Petals in the Storm

Chapter 12

The next morning Maggie and Helene Sorel went to the home of Madame Daudet, who had compiled a list of all the French family crests that included serpents. After an obligatory half hour over the teacups, the guests were presented with the listing, written in script as fragile as the old lady herself. Then they were given the freedom of the library.

The two women looked up the names in massive, gilt-stamped volumes that contained hand-colored plates of heraldic devices and family arms. They traced the most promising crests on sheets of translucent parchment that Maggie had brought. Though they rejected dragons and medieval creatures of dubious ancestry, they examined anything that was clearly snakelike, including three-headed Hydras like that featured in the d'Aguste crest.

It took four hours to complete the search, and by then they were tired and a little sleepy from the library's stuffiness. However, as they prepared to leave, Helene noticed a book on the Prussian aristocracy.

Turning to "von Fehrenbach," the Frenchwoman became so still that Maggie came to look over her shoulder. What she saw brought her instantly alert. The von Fehrenbach crest was a lion holding a spear with a snake twined along the shaft.

Unemotionally Helene translated the Latin motto. "The cunning of a serpent, the courage of a lion."

Maggie was shaken. "Of all our prospects, I thought Colonel von Fehrenbach the least probable."

"This proves nothing," Helene said, an edge in her voice. "We copied a dozen other crests as likely."

"But none of them belonged to suspects." Maggie paused, then said, "Helene, I asked this before, and I will ask again. Is there something between you and Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

Helene slipped back into one of the leather-upholstered chairs, her eyes not meeting Maggie's. "There is nothing except… an attraction. We have met several times, always in public, and have said nothing that anyone might not hear."

Maggie sat also, brushing her hair back with fingers dusty from old books. Like herself, Helene acted on instinct, usually a more reliable guide than logic. "Do you think the colonel could be involved in a plot against France?"

"No," Helene said flatly. She raised her gaze to Maggie's. "I will investigate him more closely for you."

Maggie sat forward in her chair with misgivings. "Helene, what do you have in mind? If the colonel is really Le Serpent, he is a dangerous man. In fact, he probably is anyhow."

Helene smiled faintly. "I will do nothing that will endanger either myself or your investigation." Seeing the mutinous expression on her friend's face, she added, "You can't stop me, you know. I am not your employee, but a free agent who works with you because we share the same goals."

Maggie sighed, eyeing Helene's soft features and gentle face. Though her friend looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, Helene was both tough and intelligent. If she was determined to approach von Fehrenbach, Maggie could only wait and hope that something worthwhile would come of it.

Summoned by Maggie, Robin came late that night to her house. The moon was only half full, but bright enough so that the man watching from a window across the alley had no trouble making an identification. Blond and handsome as Lucifer, just as the duke had described him.

The watcher settled back in his chair philosophically, glad that his post was comfortable. It wasn't likely that a midnight visitor to the delectable countess would be in a hurry to leave.

He had no idea that another pair of hidden eyes was also watching the same house.

Maggie slept badly after Robin left. He had found the sketches of crests promising, and intended to show them to members of the Parisian underworld in the hopes that tongues might be loosened.

Robin had little to say in return, which made Maggie nervous since she guessed that he was withholding something. There could be any number of good reasons for that, but most likely he was trying to protect her, which reinforced the idea that this was a dangerous business. Fervently she wished that the treaty was settled so she could return to England-to peace and quiet and safety.

Her eyes opened and she stared unseeing into the darkness. The idea of a little cottage in England was less appealing than it had been a few weeks before. While she would welcome the peace, the days stretched empty and uneventful. She could walk and read, make friends and pay morning calls on them- day after day, month after month, year after year…

The prospect was not an exciting one. She would be very much alone in that life of blameless respectability that she had yearned for. There would be no men like Rafe to verbally fence with her, or make disgraceful proposals.

At that thought, she laughed softly. Based on history, there would be no shortage of men to proposition her. There just wouldn't be any that she would want to accept. And that, finally, was the core of her restlessness.

Rafe Whitbourne was still the most fascinating man she had ever met, intelligent, more than a little arrogant, alternately tender and enigmatic. And damnably, maddeningly attractive. He had been charming women since he was in leading strings, so it was hardly surprising that she was among his legions of admirers.

