Petals in the Storm

Chapter 1

"What the devil is going on here?"

It was the battle cry of an angry husband; Rafe would have recognized it anywhere. He sighed. Apparently there was going to be an untidy emotional scene of the sort he most loathed. Releasing the delightful lady in his arms, he turned to face the man who had just stormed into the drawing room.

The newcomer was about Rafe's height and of similar age, somewhere in his mid-thirties. Though he probably would have looked pleasant under other circumstances, at the moment he seemed ready to commit murder.

Lady Jocelyn Kendal cried, "David!" and stepped forward with pleasure, then stopped dead at the expression on her husband's face. Tension throbbed between hem like a drum.

The silence was broken when the newcomer said in low, furious voice, "It's obvious that my arrival is both unexpected and unwelcome. I assume this is the Duke of Candover? Or are you spreading your favors more widely?"

As Lady Jocelyn rocked with the impact of the words, Rafe said coolly, "I'm Candover. I'm afraid that you have the advantage of me, sir." Visibly wrestling with the urge to throw his wife's guest out, the other man snapped, "I am Presteyne, husband of this lady here, though not for long." His hard gaze returned to Lady Jocelyn. "My apologies for interrupting your amusements. I'll collect my belongings and never trouble you again."

Then Presteyne left with a wall-rattling slam of the door. Rafe was glad to see the back of him; though an expert in all forms of gentlemanly sport, brawling with a furious husband of military bearing was not high on Rafe's list of pleasures.

Unfortunately the scene was not yet over, for Lady Jocelyn folded onto a satin chair and began to weep. Rafe regarded her with exasperation. He preferred to conduct his affairs lightly, with mutual pleasure and no recriminations, and would never have touched Lady Jocelyn if she hadn't told him that her marriage was in name only. Clearly the lady had lied. He remarked, "Your husband doesn't seem to share your belief that the marriage is one of convenience."

She lifted her head and regarded Rafe blankly, as if she had forgotten that he was there.

Irritated, he asked, "What kind of game are you playing? Your husband doesn't seem the sort of man to be manipulated with jealousy. He may leave you, or he may wring your neck, but he won't play that kind of lover's game."

"I wasn't playing a game," she said unevenly. "I was trying to discover what was in my heart. Only now do I know how I feel about David, when it is too late."

Rafe's irritation faded in the face of her youth and vulnerability. He had once been equally young and confused, and the sight of her misery was a vivid reminder of how disastrous love could be. "I'm beginning to suspect that under your highly polished surface beats a romantic heart," he said dryly. "If that's true, go after your husband and throw your charming self at his feet with abject apologies. You should be able to bring him around, at least this once. A man will forgive the woman he loves a great deal. Just don't let him find you in anyone else's arms. I doubt he would forgive you a second time."

Her eyes widened. Then, in a voice on the edge of hysterical laughter, she said, "Your sang-froid is legendary, but even so, the reports do you less than justice. If the devil himself walked in, I think you would ask him if he played whist."

"Never play whist with the devil, my dear. He cheats." Rafe lifted her icy hand and gave it a light farewell kiss. "Should your husband resist your blandishments, feel free to let me know if you want a pleasant, uncomplicated affair." He released her hand. "You'll never get more than that from me, you know. Many years ago I gave my heart away to someone who dropped and broke it, so I have none left."

It was a good exit line, yet as he looked into the girl's lovely face, he found himself saying, "You remind me of a woman I once knew, but not enough. Never enough."

Then he turned and walked away, out of the house and down the steps into the civilized confines of Upper Brook Street. His curricle was waiting, so he swung up and took the reins.

The part of him that laughed at his own vanities found mocking amusement in how well "The Duke" had carried off the scene. The Duke was Rafe's private lame for the public image he had spent a dozen years rafting and polishing. As The Duke, he was the perfect, imperturbable English gentleman, and no one played the role better than Rafe.

Everyone needed a hobby.

Yet as he turned the corner into Park Lane, he was uneasily aware that he had shown a little more of himself than was comfortable. Fortunately Jocelyn was unlikely to spread the story, and Rafe certainly wouldn't.

He pulled the curricle up in front of his Berkeley Square house, gloomily thinking that he would have to start looking for a mistress again. In the weeks since he had ended his last affair, he had been unable to find a woman who caught his fancy. In fact, he had begun to wonder if he should give up on the compliant matrons of his own class and hire a courtesan. It would be simpler to keep a professional mistress, but such females were usually greedy and uneducated, and not infrequently diseased. The prospect did not enthrall him.

