Petals in the Storm

Chapter 19

Consciousness returned slowly to Maggie, accompanied by a feeling of nausea that she guessed was caused by the drug they had given her. She was lying on a bed, but her vision was so blurred and the light level so low that she saw only vague shapes when she opened her eyes. From the silence, she guessed that she was alone, so she lifted her right hand in a gingerly exploration of her surroundings.

The side of her hand brushed a round, hairy object, and a bolt to sheer panic blazed through her. She jerked upright, even as her mind said that the shape and texture were wrong for a man's head.

She turned to the right, which triggered more vertigo, and blinked her eyes clear. Then she blinked again as two reflective gold circles materialized in the blackness. As she teetered on the verge of hysteria, the gold circles were joined by a yawning pink mouth with small, gleaming fangs.

The relief was so great that she almost laughed. She was not sharing a bed with a rapist, but a cat. Curled in a ball on her pillow, it was very large, very shaggy, and very black, with the pushed-in face of a true Persian. The silly creature must have slipped in when Maggie was deposited here.

Cautiously pushing herself upright, she croaked, "If you're Varenne's cat, you keep low company, Rex. Or are you imprisoned for spying, too?"

She scratched the silky black head, and was rewarded with a purr so vibrant that she felt it through the mattress. "By the way, your name is Rex, isn't it?"

Since the cat didn't disagree, she considered the matter settled. Swinging her legs over the edge, she cautiously stood and took inventory. Aside from light-headedness and a dry mouth, she felt reasonably well. Though her green muslin dress was rumpled, she hadn't been ravished while she was unconscious, and that had been her greatest fear.

Holding the corner post of the bed for support, she surveyed the sparsely furnished bedchamber. Once, a very long time ago, it must have been attractive, but now the wallcoverings were dingy and the gold bedhangings threadbare.

The darkness was caused by equally shabby draperies that had been drawn across the window, so she crossed the room and pulled them apart. Blessed, blessed sunshine poured in, completing the job of clearing her mind. From the position of the sun, she guessed it was early afternoon, so she had been unconscious for two or three hours.

The window overlooked a sheer, two-hundred-foot drop to a river, and looking down brought back her vertigo. There would be no escape that way. Apparently Varenne had brought her to Chanteuil, his estate on the Seine.

Maggie spent some time exploring her surroundings. As expected, the heavy door was locked, and there was nothing in the room that could be used as a weapon. With a sigh, she settled on the bed again.

Rex immediately flopped across her lap, his furry weight threatening to cut off her circulation as he purred thunderously. She scratched his head, thinking that it was foolish to take comfort from the cat's presence. Nonetheless, she did. She had always liked cats, and Rex was a splendid example of his kind.

Leaning back against the headboard, she. evaluated the situation. Though his motives were obscure, obviously Varenne was Le Serpent. She cursed herself for letting logic overrule instinct. Varenne's lack of apparent motive was less important than her distrust of the man, and she should have been more suspicious of him.

Still, there was one silver lining; if Varenne had kidnapped her, he might have done the same to Robin. In fact, Robin might be under this same roof, alive and not a traitor. The possibility made her feel better.

Since she and Rafe had been engaged to visit Roussaye, her absence would already have been discovered. However, that would do her no good since it was unlikely that Varenne would be suspected of kidnapping her. She had better prepare herself for a long stay.

The only excitement that occurred in the next hour was when Rex jerked his head up, then hurled himself across the room with a speed surprising in a creature so somnolent. A squeal, sharply cut off, made it clear that he had caught lunch. Maggie shuddered as he settled down with the limp little body and proceeded to eat. While she couldn't blame the cat for being a predator, she identified more with the mouse.

The rays of the sun had shifted to midafternoon when a grating in the lock announced the appearance of Count de Varenne. He was accompanied by a ruffian carrying a shotgun and an elderly manservant who placed a tray of covered dishes on the single table, then left the room.

At least they weren't planning to starve her, she thought wryly. In another few hours Rex's mouse might have started to look good. At the count's entrance, Rex himself immediately jumped to the floor and slithered under the bed, thereby proving that he had good sense.