From the vantage point of thirty-one, she could see how fortunate it was that they hadn't married. They had both been children then. She had been so in love with Rafe that it had never occurred to her that he would have mistresses, like most men of his station. The first time that had happened, she would have been shattered, just as Cynthia Northwood had been.

Rather than embrace promiscuity herself, Maggie knew that she would have turned into a rampaging virago, as unwilling to let Rafe go as she was to accept his infidelities. Rafe would have reacted with incredulity and embarrassment, regretting that he hadn't taken a more sophisticated wife who understood the way of the world.

The harder Maggie fought, the more distant he would have become. Love would have died, and they would have made each other miserable. It was all tragically clear.

Since she had just proved how lucky she was that Rafe had broken their engagement, why didn't that conclusion make her happy?

Despairingly Maggie laid her forearm over her eyes in a vain attempt to block out images of Rafe, and the memory of how his touch dissolved her common sense and self-control.

It was feeble comfort to know that her greatest significance in his life was to be the one woman he had propositioned who hadn't accepted. But was that really better than nothing?

Maggie and Rafe's visit to the Louvre with the Roussayes turned out to be educational in unexpected ways. Napoleon had looted art treasures wherever he went, then installed them in the old palace. It had been named the Musee Napoleon and state receptions had been held in the magnificent galleries.

Art had become a major point of contention during the treaty negotiations. The conquered nations understandably wanted their paintings and sculptures back, while the French royalists and Bonapartists were united in their desire to retain the fruits of conquest. The issue was still unresolved, though the Allies were bound to win in the end; the only sovereign who favored letting the French keep their spoils was the Russian tsar, who had lost no art himself.

When the two couples stopped in front of a magnificent Titian, Roussaye made an oblique reference to the ongoing dispute, saying, "We must admire these while we can. Never has such a collection been seen before, and perhaps the world will never see its equal again."

They were regarding the superb canvas respectfully when an unexpected voice came from behind them. "You are quite correct, General Rosssaye. This museum is one of the finest fruits of the empire."

The dark, whispery voice made the hair on Maggie's neck prickle. She turned to see the Count de Varenne.

Michel Roussaye said coolly, "I am surprised to hear a royalist approve any of Bonaparte's acts."

The count smiled. "I am a royalist, not a fool, General Roussaye. The emperor was the colossus of our age, and only a fool would attempt to deny that."

His words produced a noticeable thawing in the general's expression.

Varenne continued, "Like you, I am here to say good-bye to some of my favorite paintings."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a commotion sounded farther down the gallery. Amid French shouts, the stamp of marching feet heralded the entrance of a company of soldiers. Maggie recognized the uniforms as Prussian. As museumgoers watched in disbelief, the soldiers started unhooking paintings from the wall.

General Roussaye swiftly crossed to the Prussians and demanded furiously, "By what authority do you do this?"

The Prussian commander turned, and Maggie recognized Colonel von Fehrenbach. Expression coldly satisfied, the colonel said, "By the authority of ownership. Since the negotiators are no closer to a just settlement now than they were in July, Prussia takes what is hers."

Intent on observing every word and nuance of the confrontation, Maggie started to follow Roussaye across the gallery. Rafe stopped her in her tracks by clamping his hand around her wrist.

"Keep out of it," he said in a voice that allowed no argument.

Maggie considered defying him on general principles, but common sense made her concede the point and stay at his side.

Count de Varenne had gone to stand by his countryman. Though his tone was less fierce, he sounded equally hostile when he said, "The Congress of Vienna allowed France to keep her treasures, and it is by no means certain that that decision will be reversed. What you are doing is theft."

The tall Prussian was unmoved, "Say what you will,I am here by my king's orders. We have both might and right on our side, and will brook no interference."

The soldiers began packing paintings in wooden cases that they had brought. A crowd of sullen-faced French citizens had gathered around the disputing men. Briefly Maggie wondered if they might rush the soldiers, but the moment passed and the bystanders remained passive.

Varenne's sibilant voice said, "Do not be so righteous, Colonel. Many of the artworks that the Allies are so virtuously reclaiming were stolen in the first place. The bronze horses of St. Mark's, for example, which the Venetians plundered from Constantinople."

