities, too little time…

She spent the day pushing harder, looking at the information she had and trying to see some pattern, but without success. She could only continue as she was doing, and hope that General Roussaye might hold the key.

As she dressed for Prince Orkov's ball, even her favorite green satin gown failed to improve her mood. She was silent as Inge styled her hair into a tumble of golden curls. Privately she wondered how much Rafe was adding to her tension.

Though she trusted his good intentions about their mission, that was all she trusted. As a spy, he was an untested amateur. On a personal level, he was like a loose cannon on the deck of a ship: uncontrolled and dangerous. Maggie could pretend to a sophistication that played at love without being burned, but she knew how perilously thin her facade was. For her, lack of deep feeling was an act. For Rafe Whitbourne, it was the real thing.

When Inge announced that the duke had arrived, Maggie schooled her face to pleasantness and went to join him. When she entered the salon, her attention was distracted from the concerns of spying by Rafe's admiring expression.

"You look splendid tonight, Countess. Thank you for wearing that dress. It will go very well."

"Go very well with what?"

He held out a velvet-covered box. "With these."

Maggie opened the box, then caught her breath at the sight of an emerald necklace and earrings of dazzling beauty. Delicate gold settings entwined with flawless stones to create jewelry that looked light and airy while at the same being indecently sumptuous. "For heaven's sake, Rafe, what are these for?"

"For you, of course."

"I can't possibly accept anything this valuable. People would think…" She stopped.

"That you were my mistress? That is the point, my dear."

His voice was deep and caressing, and for one perilous moment she considered what it would like be to be his mistress in fact as well as fiction. Then her jaw hardened.

Even though he was the most attractive man she'd ever known, she'd be damned if she would let this unreliable nobleman conquer her, no matter how much they would both enjoy it. Conquest was still conquest, and she was no man's trophy.

She snapped the box shut and handed it back. "A queen's ransom in gems is not necessary to our charade, your grace."

Undeterred, Rafe said, "But it is necessary. Half of London society is in Paris now, and my habits are not exactly a secret. I've always given bits of trumpery to my lady friends. People would think it strange if I didn't do the same with you."

"Bits of trumpery!" she said with exasperation. "You could buy half an English county with the value of these."

"You exaggerate, my dear. No more than a quarter, and it would have to be a small county at that."

His smile invited her to be amused, and Maggie could not resist laughing with him. "Very well, if you insist, I will accept the loan of these until our masquerade is done. Then you can store them away for your next genuine mistress."

Taking the box from her hand, Rafe steered her over to a pier glass hanging between two of the windows. He stood behind her and deftly unhooked her simple jade necklace.

"But these emeralds wouldn't be appropriate for just any woman. They will look best on one whose eyes will turn green to match." He lifted the necklace from the box. "Someone with the style and countenance to wear what you call a queen's ransom without being overpowered by it. I can't think of another woman they would suit as well."

Rafe placed the necklace around her neck, his warm hands contrasting with the cool touch of the gems. Her ball gown was cut very low, exposing her neck, shoulders, and a dramatic expanse of bosom, and she felt suddenly naked as his fingers brushed her bare skin. Desire coiled inside her, tense and demanding. When she was eighteen, she had first explored the nearer edges of sexuality with this same impossible, attractive man, and time had only deepened her yearning.

Her gaze met Rafe's in the mirror. His hands came to rest on her exposed, sensitive shoulders and when he spoke there was no teasing undertone in his voice.

"Margot, why can't we forget all the complications of our past and be ourselves? You are the most irresistible woman I have ever known. Being so close to you without touching is in a fair way to driving me mad." He began gently massaging the back of her neck with his thumbs. "I want you, and I think you want me, too. Why can't we be lovers in truth?"

He was no longer the polished, sardonic duke who set her nerves on edge, but the direct young man she had fallen in love with. Her heart ached for what they had once had, am lost. Struggling for sanity, she said weakly, "It would be a mistake."

Bending over, he kissed the edge of her ear where it showed beneath her golden hair, then nibbled down her neck. His hands skimmed down her bare arms with feather lightness, then wrapped around her waist to pull her back against him. She gasped and tried to ignore the fiery reaction his touch aroused.

"We are both adults, old enough to know what we want," he whispered in his deep, velvet-rich voice. "No one would be hurt, and I know we would find a rare pleasure together." His hands brushed upward to cup her breasts. Slowly he moved them in a circle, and she felt her nipples harden against his palms.