That was why he had been pleased when lovely Jocelyn Kendal had delicately informed him that she had entered into a marriage of convenience, and was interested in diversion. He had always admired her, but had kept his distance because it was strictly against his code to tamper with innocents. During the weeks he had been in the country he had thought about her with mild anticipation, and as soon as he returned to London he had called on her. Alas, in the interval since the lady had issued her discreet invitation, she seemed to have become an adoring, if confused, wife. Rafe must look elsewhere.

In an effort to relieve his depression, he congratulated himself on a narrow escape from what could have been a sticky affair. He should have known better than to become involved with such a bantling-brained romantic. In truth, he had known better, but she was really quite refreshing, the most appealing woman he had met in years. She was rather like…

He cut the thought off sharply. The main purpose of his early return to London was not dalliance, but a message from his friend Lucien, who wanted to discuss a business matter. The fact that the Earl of Strathmore's business was spying meant that his little projects were usually quite interesting.

Rafe's rank gave him access to the highest levels of society wherever he went, and over the years that fact had made him a useful part of his friend's far-flung intelligence network. Rafe's specialty was acting as a courier when official channels were not sufficiently private, but he had also conducted several discreet investigations among the rich and powerful.

As Rafe drove the curricle into his stable yard, he hoped that Lucien had something damned distracting this time.

Lucien Fairchild watched with amusement as the Duke of Candover made his way across the crowded drawing room. Tall, dark, and commanding, Rafe so exactly fitted the part of an aristocrat that he might have been an actor rather than the genuine article.

Since he was also theatrically handsome, it wasn't surprising that the gaze of every female in the room followed him. Idly Lucien wondered who would be next in the long line of glittering ladies who had shared Rafe's bed. Even Lucien, whose business was information, had trouble keeping track.

By Lucien's count, Rafe had used his famous icy glare to intimidate three encroaching nobodies as he crossed the room. Yet when the duke finally reached Lucien, his cool social smile warmed. "It's good to see you, Luce. I was sorry that you couldn't get away to Bourne Castle this summer."

"I was sorry, too, but Whitehall has been a madhouse." Lucien glanced across the room and gave an unobtrusive signal to another man, then continued, 'Let's find a quieter place to catch up on the news." He led Rafe from the drawing room to a study at the back of the house.

They both took seats, and Rafe accepted a cigar from his host. "I assume that you have some devious ask for me."

"You assume correctly." Lucien used a taper to light Rafe's cigar, then his own. "Do you fancy a trip to Paris?"

"Sounds perfect." Rafe puffed his cigar until it was burning evenly. "I've been feeling bored lately."

"This shouldn't be boring-the journey concerns a lady who is being a bit troublesome."

"Even better." Rafe drew in a deep draft of smoke, then let it trickle slowly from the side of his mouth. "Am I to kill her or kiss her?"

Lucien frowned. "Certainly not the former. As to the latter"-he shrugged-"I leave that to you."

The door opened and a dark man entered. Rafe rose and offered his hand. "Nicholas! I didn't know you were in London."

"Clare and I arrived just last night." After shaking hands, the Earl of Aberdare dropped casually into a chair.

As Rafe took his own seat, he observed, "You're looking particularly well."

"Marriage is a wonderful thing." Nicholas grinned mischievously. "You should take a wife yourself."

His voice dulcet, Rafe said, "An excellent idea. Whose wife would you suggest?"

After the other men laughed, Rafe continued. "I trust that my godson is also prospering."

It was an effective diversion. Nicholas's face immediately acquired the doting expression of a proud new father, and a description of young Kenrick's amazing progress followed.

The men in the study were three-quarters of a group that had been nicknamed the Fallen Angels in younger, wilder days. Friends since Eton, they retained the ease of brothers even when years passed between meetings. The absent member was Lord Michael Kenyon, who was Nicholas's neighbor in Wales. After the infant's achievements had been duly admired, Rafe said, "Did Michael come with you so that we could have a Fallen Angels reunion?"

"He isn't quite ready to travel, though he's convalescing with amazing speed. Soon he'll be as good as new, barring a few more scars." Nicholas chuckled. "Clare insisted on nursing him herself. Talk about an irresistible force and an immovable object! I think that my stubborn little wife is the only person on earth who could have kept Michael in bed long enough to heal properly. Now that he's better, I thought that Clare needed a holiday, so I brought her to town."