While the guard trained his shotgun on Maggie, Varenne stopped a dozen feet away. His half-open eyes had a reptilian look; perhaps that was the origin of his nickname. "I hope you won't feel offended if I keep my distance, Miss Ashton," he said, as polite as if they were meeting for tea. "You see what respect I have for you."

Maggie arched her brows. "I can't imagine why-I certainly haven't shown any great brilliance on this case. I don't even understand why you are behind this particular plot."

"The usual reasons, Miss Ashton: power and wealth." His chilly gaze went over her. "I must confess that you had me convinced that you were only a Hungarian doxy looking for a rich protector. It was a surprise to discover who and what you are."

"I pride myself on being full of surprises," she said dryly.

Ignoring her comment, he went on, "However, my information about you is incomplete. Is Miss Ashton still the correct designation or have you acquired some husbands over the years?"

"Not legal ones," she said tartly.

The count smiled knowingly. "I'm sure there have been many of the left-hand kind, like your blond friend."

Maggie's pulse quickened. "I suppose you mean Robert Anderson. Do you have him, too?"

To her intense relief, the count nodded. "Yes, though his quarters are less comfortable than yours. He is almost directly below you, five levels down. Castles have certain drawbacks as living quarters, but they do have excellent dungeons."

"What are you going to do with us?"

Varenne gave a faint, chilling smile. "One of my associates yearns to further his acquaintance with you, so I shall give him the opportunity to do so. After that, it depends on how cooperative you are. You could be quite an asset, my dear."

Nausea returned, and it was all Maggie could do to keep her revulsion from her face. "What about Robin?"

"I had hoped that he might prove useful, but he's a remarkably stubborn young man. There isn't much point in keeping him around indefinitely." The count shook his head with spurious regret. "But I fear I bore you by thinking out loud. If there is anything you would like to make your visit more comfortable…"

Though she doubted that he expected her to take his ironic comment seriously, she said, "A hairbrush, comb, and mirror would be nice. Also a washbasin, soap, water, and something to read."

He smiled with genuine amusement. "You are a most adaptable woman, Miss Ashton. Do you wish to make yourself presentable for your new paramour?"

She wanted to spit at him. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Of course. One must make the best of circumstances."

Varenne glanced at the guard. "See that she gets what she asked for." Then the two men left.

As soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, Maggie doubled over on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Her stomach heaved, and she struggled to prevent herself from being violently sick. Dear God, she had tried so hard not to be a victim, and for a dozen years she had been successful.

But now she was caught in events that showed how powerless she really was. She was merely fodder for a mob, or a helpless prize for a conspirator. And this time there was no Rafe or Robin to save her.

The first small victory was controlling her nausea. When she had managed that, she got shakily to her feet and walked to the window, where she inhaled deeply of the cool air. Far below, rocks were visible at the base of the cliff. With a sense of relief, she realized that she could always jump.

Her mouth firmed. That was a coward's way out, and she had not survived as much as she had to die without a fight. Still, it was a comfort to know that the cliff was available as a last resort.

Turning from the window, she went to the tray and found a bowl of savory stew, a small bottle of wine, half a loaf of bread, and several pieces of fruit. Determinedly she sat down to eat, for she would need all her strength.

A soft 'Mroowp" by her chair announced that Rex had come to join her, clearly desirous of sharing her meal. She smiled a little as she watched his enormous tail switch back and forth hopefully. Then she spooned several lumps of meat onto the floor. He was the only ally she was likely to find here.

Helene Sorel was waiting when Rafe returned from seeing Roussaye. As he had feared, there was still no word from Maggie. Helene had questioned Cynthia exhaustively about what she had seen, but without learning anything more about Maggie's kidnapper. Her face taut with anxiety, Helene asked, "Is Roussaye our man?"

Unable to sit, Rafe prowled about the room. "No, he convinced me that his desire for peace is as great as ours. He is going to try to discover who Lemercier was working for."

"I pray that he is successful," Helene said grimly. "We have no other leads, do we?"

Succumbing to morbid curiosity about how Margot did her work, Rafe asked, "Not unless you can utilize the same sources that Maggie did. Is that possible?"