Involuntarily she rolled her hips into his groin. When a hard ridge of flesh pressed against her, she forced herself to be still. "No, blast you!" she said breathlessly. "Nothing is that simple."

His right hand slipped into her bodice and he began teasing her nipple. At the same time, his left hand stroked down her torso to the jointure of her thighs. "Do you really mean no?" he asked as his knowing hands found her most sensitive places. "Your words say one thing, but your body says another."

There was too much truth in what he said, and the fire in her body was no fiercer than the torrent of confusion in her mind. Of course she wanted him. She was weak with longing, and dared not admit how perilously close she was to consigning past and future to the devil and letting him make love to her in the intoxicating present.

But she had learned self-control in the hardest of schools, and even now she knew that he was wrong to claim that no one would be hurt by what they did. She would be more than hurt; she would be devastated if she fell in love with Rafe again. Losing him once had nearly destroyed her, and no handful of days as his mistress could be worth the agony that intimacy would bring.

As she tried to find the strength she needed to break away, he murmured, "I promise that you won't be the poorer for it, Margot. The emeralds are only the beginning."

He wanted her to be his whore.

The knowledge gave her the fury she needed to resist. She jerked away, unconsciously raising one arm defensively. "No means No\ If I'd meant yes, I would have said yes!"

As she whirled around, her elbow clubbed his solar plexus with a force that knocked all the wind out of him. Rafe gasped and staggered back.

Appalled, Maggie stared at him, backing up until she was pressed against the pier table under the mirror. In a stifled voice, she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you."

He straightened up, fighting for breath. His gray eyes weren't cool now; they blazed with anger, and something more. Maggie had never felt physically afraid of Rafe, but now she was acutely aware of the height and breadth and sheer athletic strength of him.

She had wounded his pride, and that was a far graver blow than an accidental elbow.

The moments it took for Rafe to regain his breath gave him time to grab the last shreds of his temper. "It's fortunate for you that I was taught never to strike a woman," he said with icy fury. "If you were a man, I would teach you a lesson you would never forget."

"Surely if I were a man, this situation would not have arisen," she said tremulously.

Rafe's anger began to fade. "No, I suppose it wouldn't have. I'm rather conventional in my preferences."

She gave him an uncertain smile. "Will you forgive me if I promise not to hit you again unless I mean it?"

He had to smile. "Forgiven."

Her gaze dropped and she busied herself with putting on her evening gloves. He guessed that she had been deeply affected to lash out like that, and that was promising. Yet he felt a stirring of guilt at having caused her unhappiness.

Cool strategy and analysis disappeared when she raised her beautiful gray-green eyes to his. There was infinite courage and vulnerability in those smoky depths, and with a surge of emotion that left him shaken, Rafe realized that it wasn't the maddening, elusive countess he desired. What he really wanted was to have Margot Ashton back.

At that moment, he would have given his title and half his fortune to turn back the clock to the uncomplicated love they had shared when they were young. Though that was impossible, clearly the girl he had loved still lived somewhere inside the lady spy. If it were humanly possible, he would call Margot forth again.

With mild surprise, he recognized that in his mind, she was always Margot when he was thinking of her as she was-or as he wanted her to be. He asked, "Why don't you like to be called Margot?"

She gazed at him for a long, long time, her changeable eyes unfathomable. Speaking as if the words were being torn out of her, she said, "Being Margot hurt too much."

It said everything and nothing, but intuition told him that it was not the time to ask for a clearer explanation. After a pause, he said, "It's time we left for Prince Orkov's ball. We have a general to hunt."

"Very true." Maggie turned to the mirror and replaced her jade earrings with the emeralds. "The day our mission is completed, you will have your 'bits of trumpery' back." After wrapping her long cashmere shawl around her bare shoulders with casual artistry, she turned to face him, the Countess Janos once more. "Shall we be off?"

Rafe offered her his arm, pleased that he did not give in to the nearly overpowering desire to embrace her again. Still, as he helped her into his coach, he found himself reaching out to touch her golden hair. The silky strands flowed over his fingers like gossamer, and he wished he dared bury his hands in them.

More than ever he wanted her, but she was proving to be a far more difficult challenge than he had expected. He had thought she would yield to the passion of the moment, like the society beauties he had known, and he had been wrong.