"Trust Michael to return to the army as soon as Napoleon broke out of Elba," Lucien said acerbically. "Since the French didn't manage to kill him in Spain, he had to give them another chance at Waterloo."

"Michael never could resist a good fight, and Wellington needed every experienced officer he could get," Rafe said. "But I hope that this time the war is over for good. Even Michael's luck might run out eventually."

The words reminded Lucien of the purpose of the meeting. "Now that you're both here, I'll get down to business. I asked Nicholas to join us because during his travels on the Continent, he occasionally worked with the woman I mentioned earlier."

The other two men exchanged glances. Rafe said, "I've always suspected that you might have been helping Lucien during your rambles through Europe, Nicholas."

"Gypsies can go anywhere, and I often did. Obviously you were pressed into service as well." Nicholas gave Lucien an amused glance. "You certainly play your cards close to your chest, not even letting Rafe or me know about each other. I'm surprised that you're talking to both of us now. Have we suddenly become more trustworthy?"

Even though he knew he was being baited, Lucien bristled. "In my business, it's merely good policy not to tell anyone more than they need to know. I'm bending that particular rule tonight because you might now something that could help Rafe."

"I gather that the lady in question is one of your agents," Rafe said. "What kind of trouble is she causing?"

Lucien hesitated, considering the best place to start. "I assume that you've been following the peace conference in Paris."

"Yes, though not closely. Weren't most of the issues settled at the Congress in Vienna?"

"Yes and no. A year ago the Allies were willing to blame the wars on Napoleon's ambition, so the Vienna settlement was fairly moderate." Lucien pulled the cigar from his mouth and eyed its glowing tip with disfavor. "Everything would have been fine if Napoleon had stayed in exile, but his return to France and the battle at Waterloo put the cat among the diplomatic pigeons. Because a large part of the French population supported the emperor, most of the Allies are now out for blood. France will be treated far more harshly than she was before Napoleon's Hundred Days."

"That's common knowledge." Rafe flicked the ash from his cigar. "Where do I come in?"

"There's a tremendous undercover struggle for influence in these months until the new treaties are settled," Lucien said. "It wouldn't take much to upset the negotiations, perhaps to the point of war. Information is critical. Unfortunately, my agent, Maggie, whose work has been invaluable, wants to retire and leave Paris as soon as possible, before the conference is finished."

"Offer her more money."

"We have. She's not interested. I hope that you can persuade her to change her mind and stay at least until the conference is over."

"Ah, we're back to kissing," Rafe said with an amused gleam in his eyes. "I gather that you want me to sacrifice my honor on the altar of British interests."

Lucien said dryly, "I'm sure that you have other means of persuasion. You are a duke, after all-she may be flattered that we're sending you to France to talk to her. Or perhaps you can appeal to her patriotism."

Rafe's brow furrowed. "While I'm flattered at your opinion of my charm, wouldn't it be simpler to have one of your diplomatic people who is already in Paris deal with the woman?"

"Unfortunately, there is reason to believe that a member of the delegation is… unreliable. Secret information has been getting out of the British embassy, and it has caused problems." Lucien scowled. "Maybe I'm seeing shadows where none exist and there is no traitor, merely carelessness. But this business is too vital to risk working through unsafe channels."

"I'm getting the sense that you're worried about something more than the normal diplomatic wrangling," Rafe said.

"Am I that obvious?" Lucien said wryly. "You're quite right-I've been getting disturbing reports that suggest a plot to disrupt the peace negotiations, possibly end them altogether."

Rafe rolled his cigar between his thumb and forefinger as he tried to think of a single deed so disruptive that the Allies would be thrown into chaos. "Is it an assassination plot? All the Allied sovereigns except the British Prince Regent are in Paris, along with Europe's leading diplomats. Killing any of them could be disastrous."

Lucien exhaled a smoke ring that formed an improbable halo above his blond head. "Exactly. I hope to God that I'm wrong, but my sixth sense says that serious trouble is brewing."

"Who is the assassin, and who is the target?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need to be talking to you tow," Lucien said gloomily. "I've only heard hints, gleaned from half a dozen sources. There are too many hostile factions, and too many possible targets. That's why information is so critical."

Nicholas said, "I heard that there was an assassination attempt on Wellington in Paris last winter. Could he be the target this time?"