"Not really. She knows hundreds of women throughout the city-laundresses, maids, street peddlers. All across Europe, actually. I was merely one of them, except that we became friends. We each needed a friend."

Rafe stopped and stared in astonishment. "She got all her information from women?"

Helene clicked her tongue in disgust. "You're as bad as Colonel von Fehrenbach. Why do men always assume that the only way a female spy can work is on her back? Think about it, your grace. Women are everywhere, yet they are often treated as if they are invisible. Men speak of secret plans in front of maids, throw vital papers in the trash, boast of their achievements to prostitutes. Maggie's genius was in collecting so many pieces of information, then making sense of them."

She bit her lip for a moment before continuing. "I suppose that somewhere there might be a list of Maggie's informants, but it would be well hidden, and certainly in some kind of code. Even if we could find and decipher such a list, most of her women would not talk to a stranger. Our loyalty is to Maggie's cause, and to her personally. Money was secondary."

Rafe drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece while he thought about Helene's revelation. In his jealousy, he had assumed that Margot traded her body for information, with the cynical connivance of Anderson. Bloody hell, had he been right about anything?

Interrupting his thoughts, Helene asked, "What will you do now, go to Wellington?"

"No, as I told Roussaye, all Wellington could do is lend some troops, and without knowing where to search, that would do no good. I've sent an urgent message to the man in London who sent me here. I'm sure he'll have some useful suggestions, but it will be several days before I can expect to hear from him."

"And in the meantime?"

Rafe grimaced. "If Roussaye is successful at discovering Lemercier's employer, we may be able to go right to the source of the conspiracy. Apart from that, damned if I know. I'll go back to the Hotel de la Paix and rack my brains. Write down your direction, and I'll contact you if I come up with anything."

Helene went to the escritoire for pen and paper and ink. After writing her address, she said, "I, too, shall see if I can think of anything else. There must be someone who could help, if I can only think who it would be."

The two exchanged a bleak look, then Rafe left.

It was on the carriage ride home that he decided that it was worth talking to Count de Varenne. If, as Roussaye had said, the count had been active in royalist spy work during his exile, he might still have useful information sources.

Rafe stopped at his hotel only long enough to change to riding clothes and to ask the concierge for directions to Chanteuil. Then he set off on the bay gelding he had bought the first week in Paris. Not only would riding be faster than his carriage, but he desperately needed the physical release of being on horseback.

His route led west past the imperial palace of Malmaison, which Josephine Bonaparte had bought as a quiet country retreat. Josephine had retired and died there after the emperor divorced her for failing to produce an heir. It was said that Malmaison was where Bonaparte had spent his last free hours on French soil, for he had wanted to be near the spirit of the woman he had never stopped loving.

It was a romantic story, and as Rafe passed the estate he felt a twinge of sympathy for the Butcher of Corsica, who had continued to love where it was neither wise nor expedient. It was perhaps the only thing they had in common.

It took Rafe less than an hour to reach Chanteuil. The iron gates were rusted but solid enough, as was the gray stone wall that protected the estate. An ancient gatekeeper examined Rafe with deep suspicion before allowing him entrance.

Once inside the grounds, Rafe saw that the castle was as dramatic as Varenne had claimed. The original fortress had been on a rocky upthrust that towered above the surrounding countryside. Since it lay within a bend of the Seine, there was water on three sides. Over the centuries, new buildings and wide formal gardens had spread below the turreted keep, but the overall effect was still menacingly medieval.

As he cantered up the long gravel drive, Rafe had the fleeting thought that Chanteuil looked like a setting for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's lurid melodramas. The estate showed the effects of years of neglect. The gardens were jungles of unkempt vegetation, and most of the outbuildings were in a poor state of repair. Though attempts were being made to return Chanteuil to its former grandeur, it would take Varenne several years and a substantial fortune to finish the task.

When Rafe reined in before the main entrance and dismounted, a servant appeared to take his horse. Impatient with the sense of valuable time slipping away, Rafe took the steps two at a time and wielded the massive knocker vigorously while he prayed that the visit would produce something of value.

