Petals in the Storm

Chapter 20

Rafe automatically stayed down in a wary crouch while he scanned his surroundings. The cell was roughly cubical, about a dozen feet in each dimension, with walls of coarse stonework. The only furnishings were a slop bucket in one corner and a pile of straw with a couple of blankets.

Light came from a narrow, barred window high in the wall. Though the cell was dim, it was bright enough for Rafe to identify the blond man sprawled on the straw.

Bloody hell, it only needed this. Rafe took a deep breath before getting to his feet. Though he supposed he should be glad that Robert Anderson was alive and apparently no friend to Count de Varenne, Margot's lover was the last man on earth Rafe would have chosen as a cellmate.

Not bothering to rise, Anderson said, "I'm sorry that they got you, too, Candover. What has been happening?"

"Riots, kidnappings, conspiracy-the usual sort of thing." Rafe brushed the dirt from his breeches, then straightened and said soberly, "Varenne has the countess."

A black expression on his face, Anderson sat up, wincing at the sudden movement. "Damnation, I was afraid of that. Do you know if she's all right?"

"For what it's worth, Varenne says so." As his eyes adjusted to the light, Rafe realized that his companion looked considerably worse for wear, with his left arm cradled awkwardly in his lap and his face badly bruised. Forgetting his jealousy, he exclaimed, "Good God, man, what did they do to you?"

Anderson smiled humorlessly. "In a tribute to my legendary ferocity, Varenne sent four ruffians to invite me here. I attempted to decline, but they insisted."

Something clicked in Rafe's memory. "The morning after you disappeared, the bodies of two unidentified Frenchmen were found near your lodgings. Did you have anything do with that?"

Anderson's smile became more genuine. "I was very reluctant to accept their hospitality."

Surveying the slight build and almost feminine good looks of his companion, Rafe realized that he had been guilty of still another misjudgment. With a half smile, he said, "Remind me not to get into any arguments with you."

"I doubt I'd be a danger to a husky sparrow at the moment."

Anderson's pallor was extreme even for someone of such fair coloring, so Rafe crossed the cell and knelt by him in the straw. "Better let me take a look at that arm."

He whistled softly at the sight of the ugly swelling that had completely engulfed Anderson's left hand and wrist. As he began a careful examination of the injured area, he said, "Did you hit someone too hard?"

"No, I was fairly intact when I arrived here. However, Varenne was interested in chatting and I wasn't."

The sheen of sweat on Anderson's face showed how much his studied casualness was costing him. Rafe's reluctant admiration for his rival increased. "It looks like one of the bones in the wrist is broken, and three fingers," he said. "Luckily, the fractures look clean.

Let me help you take your coat off so I can bandage the area. That should help some."

Rafe took off his waistcoat and tore it into strips, then undertook the basic medical work learned in the hunting field. As he did, he was struck by a gut-wrenching image of that same elegant hand caressing Margot. He froze, fighting sick jealousy, while he told himself furiously that it was neither the time nor the place for such self-indulgence. After a long moment, he managed to resume his ministrations.

For his own self-respect, he took special care to make his efforts as painless as possible. Even so, the procedure nearly broke the younger man's stoicism. By the time Rafe had finished the bandaging and rigged a sling for the arm, Anderson was lying full-length in the straw, sweat matting the edge of his hair. Rafe guessed that he must be half unconscious from pain.

After his ragged breathing had steadied, Anderson said, "Since Varenne ended up capturing Maggie anyhow, maybe I should have just written the damned note."

In answer to Rafe's questioning glance, the blond man explained, "The count wanted me to write Maggie and lure her out here. Said he'd break bones until I agreed. I didn't mention that I was left-handed until he'd already neatly fractured three fingers, and by then he'd wrecked any chance of my handwriting being normal. He should have been working on the right hand."

As he settled down on the straw at Anderson's feet, Rafe found himself chuckling at the dark humor of it. "I'd like to have seen Varenne's face when you told him that."

"You wouldn't have enjoyed it-he broke my wrist from sheer irritation," Anderson said dryly. "Still, I've been in worse prisons. The straw is fresh, the blankets clean, and since this is France, they serve quite a tolerable wine with the meals. At this season, the temperature is reasonable, though I'd rather not winter here."