But Rafael Whitbourne was unaccustomed to failure, and he would not accept it now. There had to be a way to win her, and by God, he would find it.

Prince Orkov's ballroom was decorated with barbaric Mid-Eastern splendor, including footmen dressed as Turkish harem guards and an Egyptian belly dancer performing in a side room. Even the jaundiced tastes of Paris society admitted that it was out of the ordinary.

In spite of frustration with their lack of progress in uncovering the plot, Maggie was enjoying herself. Their host held her hand and gazed into her eyes with Slavic soulfulness, but fortunately he was too busy to seek her out.

For the first part of the evening, Rafe stayed close to Maggie's side, playing the part of the devoted lover, as if there had been no traumatic scene earlier. But for him it would not have been traumatic. There were plenty of women available to relieve his physical frustrations later this night.

Fleetingly she toyed with the idea of letting him have his way with her so she would no longer have the cachet of being unavailable. After a night or two, surely he would grow bored and try his luck elsewhere.

As soon as the thought surfaced, she squashed it, recognizing it for an outrageous rationalization. No matter what reasons she concocted to allow him into her bed, the emotional repercussions would be disastrous. He was upsetting her enough as it was. Whenever she looked at Rafe, she felt his lips moving sensuously down her neck, and her knees started to weaken. It was hard to keep her mind on the business of the evening.

Though General Roussaye was supposed to be present, they couldn't locate him in the crush, and Maggie was beginning to fear that they would be unsuccessful. After an hour, she and Rafe decided to separate and hope for the best.

Midnight came and went, supper was served, the dancing resumed, and still she hadn't found her quarry. Exasperated, she wandered into the room where the belly dancer was performing for a handful of guests.

The woman undulated in veils and bangles while three musicians on the low dias behind her played minor-key music that sounded strange to European ears. As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, Maggie realized that she had found her man. While she had never been introduced to the general, he had been pointed out to her once, and she recognized him immediately.

Michel Roussaye was below medium height and wiry in build, but at first glance he reminded her of Colonel von Fehrenbach. The blond Prussian was an aristocrat who had been bred to the trade of war, while the dark-haired Frenchman was a commoner who had achieved his rank by merit. Nonetheless, even in this dim light it was clear that they were brothers under the skin, with the tough watchfulness of the professional man of war.

Would Roussaye have as much anger in him as von Fehrenbach did? Of their three suspects, the Bonapartist had the best motive for creating disruptions.

Maggie crossed the room to take a seat near Roussaye, wondering how she might strike up a conversation since there was no one to introduce them. The general was intent on the dancer and her eyes followed his.

She had never seen a belly dancer before, since the few places where they might be seen were off-limits for females. The sight made her blink with astonishment. Was it really possible for a woman to make her breasts twirl in opposite directions? Improbable as it was, the evidence was before her eyes. The spinning tassels heightened the effect. The dancer was heavy by European standards, but there was a large amount of her visible, all of it superbly trained.

Maggie must have made some sound of surprise, because a soft tenor voice said, "A very talented performer, do you not agree?"

She turned and saw that Roussaye was watching her with amusement. She replied, "Indeed, monsieur, I had no idea that it was possible for a human body to do such things."

He gestured at the stage. "Though Orkov hired her as a curiosity, she is an artist of great skill."

"Is artistry what a man sees when he looks at a belly dancer?"

"That may not be the first thought in most men's minds," he admitted with a hint of smile, "but I have spent time in Egypt, and have some appreciation of the fine points of the art."

She remembered that Roussaye's first military experience had been in Napoleon's Egyptian campaign of 1798, when he had been scarcely more than a boy. A formidable man. Keeping her tone light, Maggie agreed, "She does have rather fine points."

The music ended and the sweat-drenched dancer took a bow and retired for a break. The rest of the audience also left, leaving Maggie alone with Roussaye. She asked, "What was Egypt like?"

This time his smile was warmer. "Remarkable. The temples are almost impossible to believe, even when they are right before you. We look at a cathedral five hundred years old and think it ancient. Their temples are many times that age. And the Pyramids…"

The general was lost in memory for a moment. "Bonaparte spent the night in the largest. The next morning when he was asked what he had seen, he said only that no one would believe him." With an undertone of sadness he added, "In the history of Egypt, the brief French occupation is less than the blink of an eye. In the history of France, Napoleon may be of no more importance than that."

