Petals in the Storm

Chapter 17

Helene dressed carefully for her confrontation with Colonel von Fehrenbach, choosing a blue dress that was feminine but unprovocative. Though she had two reasons for visiting him, neither was seduction in the usual sense.

Candover took her to von Fehrenbach's in his own carriage. He had also arranged for four British soldiers to meet him at the colonel's building, where they would wait on the back stairs in case she needed assistance.

On the carriage ride, Rafe offered Helene a pistol small enough to fit into her reticule. She rejected the offer with distaste. To appease him, she agreed to take a whistle whose shriek could penetrate several walls if necessary.

Her mind drifted to thoughts of Maggie and Rafe. She could feel the tension between them and wondered if it was because they desired each other and had done nothing about it, or because they had____________________

Thinking about them made a refreshing change from worrying about her own concerns, because in spite of her surface confidence, the prospect of this interview with the Prussian officer terrified her.

The carriage halted in front of a mansion in the Marais district, not far from Madame Daudet's. The building was divided into flats, and the colonel lived in one with only a manservant, who should have the evening off. Since von Fehrenbach avoided the temptations of Parisian nightlife, going out only when his duties required it, Helene should find him alone.

Candover got out and went around to the back to meet his soldiers and enter the building from the rear. After touching a nervous hand to her hair, Helene also stepped down from the carriage. Inside, the concierge directed her to the second floor, front apartment.

The mansion had been built in the early eighteenth century, and it retained much of its grandeur. As she stood in front of von Fehrenbach's door, Helene glanced down the hall to the door which concealed her bodyguard. Then she knocked.

After a delay of some moments, the colonel answered the door himself, confirming that the servant was out. Though von Fehrenbach was not in uniform, his unyielding posture marked him as unmistakably a soldier. His pale blond hair shone silver in the lamplight; he was a very handsome man, in the fashion of an ice prince.

They regarded each other in silence while fierce, primal attraction thrummed between them. It had been that way since the first time they had met, though neither had ever acknowledged it.

His face reflecting shock, and a complex mixture of other emotions, he said coldly, "Madame Sorel. What an unlikely pleasure. What brings you here this evening?"

"A matter of some urgency." Meeting his gaze required her to tilt her head rather far back. "If I promise not to compromise you, will you let me come in so that I may discuss it?"

A hint of color touched his cheeks, and he stood aside so she could enter. Inclining her head in thanks, she stepped into the drawing room and accepted an offered chair.

The rooms were well proportioned and impeccably neat, but apart from the well-filled bookcase, there was an unwelcoming austerity. It was as Helene expected; a person's interior state was mirrored in his surroundings, and the colonel had winter in his soul.

Not bothering to offer refreshments, von Fehrenbach seated himself some distance away and said forbiddingly, "Yes, madame?"

Before answering, Helene spent a moment studying his face, feeling the tension that lay beneath his impassive expression. In a stab of self-doubt, she wondered if she might be wrong about the nature of that tension. Perhaps he really did make dark and dangerous plans to injure others. She was suddenly glad of the whistle in her reticule.

Not bothering with social niceties, she said bluntly, "There is a conspiracy to disrupt the peace conference by assassination. The accident that sent Castlereagh to his bed was in fact an attempt on his life, and Wellington may be die next target."

Von Fehrenbach's pale brows rose marginally. "Paris is rife with plots. What has that to do with me?"

Her hands locked in her lap, for what she was about to do was outrageous. "There is some reason to believe that you might be behind the conspiracy."

"What?" His calm shattered, the colonel bounded furiously to his feet. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing! What perversion of logic could lead anyone to suspect me?" With a flash of blue fire in his eyes, he added in a low, menacing whisper, "And why do I hear it from you, of all people?"

Helene remained still. "That is three questions, none of them simple to answer. If you will sit and listen for a few minutes, I will explain." As he hesitated, she added, "It is in your best interest to hear."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, madame?"

"Not at all, Colonel. What threat could I possibly pose to you? You are one of the victors, a man of wealth and position, while I am only a widow from a defeated nation. If you are threatened, it is not by me." As he stood uncertainly, she added impatiently, "Come, surely you do not fear me. It will cost you nothing to listen."

He took a chair closer to Helene, saying so softly that she might have imagined the words, "In that you are wrong, Madame Sorel. I do fear you."

With dizzying relief she knew that she was right- that every exchange between them took place on more than one level. But before pursuing her own ends, she must attend to the business that had brought her here. "Considerable effort has gone into investigating this plot, and it was determined that you were one of a handful of possibilities who had the intelligence, skill, and motive to organize it."

"I am flattered by your assessment of my ability," he said dryly. "Now explain to me why I would do such a thing."

"You are known to hate France and everything French. Twice you have killed French officers in duels. You have also said repeatedly that the proposed settlement is too moderate. If Wellington or Castlereagh is killed, what will happen to the treaty that is so close to acceptance?"

The colonel's brows arched with surprise. "I begin to understand. If either of them is assassinated, the voices of moderation would be stilled and all Europe would demand reprisals. France would be dismembered and impoverished."