Rafe tried to repress his shudder at the prospect. Surely Varenne would not keep them for so long.

Anderson said, "Professional curiosity dies hard. Did Varenne give you any idea what he's up to?"

Rafe brought his companion up-to-date on the interviews with von Fehrenbach and Roussaye, mentioned the death of Lemercier without elaborating, then repeated what Varenne had said about his motives.

After asking several probing questions, Anderson sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "Missed by a mile. I feel like a damned fool."

"You have plenty of company in not deducing what was going on," Rafe said bleakly. "Everyone was wrong." Rafe most of all.

After that, there was little to say. The two men sat in the gradually fading light without talking. Though there were many things Rafe would have liked to ask Anderson, none of them seemed appropriate.

As the hours passed, Rafe concluded that the worst part of imprisonment must be boredom. The cell was too small to stretch one's legs, the stone walls were singularly unstimulating, and if he had to spend any length of time here, he'd soon be raving.

He envied Anderson's tranquility. Worn down by pain, the other man slept for much of the time. But even awake, he had a philosophical relaxation Rafe doubted he could ever match. Of course, Anderson claimed prior experiences with incarceration; perhaps practice perfected one's skills.

At dusk, dinner was delivered with the usual caution, one man setting a tray inside while another stood guard with a shotgun. The meal was a very decent beef stew with bread and fruit, accompanied by a jug that held about a gallon of red wine. Besides pewter bowls and mugs, the only utensils were soft, easily bent spoons that wouldn't make effective weapons. Though the tray, bowls and spoons were collected later, the prisoners were allowed to keep the wine and drinking vessels.

There wasn't enough to make a man drunk, but it was sufficient to loosen tongues. The two men were talking in a desultory fashion about what Varenne might be planning when Rafe found himself asking, "Why is Margot the way she is?"

After a long pause, Anderson said, "Why didn't you ask her?"

Rafe laughed harshly. "I didn't think she would tell me."

"If she won't, why do you think I will?"

Rafe hesitated, trying to think of a compelling argument. Instead of a direct answer, he said, "I know I have no right to ask, but I want-rather badly-to understand her. I knew her very well once, or thought I did, and now she's a mystery to me."

After an even longer pause, Anderson said, hostility in his voice, "Ever since Maggie heard you were coming to Paris, she's been different-moody and unhappy. I met her when she was nineteen and I know very little about her earlier life. However, I do know that someone started a job of wrecking her that the French bloody near finished. If you're the one who did that, I'll be damned if I'll tell you anything."

The darkness was nearly total now, only a faint glow of moonlight illuminating the cell. Anderson's figure was barely visible, black against black to Rate's right. In the dark, the pain of thirteen years ago was very close. Reaching out to find the jug by touch, Rafe poured them both more wine. "She never told you what happened?"

"No."

Anderson's voice was flat, but Rafe heard an undertone of unwilling curiosity. If the other man was in love with Margot, he must also be interested in her past.

In the anonymity of the dark, it was easy to make a suggestion that never would have occurred to him by the light of day. "Each of us holds a key to part of Margot's past. Why don't we exchange information?" Anticipating objections, Rafe added, "I know it's un-gentlemanly, but I swear I don't mean her any harm."

Rafe could almost hear the factors weighing in Anderson's mind. Finally the other man said ruefully, "My father always said that I didn't have a gentlemanly bone in my body, and he was right. But I warn you, it's not a pretty story."

Knowing that it was his place to begin, Rafe said, "Margot Ashton made her come-out during the 1802 Season. Her birth was no more than respectable, her fortune negligible, it was generally agreed that she was not a classic beauty-yet she could have had any eligible man in London."

He stopped, remembering his first sight of Margot, when she was entering a ballroom. One look and Rafe had walked away from the group he was with and gone directly to her, cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

Margot's chaperone recognized the heir to Candover and made an introduction, but Rafe was barely aware of that. Only Margot mattered. At first she had been gently amused by the expression on his face. Then her smoky eyes met his and changed as an echo of his own feelings flared in her. At least, that was what he had thought at the time. Only later did he question the fact that her response had come after she had learned who he was.