"That's one of my worst fears," Lucien said. "After his victory at Waterloo, he is the most honored man in Europe. If he were to be assassinated, God only knows what would happen."

Somberly Rafe considered his friend's words. "Which is why you want me to convince your lady spy to keep sending you information until the plot is uncovered, or the conference ends."

"Precisely."

"Tell me about her. Is she French?"

Lucien made a face. "The plot thickens. I met Maggie through someone else and I know almost nothing about her background, but I've always thought she was British. Certainly she speaks and looks like an Englishwoman. I never probed further, because what mattered was that she hated Napoleon and looked on her work as a personal crusade. Her information was always good, and she never gave me a reason to distrust her."

Hearing the unspoken reservation, Rafe said, "But something has happened that makes you question her reliability."

"I still have trouble believing that Maggie would betray us, but I don't know if I can trust my own judgment. She can convince a man of anything, which is one reason she is so effective." Lucien frowned. "The situation is too grave to take anything for granted, including her loyalty. Now that Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena, she may be feathering her nest by selling British secrets to the other Allies. Perhaps she's in a hurry to leave Paris because she's earned a fortune through double- or triple-dealing and wants to escape before she is caught."

"Is there any evidence that she's disloyal?"

"As I said, I always assumed Maggie was an Englishwoman." Lucien glanced at Nicholas. "You knew Maggie as Maria Bergen. Recently you wrote me a letter, and rather than mention her by name, you discreetly referred to her as 'the Austrian woman you had worked with in Paris.'"

Nicholas straightened in his chair, expression startled. "You mean that Maria is actually English? I find that hard to believe. Not only was her German flawless, but her gestures, her mannerisms, were Austrian."

"It gets worse," Lucien said with reluctant amusement. "I became curious, and made inquiries of other men who had known her at earlier stages of her career. The French royalist knows that she is French, the Prussian says that she is a Berliner, and the Italian is willing to swear on his sainted mother's grave that she is from Florence."

Rafe couldn't help laughing. "So you are no longer sure where the lady's loyalties lie, if indeed she can be called a lady."

"She's a lady, no doubt about that," Lucien snapped. "But whose lady is she?"

Rafe was surprised by the vehement reaction, for Lucien was not sentimental where his work was concerned. Mildly Rafe said, "What should I do if I find that she has been betraying the British-assassinate her?"

Lucien gave Rafe a hard glance, not sure if the remark had been a jest. "As I said earlier, it's not a killing matter. If she's untrustworthy, simply inform foreign Minister Castlereagh so that he won't rely on what she says. He may want to use her to feed false information to her other masters."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Rafe said. "You want me to seek the lady out and persuade her to use her skills to uncover any assassination plots that might be afoot. In addition, I must ascertain where her loyalties lie, and if there are grounds for suspicion, I warn the head of the British delegation not to rely on her work. Correct?"

"Precisely. But you'll have to move quickly. The negotiations won't last much longer, so any conspirators will have to strike soon." Lucien glanced at Nicholas, who had been listening in silence. "Based on your dealings with Maggie in her Maria Bergen disguise, do you have anything to suggest?"

"Well, she's undoubtedly the most beautiful spy in Europe." Nicholas went on to contribute his evaluation of the woman, but the ensuing discussion resolved nothing.

Finally Rafe said, "The information we have is nothing if not contradictory. Obviously your Maggie is a superb actress. I'll have to play the situation by ear and hope that she proves susceptible to my famous charm."

As they all got to their feet, Lucien asked Rafe, "How soon will you be able to leave?"

"Day after tomorrow. The most beautiful spy in Europe? The prospect sounds quite stimulating." There was a gleam in Rafe's eye as he stubbed out his cigar. "I promise that I shall do my utmost for king and country."

They all returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. After he had done enough socializing to seem normal, Rafe was impatient to get away, but it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask what the so-beautiful Maggie looked like. Since Lucien had disappeared, Rafe went in search of Nicholas.

Seeing his friend step into a curtained alcove, Rafe followed. Yet when he pushed aside the curtain, he halted, one hand clenching the edge of the drapery.

In the shadowy alcove, Nicholas and his wife Clare were in each other's arms. Not kissing; if that had been the case, Rafe would have smiled and left without a second thought. But the sight that met his eyes was simpler, yet more disturbing.

Clare and Nicholas were resting against each other, eyes closed, his arms circling her waist, her forehead against his cheek. It was a tableau of perfect trust and understanding, and far more intimate than the most passionate embrace.