Von Fehrenbach looked cynically amused. "I don't deny it, but the nature of loot defies easy moralizing."

Roussaye said tightly, "All nations may be looters, but only France has made such beauty available to all. Even the poorest of the poor can come here to glory in the sight."

"Quite right, the French are the most efficient thieves in history," the colonel agreed. "You studied guidebooks and sent artists to ensure that you missed none of the best pieces. The emperor even made the Vatican pay the cost of shipping his spoils to Paris. But don't forget what Wellington himself said-loot is what you can get your bloody hands on and keep."

Von Fehrenbach turned back to his men, but said over his shoulder, "And France bloody well can't keep these."

It was fortunate that the colonel had brought such a sizable troop of soldiers, because his words caused a rumble of impotent rage to rise from the watchers.

After a frozen moment, General Roussaye spun on his heel and returned to his companions. "I think it best that we leave now." He took his wife's arm, leading her down the gallery away from the soldiers as Maggie, Rafe, and Varenne silently followed.

Word of the assault on the Louvre had spread quickly, and outside a crowd was gathering in the Place du Carrousel. Under the shadow of the great victory arch that carried the bronze horses of St. Mark's, Maggie and her companions were privileged to see the Venus de Medici being carried out feet first, followed by the Apollo Belvedere.

Nearby, a young man in a paint-smudged smock gave a howl of anguish. "Oh, if only Wellington had ordered the removal to take place at night, so we should be spared the horror of seeing them torn away from us!"

Though the artist's anguish was vivid, Maggie could not help thinking tartly that the Venetians and Prussians and other victims of Napoleon's greed had felt equal pain.

Behind her, Rafe said softly, "Wellington is being blamed for this, more's the pity. His popularity with the French will vanish quickly."

Roussaye turned to face them, his wife clinging to his arm with distress in her huge black eyes. "I fear that I will not be good company for some time," the general said with admirable composure. "Pray forgive us for taking our leave now."

Ever urbane, Rafe said, "Of course, General Roussaye, Cousin Filomena. Perhaps we can meet again for a less controversial engagement."

The general smiled humorlessly. "Nothing in France is without controversy."

Varenne spoke up for the first time since they had left the Prussians. "All France shares your outrage, General."

As she saw the two dangerous, capable Frenchmen share a sympathetic glance, Maggie had the disquieting thought that France would again be the most dangerous country in Europe if the royalists and Bonapartists ever united. Thank God that there was too much hatred between the factions for that to happen any time soon.

After the Roussayes departed, Varenne said to Maggie and Rafe, "I'm sorry you were subjected to such a scene. I had heard rumors that the Prussians were growing restive over the pace of the negotiations, but no one expected them to move so quickly."

"I'm afraid that matters will be worse before they get better," Rafe said. "The art controversy is becoming a symbol of all the conflicts of the peace conference."

"The situation is very volatile," Varenne agreed. "As I'm sure you know, the king's government is in disarray, and I fear that Richelieu is not strong enough to maintain order." Putting aside his dark mood, he smiled at Maggie. "I should not talk of such things before a lady."

Maggie supposed he meant that she was too much of a lackwit to understand politics. Still, the less intelligent he thought her, the better. Fluttering her eyelashes, she cooed, "It's all so dreadful. Since the wars are over, one would think there would be no more problems."

"I'm afraid matters aren't quite so simple," Varenne said, a satiric glint in his dark eyes. "I look forward to the day when I can retire to my estate and concentrate on my own affairs, but it will not be soon."

"Is your estate near Paris?" Maggie asked, though she knew the answer from her research.

"Yes, not far from the emperor's house at Malmaison. Chantueil is perhaps the finest medieval chateau in France."

"It sounds wonderfully romantic."

"It is." Varenne gave her a smile that would have been charming were it not for the calculation in his eyes. "I would be delighted to show it to you. Perhaps next week?"

Maggie's answer was forestalled when Rafe put his arm around her waist. "Perhaps later. The countess and I are much engaged for the near future."