Aloud he said, "It appeared to be a perfect fairy tale, love at first sight and all that nonsense. Colonel Ashton wouldn't let us become formally betrothed until after the Season, but we had a firm understanding.

I have never been so happy as I was that spring. Then…" He halted, unable to continue.

"Don't stop now, just when we're getting to the crux of the matter, Candover," Anderson prodded. "What happened to love's young dream?"

Rafe swallowed hard. "It was simple enough. I was out with a group of friends one evening, and someone who had drunk enough to be indiscreet described how… how Margot had given herself to him a few days before. In a garden during a ball."

He swallowed a mouthful of wine, needing it to lubricate his dry throat. "In retrospect, I can see how badly I overreacted. I was young and idealistic and completely unbalanced by love. Instead of accepting her actions as curiosity, or experiment or whatever, I acted as if she had committed the greatest crime since Judas when I confronted her the next morning. I would have been happy to accept any defense, or even a show of remorse, but she made no attempt to deny it. She simply threw my ring at me and walked out."

After another swallow of wine, Rafe gave a heavy sigh. "I decided that the people who had told me she was a fortune hunter were right and she was only sorry to be balked of her quarry. But a few days later, she and her father left England to travel on the Continent. I don't think that would have happened if she weren't as miserable as I, so I suppose you could say we wrecked each other."

With a rustle of straw, Anderson shifted position. "Let me see if I have this correctly. You asked if she had been carrying on with this friend of yours and she didn't deny it?"

In the interests of accuracy, Rafe said, "Actually, I didn't ask her. I told her what I knew."

Anderson clambered to his feet, uttering an impressive stream of profanity as he paced around the cell. At length, he said with disgust, "Given the stupidity of the British nobility, I can't understand why the whole lot hasn't died out. If you took a drunken sot's word without questioning it, you never knew the first thing about Maggie. You deserved what you got, though God knows that she didn't."

Rafe flushed, angry but not quite able to dismiss Anderson's words. "You obviously don't know much about the nobility, or you wouldn't make such a sweeping statement. No man of honor would ever lie about such a serious matter. Even dead drunk, it was surprising that anything was said. Probably even that wouldn't have happened if Northwood had known that I was betrothed to Margot."

Anderson stopped in his tracks. "Northwood? Would that have been Oliver Northwood?"

"Yes. That's right, I forgot that you work with him."

A new burst of profanity put the former one to shame. "If you aren't stupid, you are too naive and honorable to live in this highly imperfect world," Anderson snapped. "I can't believe that you would accept the word of a man like Northwood against Maggie but maybe he was more believable in those days than he is now. Obviously he was no more honest."

"Don't be absurd," Rafe said heatedly. "Why would Northwood slander an innocent girl?"

"Use your imagination, Candover," Anderson said with exasperation. "Maybe he was jealous of you. It doesn't sound like it would have required a very discerning eye to observe that you and Maggie were thick as inkle weavers. Or perhaps it was spitefulness because she had scorned him, or immature male boasting. Maybe you never had to invent exploits, but plenty of young men do. Hell, knowing Northwood, he might have lied from sheer bloodymindedness."

Feeling compelled to offer some rebuttal, Rafe said, "Why are you so hard on Northwood? Granted, he's always been a boor, and he's treated his wife badly, but that still doesn't make him a liar. A gentleman is always assumed to be honest until proven otherwise."

"What a wonderful standard. Why didn't you apply it to Maggie?" Anderson said caustically as he flopped down on the straw again. 'This boor you are so anxious to defend has been selling information about his country for years to anyone who will buy it. From what I know of him, I doubt that he has an honest bone in his pudgy body."

"What…?" Rafe stammered, feeling as if he had been poleaxed. Though he had never been close to Northwood, he had known the man for more than twenty years. They had gone to the same schools, been raised by the same rules. He had never had a reason to doubt Northwood's honesty.

And yet, it explained so much. Margot's white face when Rafe had accused her of infidelity swam before him. How would he have felt if the person who should have most trusted him had accepted slander without question?

He would have felt exactly as she had: furious, and hurt beyond words. What had she said then, something about how fortunate it was that they had discovered each other's true characters before it was too late?

At the time, he had taken her words as an admission of guilt, and that admission had confirmed his belief in Northwood's accusations. Now her answer took on a whole new meaning.