Maggie said dryly, "A thousand years from now, people may be that detached. In our time, Napoleon appears as the greatest and wickedest man of our age."

Roussaye stiffened, and she wondered if she had gone too far. While she wanted to stimulate responses from him, it would be a mistake to alienate him entirely.

"You are not French, madame," he said coldly. "It is not to be expected that you would see him as we do."

Wanting to know what motivated him, she asked, "How do the French see Bonaparte? I am one of many who paid a high price for his ambition. Can you convince me there was any value to it?"

The general's dark eyes held hers. "You were right to say that he is the greatest man of our age. In his younger years, to be around him was to feel… to feel as if a strong wind was blowing. The emperor had more force and vitality than any man I have ever seen, more strength and more vision. We will never see his equal again."

"Thank God," she said, unable to repress her bitterness.

Leaning forward, he said intensely, "After the Revolution, the hands of every nation in Europe were raised against us. France should have been destroyed, but we weren't. Bonaparte gave us back our power and pride. We were everywhere victorious."

"And in his later years, your emperor lost whole armies. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, countless civilians, died for France's glory. He once said that the lives of a million men were nothing to him," Maggie retorted. "When Bonaparte came back from Elba, were you one of those who forgot his vows to Louis and followed your emperor?"

After a long silence, the general said quietly, "I was."

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that she must be controlled. "Do you think it was right to rally to him?"

He surprised her by saying, "No, I can't say that it was right, but that didn't matter. Napoleon was my emperor, and I would have followed him to hell itself."

"Then you got your wish. They say that Waterloo was a close approximation of hell."

"The emperor was not the man he once was, and fifty thousand soldiers paid the price. Perhaps I should have been one of them, but God had other plans for me." Roussaye's expression eased. "Though it is a salvation I do not deserve, I have learned that there is life beyond war."

An odd, mystical statement for a warrior. Maggie was saved from further comment when two people entered the room. Glancing up, she saw Rafe accompanied by a tiny, exquisite woman with raven black hair and the swelling figure of midpregnancy. Roussaye rose, a smile transforming his serious expression.

Rafe said, "Magda, my love, permit me to introduce you to Madame Roussaye. She has been showing me our host's paintings. We are cousins of some sort, for she is from Florence and her family is connected to that of my Italian grandmother."

The raven-haired woman greeted Maggie warmly. Judging by the way the Roussayes looked at each other, it was easy to guess that his wife was the salvation he had referred to; the bond between them was almost tangible. Was the general an ardent enough Bonapartist to risk his personal happiness in a treacherous plot?

Unfortunately, Maggie feared that he was.

The intensity of the earlier discussion disappeared in a general conversation. All four of them shared a serious interest in art, and before the couples parted they made an engagement to visit the Louvre together three days hence.

Back in the main ballroom, a waltz was playing. Rafe swept Maggie into it without asking her permission. As they whirled across the floor, she decided ruefully that conservative opinion was right. Even though he held her at a perfectly proper distance, the waltz was still altogether too erotic to be decent. With her awareness of him heightened by their encounter earlier in the evening, it was all too easy to notice how much the closeness and rhythms of the dance were like making love.

It was not entirely a relief to discover that his purpose was strictly business. He asked, "What is your judgment of General Roussaye?"

She hesitated for three complete circles before saying, "He is devoted to France and the emperor, and I think he is quite capable of participating in a plot to restore Bonaparte to the throne. He has the best motive of all our suspects, coupled with the intelligence and conviction to achieve his ends."

"But you have reservations," Rafe said, reading the undercurrents of her speech.

Maggie sighed. "Only that I liked the man. Starting with very little, he has achieved his rank on pure merit. Beyond his military skills, he has taste and sensitivity. I wish that Varenne was our villain, but Roussaye is. more likely."

"If so, my newfound cousin may be a widow in short order," Rafe said, his eyes grave. "Since Roussaye has already broken his oath to Louis once, the slightest hint of evidence that he is involved in a plot will put him in a cell next to Marshal Ney, waiting for execution."

"Men are such fools!" Maggie said with exasperation. "He has a beautiful wife who adores him, he has earned enough legitimate wealth to live a comfortable life, yet he would throw that all away."

"I liked him, too. Are you sure that he is our man?"