Seeming amused by Rafe's show of possessiveness, Varenne took Maggie's hand and sketched a kiss above it. "You and the enchanting countess would be welcome at Chantueil at any time, Monsieur le Duc."

Then he disappeared into the seething mass of angry Parisians. Maggie watched his broad back retreat with disquiet. The count had behaved flirtatiously, yet she sensed that he wasn't really interested in her.

Before she could analyze her unease, Rafe said brusquely, 'Time to leave, Countess. This crowd could turn ugly."

His words made her aware of the angry mutterings, and she felt the clenching fear that crowds always produced in her. As people fell away from Rafe, she was grateful for his presence. Anyone would think twice or thrice before accosting the Duke of Candover, not only because of his obvious wealth, but because of his air of gentlemanly menace.

When they were free of the crowd, Rafe summoned a cab to take them to the Boulevard des Capucines. In the privacy of the cab, he remarked, "It was interesting to see all three suspects together, but I can't say that I have any better idea of who is guilty of what. Do you have any thoughts on the subject?"

She frowned as she reviewed her impressions of the confrontation in the museum. "The same thoughts I had before, only more so. Colonel von Fehrenbach despises the French and enjoys their humiliation. While I still don't see him masterminding a plot, it's possible that he could be used by someone of more devious temperament."

"And General Roussaye?"

"He behaved with unusual restraint," she said slowly. "He was so furious with the invasion of the Louvre that I wouldn't have been surprised if he had rallied the French mob to attack the Prussians."

"Surely he wouldn't have risked that with his wife there."

"I'm sure that was a factor," she agreed. "Also, he's an intelligent man and must realize that driving the Prussians out would do no real good. But he is a warrior, and I had the feeling that it was very difficult for him not to fight back. Remember that I suspected that he might be involved in something secret? Perhaps he left rather than act in a way that might jeopardize another project. I would go long odds that some parts of his life wouldn't bear the light of day."

"What about Varenne and his so-romantic chateau?" Rafe inquired, a sardonic note in his voice.

She smiled a little. "I wouldn't trust that man further than I could throw his drawbridge. I suspect that he is so devious by nature that it would be impossible to determine if he is conspiring, or merely obfuscating on general principles."

Not responding to her light tone, Rafe said somberly, "I feel the way one does before a storm, when the clouds are gathering. I wish to God that I knew from which direction the winds will come."

Speaking from her own hard-won wisdom, she said, "Knowledge is not what saves one in a storm, but flexibility. It is those who won't bend who are broken."

His dark brows lifted. "Is that an oblique comment on rigid souls like me? Remember that flowers bend before a storm, yet still they are torn apart, their petals scattered to the four winds."

"Don't push the analogy too far, your grace," she said dryly. "I may look like an overblown rose, but I have survived fiercer storms than you will ever know of."

The cab pulled up in front of Maggie's house and they alighted. Since the premature end to the expedition had gotten them back hours early, he followed her inside.

Rafe's mood seemed odd, so she suggested, "We haven't played chess lately. Shall we finish our current game?"

He agreed, but both of them were so abstracted that it was an open question who played more carelessly. Maggie scarcely noticed what moves she made until he said, "Check."

Seeing that a black bishop was threatening her king, she moved a white knight into the bishop's path. Rafe could capture her knight, but then Maggie would be able to take his bishop, restoring the balance of power as well as saving her king.

"I like knights," she said idly. "They move in such a deceptive manner."

"Like you do, Countess?"

Surprised by the sharp edge to Rafe's voice, she said, "I suppose so. Spying is the art of deception, after all."

"Will the white queen sacrifice herself for the white king?"

Rafe's gray eyes bored into her, and she realized that he was no longer talking about chess. The lean planes of his face were hard, and his whole body radiated tension.

Her mouth tightened. She had suspected that at some point he would become difficult, and apparently the time had arrived. "Rafe, what are you trying to say?"

Instead of answering, he swept his black king across the board to capture the white queen.

"You know perfectly well that that isn't a legitimate move," she said with exasperation. "What obscure point are you trying to make?"

Rafe scooped up the white queen and the black king and lifted them from the board. "Only this, Maggie-I won't let you sacrifice yourself for the white king. With or without your consent, I am going to take you out of the game."