Burying his face in his hands, Rafe groaned, "Bloody, bloody hell…" His rasping breath filled the cell, and only the other man's presence kept him from a total, shattering breakdown.

Even when Rafe had felt the most desperate pain at her imagined betrayal, he had been soothed by his belief that he was the injured party. Now that comfort was gone, and he saw his actions as Margot must have seen them.

Whatever she had become could be traced back to his betrayal of her, to his jealousy and lack of trust. The dim hope he had of regaining her love crumbled among the ruins of his pride.

How could she ever trust him again when he had utterly failed her? By his own actions Rafe had lost what was most important to him, and there were no words strong enough for the bitterness of his guilt.

As Robin's anger faded, he felt reluctant sympathy for the other man. The poor devil-it must hurt like hell to be knocked off the moral high ground by the realization that he had caused his own suffering, and Maggie's as well. A man like Candover, who was obviously honest to the backbone, had been easy prey for Northwood's sly malice.

In spite of Candover's accusation, Robin was very familiar with the world of aristocratic Englishmen, with their infernal games and clubs and gentleman's codes. It would have been natural to believe a companion, and Northwood would have seemed bluff and honest.

On the other hand, a young woman would have been a mysterious, almost magical creature to a romantic young man. It took maturity to learn that the similarities between men and women were greater than the differences.

Given the passion and possessiveness of first love, it was easy to understand how Candover had blundered, his emotions swamping his judgment. Who wasn't a fool when he was young? Robin certainly had been, though his foolishness had taken a different form from that of Candover.

Robin also knew Maggie well enough to be sure that her temper had contributed to the problem. If she had had the sense to burst into tears and deny the accusation, the breach could have been patched up in half an hour, and the two of them might have been happily married these last dozen years. In that case Robin would never have met Maggie, which would have been his loss but her gain.

Robin located Rafe's mug and pressed it into the other man's hand. "It's a little late to be suicidal, if that is the direction your guilt is taking you," he said dryly.

Still shaking, Rafe straightened up enough to drink, wishing that he had something stronger. Over the years he had prided himself on his civilized attitude, thinking that he should have accepted Margot's infidelities in return for her charm and companionship. He had even felt regret that she had been more in tune with the morals of their order than he, and had attributed his violent emotional reaction to immaturity.

Instead, he had been closer to the truth with his youthful idealism than with all the fashionable cynicism he had cultivated over the years. Margot Ashton had been as true and loving as he had believed her. It was Rafael Whitbourne, heir to the dukedom of Candover, universally respected scion of the aristocracy, who had been unworthy of such love.

Anderson said acerbically, "No wonder Maggie didn't want to have anything to do with you when you came to Paris. If she had told me about your past relationship, I would never have suggested that she get within seven leagues of you."

He fumbled one-handed with the heavy wine jug. Rafe helped him pour another mugful. The jug was much lighter than it had been; the last of the wine emptied into Anderson's mug. They must have put away the equivalent of two or three bottles each. Rafe wished there was more, though there wasn't enough alcohol in France to drown the way he felt.

"I gather that you are still in love with Maggie," Anderson remarked, as if the matter were of only minor importance.

"I'm as unbalanced about her now as I was when I was twenty-one." Rafe drew a shuddering breath. "I had always rather prided myself on my balance." He finished the last of his wine with a gulp. "She's too good for me."

"I wouldn't argue the point."

"What has happened in the years since then, and how did Margot come to be a spy? You said that you'd explain." Now that Rafe saw how her journey had begun, he could better understand the wary, slightly brittle woman she had become, with her toughness and suspicion, her flashes of humor and vulnerability. But there was still much that he wanted-needed-to know.

"There's been enough raging emotion in this cell for one night," Anderson said as he rolled up in one of the blankets. "I'll tell you the rest of the story in the morning, by which time I may have slept off my desire to kick you in the teeth."

As he burrowed into the straw, he added, "If you're going to spend the night flagellating yourself, kindly be quiet about it."

Anderson was right, enough had been said for one night. Rafe wrapped himself in the other blanket against the increasing chill, then settled in the straw.

Unlike his companion, he doubted that he would sleep.