"Does that thought please you, Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

"It might please me, but I am a soldier, not an assassin," he said curtly. "I killed two predatory French officers who preyed on junior Allied officers. That is a long way from plotting against your country. My duty is to follow my sovereign's orders, not to make policy."

"I believe you, and that is one of the reasons I am here." She sat without flinching as he examined her with new thoroughness. He was beginning to really hear what she was saying, and that was what she had hoped for.

"Are there other reasons I am under suspicion?" he asked. "I am hardly the only Allied officer who hates France."

"There is another reason, circumstantial but strong. We have learned that the man behind the plot is called Le Serpent."

"Again, what has that to do with me?"

"The cunning of a serpent, the courage of a lion,"' she quoted, watching his reaction closely.

He sucked in his breath. "Of course, my family motto. Interesting, but as you said, entirely circumstantial. Many family arms carry serpents. In fact," he added after a moment's thought, "it needn't refer to family arms. There is a French general who was nicknamed Le Serpent, and for all I know the Parisian king of thieves is called that as well."

Ignoring his later words, Helene asked with sudden excitement, "What general is that?"

The colonel gave her a hard look. "Michel Roussaye. A friend of mine tried to capture him and a small force of French soldiers after the Battle of Leipzig. Roussaye slithered away time and again, very much like a serpent. He's a fine soldier."

"General Roussaye is another leading suspect"

"How would he benefit if France is crippled by the peace settlement?" von Fehrenbach said with exasperation. "You are guilty of massive illogic."

"A revolutionary might welcome a settlement that would anger France to the point where she would once more take arms."

The effect of Helene's words on the colonel was immediate. His face closed and he seemed to forget that she was there. Eventually he returned his gaze to her. "Why have you come here to tell me this? If I am truly under suspicion, why didn't Wellington simply have me arrested?"

"There are political realities," she replied. "Marshal Blucher would be furious if a valued aide was arrested on such flimsy evidence. Indeed, there is no evidence to speak of, merely probabilities. That is one reason why this business is being handled with as much discretion as possible. If the story of the plot became well known, the effect would be almost as disruptive as an actual assassination."

"Perhaps," the colonel agreed. "But as you say, there is no real evidence-which is not surprising since I have done nothing. What makes you think that there is a plot at all?"

Helene shrugged. "Rumors and small inconsistencies that would never stand up in a court of law. The only truly solid evidence is the attack on Lord Castlereagh, which was designed to look like an accident. Also, a British agent may have been murdered because he was getting too close to Le Serpent."

"Or else because he got into a fight over a woman- I've never heard that spies were a very honorable lot." Von Fehrenbach's gaze bored into her. "Which brings us to you, Madame Sorel. You have answered my other questions, but not why you, of all the men and women in France, have come to accuse me."

Now the conversation was going to become really difficult. Palms damp, Helene said, "I have an unofficial connection with British intelligence, and have been involved in the investigation."

"So the lady is a spy," he said with disgust. "Or is that a contradiction in terms? Spying is just another form of whoring, and I understand that female spies sell themselves in many ways."

She had known that something like this would be said, but it still stung. "I have never sold myself in any way, Colonel, and I accept no money for what I do," she said sharply. "Someone else could have come to question you, but I wanted to."

"Why?" He leaned forward in his chair, his face hostile. "Once again, why you?"

"You know why, Colonel." She gazed at him with all the warmth and honesty she possessed.

Though his eyes might be the cold blue of northern ice, in their depths she saw raw, blazing pain. Muttering a German curse, he wrenched his gaze away from her and stood, turning toward his bookcase. She could see some of the titles from where she sat. Philosophy and history, mostly, with a number of Latin and Greek texts. The colonel was a man of broad interests.

Not looking at her, he said, "You speak in riddles, Madame Sorel."

"I am speaking very clearly, though it might not be a language you wish to acknowledge." She rose and crossed the room, stopping several feet away from him. "Even if you will not admit it, there has been something between us since the first time we met."

He spun around and faced her, anger melting his calm. "Very well, I admit it. You arouse me, like a mare in heat inflames a stallion. You feel it, too, or you would not be flaunting yourself here. Have so many Frenchmen died that you must seek farther afield for a stud? Shall I take you here on the carpet, do to you what I want the Allies to do to France?"

Helene's face whitened. She had expected him to fight her, and recognized that his cruelty was a measure of how much she affected him. Even so, his words cut too close to the bone to ignore. "If casual fornication was all I wanted, I could find it easily enough without coming to a man who insults me."

"Then why are you here, madame?" His words were bleak, yet not so bleak as his haunted eyes.

Steel in her soft voice, Helene said, "I want you to look at me, just once, without remembering that I am French and you are Prussian."

The colonel looked down at her for a long moment, a blood vessel throbbing visibly under his fair Nordic skin. Then he spun away from her. "That, madame, is quite impossible."

When there was a safe distance between them, he turned to hurl bitter words at her. "I look at you and see my burned home, my murdered wife and son and sister. Murdered by the French, madame, by your people, perhaps by your brother or husband. I can never forget that we are enemies."

"I am not your enemy," she said softly.