After subjecting Rafe to another scrutiny, the elderly butler who admitted him consented to take a card to the master. At least, thank God, Varenne was at home. It was about time something went right.

The Count de Varenne was working in his library amidst the musty odor of ancient books when the card was presented to him. The sight made him smile with deep satisfaction. Surely the gods were on his side. Who would have dreamed that the next fly would walk right into the web and offer the spider a card? And this fly was solid gold. He asked the butler, "Is the duke alone?"

"Yes, milord."

Varenne glanced at the wizened clerk who was his companion in the library. "Grimod, go up to the gun room in the west turret and bring down another shotgun and ammunition." Turning back to the butler, he said, "Fetch Lavisse, then wait ten minutes and bring up Candover."

The vast hall where Rafe waited was cold and drafty even in the last days of summer. As he watched a mouse scamper across the uneven flagstones, he wondered what it would be like in winter, with cold wind and river damp. Damned uncomfortable was his guess. Varenne would have his hands full making this dank medieval fortress habitable.

Eventually the old butler shuffled back and gestured for the visitor to follow. After a long, slow journey through uneven stone passages and up narrow stairs, the butler opened a door and waved Rafe through. "The library, milord," he wheezed.

As soon as Rafe stepped into the room, hard metallic objects were jammed into his sides. "Put your hands up in the air, Candover," an amiable voice said. "Those are fowling pieces. At point blank range, the shot will rip you to shreds."

Rafe saw that two men had been waiting by the door with shotguns. Knowing that it would be suicidal to reach for his pistol, he slowly raised his hands. What a damned fool he had been; what a bloody damned fool.

He stood still while a servant searched him, removing the pistol. When the servant was finished, Rafe said dryly, "I assume that one could say that I've found Countess Janos, in a manner of speaking."

"So you have," Varenne replied, "and I assure you that she is quite well. Adjusting to her captivity with remarkable speed, in fact." The count gestured for Rafe to take one of the chairs in front of the desk. The guards remained near the door, their shotguns trained on the duke.

Varenne continued, "Your fraudulent countess is quite the little survivor. Did you know that she is as English as you are, without an aristocratic bone in her delightful body?"

Taking Rafe's stony face for shock, the count gave a malicious chuckle. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Candover, I didn't guess either. But that's enough about that little doxy-I'm more interested in you. Does anyone know that you're here?"

Rafe considered lying and saying yes, but he hesitated too long. Varenne seized on the pause and interpreted it correctly. "Good, you didn't tell anyone you were coming. This close to the critical hour, I would not like to waste my men's time in hunting down whomever you told."

So the plot was on the verge of execution, and Rafe and Margot couldn't do a blasted thing about it. "Satisfy my curiosity, Varenne. What are you up to? If I'm going to die, I'd like to know why."

The count looked shocked. "Going to die? Whatever made you think that I would unnecessarily eliminate a man of your wealth? That would be profligate, and I did not get where I am by wasting my opportunities. That brings me to another question. You are said to be worth about eighty thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?"

Rafe shrugged. "Near enough. It varies some depending on how different business interests are doing."

"Splendid!" The count positively beamed, his dark eyes sparkling like agates. "Since I have a few minutes to spare, I will satisfy your curiosity, or at least part of it. Care to join me in a glass of burgundy? This is a rather fine vintage."

Rafe felt as if he had wandered into Bedlam, but he nodded his agreement; he could use a drink. A few minutes were spent in ordering glasses and pouring the wine. Rafe took a sip, and conceded that the vintage was excellent.

After a sip of his own wine, the count said pensively, "You wondered what I am about. It is quite simple-France needs strong leadership, and she will not get it from the decadent dregs of the House of Bourbon. After my plan is executed, there will be chaos, and I am prepared to step in to sort it out. I have royal blood in my veins-some of it even legitimate. The royalists will greet me with open arms. After all, I have served my time in exile, I am one of them."

"Given the quality of the Bourbons, it should be possible to convince the royalists," Rafe admitted with reluctant interest, "but what about the Bonapartists? They will never accept a member of the old order who wants to turn back the clock."