Since his presence had not been noticed, Rafe silently withdrew, his face tight.

It wasn't good to be too envious of one's friends.

After a day of frenzied preparation, the Duke of Candover was ready to leave England. He would be traveling fast, taking only one carriage, his valet, and a wardrobe that would do justice to his rank in the most fashionable capital in Europe.

As the clock struck midnight, he sat down in his study with a glass of brandy and leafed through the day's correspondence to see if there was anything urgent. Near the bottom of the pile was a note from Lady Jocelyn Kendal. Or rather, Lady Presteyne; since she was now very married, he must stop using her maiden name. In the note she thanked Rafe for his good advice in sending her back to her husband, extolled the joys of a happy marriage, and urged him to try it himself.

He smiled a little, glad to hear that matters had worked out. Underneath her beauty, famous name, and extravagant fortune, Jocelyn was also a very nice girl.If she and Lord Presteyne were both raving romantics,perhaps they would stay happy indefinitely, though Rafe had his doubts. He raised his glass in a solitary toast to her and her fortunate husband and drained the brandy, then smashed the glass into the fireplace.

The toast came from the heart, yet his smile went wry as he contemplated the shattered results of his uncharacteristic gesture. A man known for savoir faire would have been wiser to refrain. All he had to show for the moment was one less crystal goblet and a nagging sense of loss.

He poured another glass of brandy, then settled back in the wing chair and surveyed his library with a jaundiced eye. It was a beautifully proportioned room, a symphony of Italianate richness. In all of Rafe's vast holdings, there was no spot he enjoyed as much. That being the case, why the devil did he feel so depressed?

Wearily he recognized that the only way to cure his morbid mood was by giving in to it. Jocelyn wasn't the issue; if he had wanted the girl that much, he could have married her.

What disturbed Rafe was the way she had reminded him of Margot-beautiful, betraying Margot, dead these last dozen years. There was little physical resemblance, but both women had had a bright, laughing spirit that was irresistible. Whenever he had been with Jocelyn, he had found himself remembering Margot. She had moved him as no other woman ever had-and since he could never be that young again, no other woman ever would.

As he sipped his brandy, he tried to think objectively about Margot Ashton, but it was impossible to be rational about his first love. First and last, actually; the experience had cured him forever of romantic illusions. But at the time, the illusion had seemed very real.

Margot was not the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and certainly not the wealthiest or best-born. But she had had warmth and charm in lavish abundance, and she had sparkled with matchless vitality.

Bittersweet images flooded his mind. The first time he saw her; the first hesitant, miraculous kiss; lengthy sessions over a chessboard, when the formal moves had masked a deeper, more passionate game; the interview with a gently amused Colonel Ashton when Rafe haltingly had asked for her hand.

Most vivid of all was a morning when they had met in Hyde Park for a dawn ride. A light rain had been falling as he trotted through the quiet Mayfair streets, but the sky cleared as he entered the park. Ahead of him, arching through the dawn-bright air, had been an intensely colored rainbow. As he admired it, Margot had emerged from the mist at the foot of the rainbow, riding a silvery gray mare like a fairy queen from legend.

She had laughed and held out her hand to him, a living treasure at rainbow's end. Even then he had known that the magical image was a mere trick of weather and light, but it had seemed like the deepest reality he would ever know.

A fortnight later the affair ended, and so did his illusions.

His deepest regret came from the knowledge that it was his own jealousy and anger that had ended their engagement. If he had possessed at twenty-one the cool composure he developed later-if he had been able to accept her deceitfulness-he could have had her friendship for all these years.

For when all was said and done, her companionship was what he missed most. He knew that time had enhanced his memories, for no woman could possibly be is desirable as recollection painted her. But he had never stopped missing the way Margot had shared his laughter, or the impact of her changeable eyes meeting us across a room with such intimacy that he would forget that the rest of the world existed.

His reverie ended when the stem of the goblet in his and snapped, cutting his fingers and splashing brandy cross his lap. Scowling at the mess, he stood up. He'd had no idea the stems were so fragile. The butler would sulk for days when he discovered that the set of crystal goblets was now two short.

Rafe rose and headed upstairs to his bedchamber. A little self-indulgent melancholy was poetic, but he was beginning a hard journey early the next morning. It was time to bury thoughts of youthful foolishness and get some rest.