He stared at her, his face working. "Yes, you are. The only worse enemy I have is myself, for being attracted to a woman of a race I hate and despise. You have given me many sleepless nights, madame. Does it please you to know how much you have made me despise myself?"

Helene made no attempt to close the distance between them. Standing before the bookcase, she was a small, gently rounded figure. Soft, yet unyielding. "I can never be pleased at another's pain. I became involved in spying to make what small contribution I could to peace. I did have brothers, Colonel. One died in the retreat from Moscow, the other under torture by Spanish partisans. I was told it took him two days to die. That was my younger brother, Pierre, who wished to be a painter.

"And I had a husband, too, killed at Wagram two months before my younger daughter was born. You fought at Wagram, Colonel. It might have been your troops that killed him."

"Splendid, Madame Sorel, we have both suffered." His voice was a lash of bitterness. "You have my permission to hate the Prussians as much as I hate the French. Will that satisfy you?"

"No!" she cried, her pain finally overcoming the hard-won serenity she had learned in a lifetime of loss. "I want to see an end to hating. If Prussia had been the aggressor rather than France, would my husband be any less dead? I want my daughters to live in a world where their husbands will grow old with them, where boys like my brother can paint flowers and pretty girls and write silly love poetry, instead of dying screaming."

She looked at him pleadingly, wondering how to melt the ice around his heart. "As a Christian, I have been taught to hate the sin but love the sinner. I hate war and the unspeakable evil it brings-and if we cannot learn to love one another, we are doomed to fight and die again and again."

"And you think that if I could love you, that would put an end to war?" Though his voice held scorn, there was also a thread of yearning to believe.

"I don't know if we can love one another, perhaps there is nothing between us but physical attraction," Helene said, tears flowing down her face. Though she saw that her words affected him, she feared that it was not enough. He had lived in his agony for too long to risk life again. Voice breaking, she continued, "If two individuals cannot even try, there is no hope for mankind. We will be condemned to suffer our mistakes forever."

Von Fehrenbach began pacing about the room, his broad shoulders rigid. He stopped by a table where a miniature portrait in a silver frame stood next to a closed Bible. The painting was of a lovely blond woman holding a child in her arms.

Looking down at the portrait, he said huskily, "You are a brave woman. Perhaps women have more courage than men. If a body is injured badly enough it dies, but with an injured heart one survives to suffer pain without end."

Gently he touched the face of the woman in the portrait, then looked up at Helene, his face deeply sad. "You ask too much, Madame Sorel. My strength is not equal to the task."

She had failed. Blinking back her tears, she said sorrowfully, "It is not that women are braver, Colonel, but that we are more foolish."

Turning away, she fumbled in her reticule until she found a handkerchief. The mundane business of blotting her tears and blowing her nose gave her a chance to establish a fragile self-control. Then she crossed the drawing room to the vestibule.

His words followed her. "What will you tell your masters about me?"

"I will say that I think you are not involved in any way. You will be closely watched until the conference is over, so even if I am wrong, your opportunities for villainy will be reduced." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Farewell, Colonel von Fehrenbach. I don't think that we shall meet again."

To her surprise, he crossed the room and looked searchingly into her face, as if trying to memorize her appearance. "You are a very brave woman indeed." Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, not romantically, but with a kind of sad respect.

As the colonel held the door, Helene managed to walk out with her head high, but after it closed she leaned against the paneled wall. She was so incredibly weary…

Finally she straightened and walked to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. Four soldiers were engaged in a friendly card game on the floor. They scrambled hastily to their feet as Helene appeared. They seemed so very young. She smiled at them, and the gangling young lieutenant blushed and bobbed his head.

His dark face registering relief that she was safe, Rafe asked, "Did your meeting go well, Madame Sorel?"

Sighing, she said, "As well as can be expected."

Inside the austere apartment, Karl von Fehrenbach moved around restlessly, picking objects up and setting them down, pulling out a book by Fichte and replacing it unread, then opening a volume of Virgil at random. Looking down, he read, "Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori." Love conquers all: let us too surrender to Love.

He slammed the book shut and reshelved it so violently that he dented the leather binding.

Leaning his head against the books, he thought with anguish of Helene Sorel standing where he stood now, small and sweetly feminine. Was she an angel come from heaven to redeem him, or a demon from hell sent to seduce him out of what was left of his immortal soul? Whatever else the woman might be, she had courage, to expose herself to such rejection.

He went to the portrait of Elke and Erik and lifted it to study their beloved faces. His wife, who had had the gift of laughter, and his son, who had inherited his father's height and his mother's sunny nature. Elke had sent the picture three months before she and Erik were killed. The house had been burned around them. Von Fehrenbach prayed they had died of the smoke rather than the flames.

Unbearable grief welled up in him, dissolving all the defenses he had built to dam the pain. In desperation he flipped open his Bible and glanced in, hoping for guidance.

The verse that leaped out at him read, '"Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she has loved much.'"

If it was a message from God, it was one too painful to be borne. He sank onto his knees by the brocade-covered Louis Quinze armchair, burying his head in his arms and giving way to the gut-wrenching sobs of a man who had never learned to cry.