"But I do not wish to turn back the clock, my dear duke, that is what makes me unique," Varenne said complacently. "I am a flexible man, I can prate of the rights of man, of 'liberty, equality, fraternity,' as well as any revolutionary. I already have Bonapartists working for me. Remember, Napoleon spoke of liberty and created the greatest tyranny Europe has ever known. If one tells a great lie boldly, one can do almost anything."

"That's very clever, Count." Rafe lifted the bottle of wine and topped up both of their glasses. He didn't know whether Varenne was insane or a genius, or if there was a difference between the two. "But I would think it will be difficult to get the factions to agree on anything."

The count shook his head. "Under Napoleon, France became the greatest power since Rome. No true Frenchman wants to give that up, and that includes the royalists."

"So you will rally the nation together 'pour la gloire' one more time," Rafe said. "But there is one group that you have forgotten. What of those people who are tired of fighting, who want to live in peace?"

"The wolf will eat the lamb every time, Candover."

There was no doubt that Varenne believed his own words. Yet when Rafe thought of Margot and her army of women, of Helene Sorel, of the tough pragmatism of Michel Roussaye, who had seen enough of war, he was not sure that he agreed. Enough brave lambs might overwhelm even the most ruthless of wolves.

However, this was not the time for a philosophical discussion. He asked, "If you aren't going to kill me, what do you intend?"

"You are insurance, Candover. Though my plan is excellent, it is possible that I might fail. Chaos is inherently hard to control, even when one is expecting it. If someone else rises to the top, I will need a great deal of money."

"Aren't you already a wealthy man?"

"I try to convey that impression. However, you see the condition of my estate, and conspiracies are expensive. At the moment I am almost penniless. If my coup d'etat succeeds, I will have all the wealth I need, and you will be returned to England unharmed. If I fail"-he shrugged-"I assume that you would be willing to pay a substantial price for your life and freedom."

"For mine, and the countess's as well."

"You are so fond of the little trollop?" Varenne said with surprise. "I really should find out what she does that is so special. She's only a woman, after all."

Rafe discovered that the expression "to see red" was not a metaphor. His blood roared, and if a small fragment of common sense hadn't reminded him of the armed men at the door, he would have tried to take Varenne apart with his bare hands.

Some of that must have showed in his face, because the count said, "If you feel that strongly, I'm sure something can be arranged. Of course I would not free you without your word as an English gentleman not to retaliate in any way. It is one of the delightfully amusing things about Englishmen-they take such promises seriously."

A knock sounded at the door, and a courier entered with a message. Varenne looked at it and frowned. "Sorry, Candover, I can't chat any longer. Matters require my attention. I apologize for the quality of the accommodations, but if you became too comfortable, you would be in no hurry to pay your ransom and leave." He glanced at the guards. "Please escort our guest to the dungeon."

Rafe's thoughts were racing as the gunmen herded him out of the library and down the corridor. Varenne might be mad, but there was no denying that his scheme was diabolically clever. Given die precarious political state of France, a well-chosen blow might indeed take the count to ultimate power. Louis' throne stood on sand, and a strong leader who could unite the factions would be welcome.

It was also likely that once the deed was done, the rest of Europe would accept any French leader who had a fig leaf of respectability. Yes, Varenne's plan might very well work, and France would find herself in the hands of a new Napoleon. It was a terrifying prospect.

After descending several flights of winding stone stairs, they reached the lowest level of the castle. Though the upper section was dank and unpleasant, the cellars were far worse, stinking of death and ancient evil.

Eventually they reached a dismal antechamber containing a massive iron-bound door. Lavisse took a key ring from a hook on the wall and inserted the single heavy key into the old lock. As his companion kept Rafe covered with the shotgun, Lavisse struggled with the ancient mechanism until it turned.

Swinging the door out just enough to admit a man, the guard said with heavy sarcasm, "Enjoy your visit, your bloody grace." Then he gave Rafe a shove in the middle of the back that propelled him headfirst into the cell.

Even before he hit the stone floor, Rafe knew that he was not alone.