She shook her head regretfully, her eyes unfocused. "I can't be sure, but I sense that all is not aboveboard with the general. Perhaps he isn't involved in our particular plot-but I fear that he is."

At times like this, she hated being a spy. If she was wrong, she might contribute to the ruin of an innocent man. All the important Bonapartists were on dangerously thin ice, and a hint of suspicion could ruin a man, perhaps even send him to the firing squad.

Grimly she reminded herself that the stakes were higher than one person's life; the successful assassination of an Allied leader could hurl Europe into another war. "We should pass our speculations on as soon as possible. Lord Strathmore may know something that will corroborate them."

"I'll send a courier to Lucien tonight, but I think the time has come to talk to Lord Castlereagh."

Used to working indirectly, Maggie was momentarily startled. However, the foreign minister knew of her work and had reason to trust her speculations. If she and Rafe talked to him in person, they might be able to impress on him the seriousness of the situation. "We would have to meet with him in a way that would not arouse comment."

"Easily done," Rafe replied. "Lord and Lady Castlereagh often entertain distinguished British visitors, which, in all modesty, I can claim to be. As my companion, a woman already known to them, you would be equally welcome. I will contact him and ask that a private breakfast or lunch be arranged."

"You'd better make it as soon as possible," she said darkly. "I feel in my bones that something will happen soon."

The music stopped and they moved toward the edge of the ballroom. She was about to suggest they leave when the orchestra struck up another waltz and Robin approached them. He greeted Rafe amiably, then bowed before Maggie.

"Countess Janos, would you honor me with this dance?"

In spite of the steely glint in Rafe's eyes, it never occurred to Maggie to refuse. Publicly she and Robin were only the most casual of acquaintances, and he would not ask her to dance if there wasn't something he needed to discuss with her. She smiled and extended one hand. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Anderson."

She blew a kiss to Rafe as Robin took her in his arms and carried her away in the rapid turns of the waltz.

For all the years they had known each other, and as intimate as they had been, they had never waltzed together. She was not surprised to discover that he was an excellent dancer, nor that they knew each other so well that there was no need to concentrate on footwork. A carefree smile on her face, she asked, "Is something wrong, Robin?"

"I heard something that I wanted to pass on in the hope that you might be able to make something of it." His grave blue eyes contrasted with his frivolous mien. "One of my underworld informants has given me a name to put behind the conspiracy. Not a real name, unfortunately, but it's a start. The man is called Le Serpent."

"Le Serpent?" Her brow wrinkled in concentration. "It's unfamiliar to me."

"And to me. There is no one in the Parisian underworld by that name. My informant couldn't even say if the man is French or a foreigner. Apparently Le Serpent has been recruiting criminals to carry out a plot against some of the Allied leaders."

She thought about what he had said, but the information rang no bells. "I'll ask if any of my women have heard of such a man. Were there any other clues?"

"Not as such. But I have wondered…" Robin's voice trailed off as he deftly removed them from the path of a drunken Russian officer whose enthusiasm for waltzing exceeded his skill.

When they were safely clear, Robin continued, "Is it possible that the name might come from a family crest or some such? The man we are after is certainly someone of power and position, and would likely have a family coat of arms."

She felt a tingle at the words. In his own way, Robin was as intuitive as Maggie herself, and it would not be the first time that a small fact triggered a mental leap to something quite different. When inspiration struck, he was usually right.

"That's very plausible," she agreed. "I'll ask around to discover whose arms involve any kind of snake. There can't be many. It will be good to have something concrete to investigate after so many days of frustration."

During the latter part of the dance, she described her meeting with General Roussaye and her suspicions of him.

Robin listened intently. When she had finished, he said, "I'll see if I can find any snakes in his background. I think we're on the edge of a breakthrough. But for God's sake, Maggie, be careful. My informant seemed to think Le Serpent is a direct representative of Satan. Whoever he is, the man is dangerous."

The music ended. Robin had maneuvered so that the last bars brought them to the Duke of Candover. Gracefully handing Maggie back to Rate's keeping, he bid them good night, then disappeared.

Maggie's worried gaze followed him. Robin must be as tired as she was, but if she knew him, he would spend half of the remaining night in Parisian stews and gaming hells looking for further traces of Le Serpent. And he told her to be careful!

Intent on her friend, she didn't see the black look on Rafe's face as he observed her preoccupation.