Petals in the Storm

Chapter 22

"The Count de Varenne will want to see me," Oliver North wood assured the decrepit Chanteuil butler.

The servant looked doubtful, but turned and hobbled into the depths of the castle. Not wanting to give the count time for too much thought, Northwood quietly followed. When the butler entered the library to inform his master of the visitor, the Englishman stepped inside also.

The count was seated at a desk covered with stacks of papers full of figures. He narrowed his eyes at Northwood's entrance. "Do we know each other, monsieur?"

"Of course we do, Comte le Serpent. Or shouldn't I call you that in front of your servants?" Northwood said boldly. He intended to be accepted as a valuable associate, not the lowly pair of hired hands that he had been in the past.

The coldness of Varenne's dark gaze confirmed his identity. Yet after a moment, he gave a slow smile and dismissed the butler. "No need to worry about the servants. Every man on the estate, from the cook to my little army, is personally loyal to me, and all look forward to a better day for France." He waved toward a chair. "Pray take a seat, monsieur. I see that I underestimated you. How did you discover my identity?"

"Your signet ring. I traced the crest." Deciding that he should put his insurance policy into effect,Northwood added, "Incidentally, a sealed envelope with what I know is with someone who will take it to the authorities if I should disappear."

"There is no such need for such precautions, just as there will be no need for secrecy soon." His gaze sharpened. "You have done as we had discussed at your embassy, I assume?"

"Everything went according to plan. In about four hours, half the diplomats in Paris will be only a memory."

"You've done well, mon petit Anglais, very well." He glanced at his watch. "I regret that I have no time to socialize, but this is a most busy day. My soldiers must be prepared for whatever comes, I am considering matters that must be attended to after the explosion… a thousand things." He tucked the watch away. "Have you come for your bonus?"

"Partly that, partly to make sure that I am not forgotten in your rise to power." Northwood relaxed. Though there had been a menacing flash in Varenne's eyes when Northwood had first arrived, this affable aristocrat was turning out to be much less threatening than the masked Le Serpent had been.

"I promise that you will not be forgotten." The count smiled smoothly. "But as I said, I am very busy just now. Perhaps you would like to spend the next few hours amusing yourself with Countess Janos?"

Northwood ran an eager tongue over his lower lip. "I was hoping you had her. I can see her now?"

"If you wish. As I said, you have done well, so it is right that you enjoy a reward for your labors. Follow me."

Varenne led his guest up the stairs and along a dusty corridor to a door with worn gilding. He pulled a key from an inside pocket and handed it to Northwood. "Be sure to keep the door locked. She's a tricksome wench, and I don't want her loose in the castle."

Northwood's fingers tightened greedily on the key. He had waited a long time for this. "I'll keep her too busy to cause trouble."

"Enjoy yourself, but don't damage her too badly, Monsieur Northwood. I want to try her myself when I'm not so busy."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Northwood put the key in the lock and turned it.

It had been maddening to wait two hours at Madame Daudet's for the old lady to wake up, but the maid had been adamant about not disturbing her mistress. Helene had scarcely been able to contain her impatience. Apart from finding the book that contained the three-headed serpent crest of the d'Aguste family, she had nothing to do but worry. A pity that they hadn't asked about the crest earlier, but at the time, it had merely been one of many possibilities.

In time, Madame Daudet emerged to greet her visitor. The old lady seemed scarcely more than black lace and delicate bones, but there was still strength and the ghost of beauty in her face. "What can I do for you today, child? Is your pretty blond friend here, too?"

"No, madame, I am here because I am worried about her," Helene replied. "Countess Janos and some other friends have disappeared, and the only clue I have is that a d'Aguste might be involved. Can you tell me anything about the family?"

The old lady pursed her lips. "There is little to say, because the direct line is extinct. There have been no noble d'Agustes for the last fifty years or so."

Helene's disappointment was so bitter she could taste it. Grasping at straws, she asked, "What happened fifty years ago?"

"Let's see…," Madame Daudet murmured as she cast her mind back over the years. "The last of the d'Agustes was an only daughter named Pauline. She married the Count de Varenne and the d'Aguste name died out. Pauline was the mother of the present count. A strange girl. There's bad blood in the d'Agustes."

"Varenne!" Helene exclaimed. After thanking Madame Daudet, she flew out of the apartment and down to the street. She still didn't know what to do about it, but at least she now knew who Le Serpent was.

Michel Roussaye frowned over the notes he had made after visiting a dozen clubs and cafes where Bonapartist officers gathered to drink and gamble and reminisce about the glorious days of the empire. Mention of Captain Henri Lemercier had produced blank looks, expressions of distaste, or occasionally a hard stare followed by a curt disclaimer of any knowledge of the man.

The lack of information was not surprising, since discretion was wise these days, but Roussaye had noticed something else that was disquieting. In every cafe", there had been fragmentary rumors of change in the wind. Several times he had heard whispers about Le Serpent, a man who would lead France once more to the glory she deserved. Two or three men who remembered Roussaye's army nickname had even asked obliquely if the general was the coming leader.

Roussaye had vehemently disclaimed any such role, but the hints were worrisome. Though most officers were like him, tired and willing to give peace a chance, there were still a few hotheads whose truest happiness had been in the days of the great victories. Such men refused to see what a high price their country had paid for a fleeting taste of la gloire.

Even more alarming was the news his servant received when he tried to deliver a message to the Duke of Candover: the duke had gone out the previous afternoon and had not returned. Roussaye swore to himself.

First Robert Anderson, then Countess Janos, and now Candover; the crisis must be near.

Impatiently he got his feet and decided to go to Silves's, another popular Bonapartist cafe.More and more, it was necessary to learn who had employed Henri Lemercier.

While Maggie sat in a shabby wing chair attempting to read a lurid French novel, Rex sprawled on the floor beside her. He lay on his back, curled sideways like a comma, his massive furry feet in the air. She gave him an affectionate smile. If he wasn't snoring she would have wondered if he was alive. A pity that she couldn't relax so thoroughly.

In the past twenty-four hours she had made what plans she could, and now there was nothing to do but wait. With a sigh, she laid the novel on the table next to her and leaned over to scratch Rex's neck.

The cat was much better entertainment than the book, since the servant who had filled her requests seemed to think that females enjoyed reading the most appalling tripe. Besides having characters too absurd to believe, the novel had a spy subplot that was pure idiocy. The author had no idea what an unglamorous business spying was.

At the moment, Maggie would have been delighted to embrace the most boring spy work in existence. Being kidnapped might be exciting in a book, but it was a combination of terrifying and tedious in real life. After making what meager preparations she could, there was nothing left to do but wait.

A key grated in the lock. Since lunch had already been served, a visitor must mean either Varenne or, much worse, the associate he had promised her to. She straightened in her chair and dried her damp palms on her skirt while Rex scuttled under the bed.

When Oliver Northwood came through the door, she was almost relieved. The man was a coarse brute, a wife abuser, and a traitor to his country, but at least he was a known quantity, with neither the intelligence nor the calculated wickedness of Varenne. Against him, she would have a chance.

As he relocked the door, she ordered herself to forget the horror of rape; forget the open window that promised an end to panic and pain; forget everything but the role she had decided on. If she didn't play it well, her nightmares would become brutal reality.

Northwood turned to face her, his broad, fleshy face openly gloating. He would expect her to be frightened. In fact, he was probably looking forward to it, and would be on her in an instant if she cowered or begged.

There was a good chance, however, that being treated with the social amenities would make him respond in kind. Rising to her feet, she offered her most gracious smile. "Mr. Northwood, what a pleasure! I did so hope it would be you, but the count wouldn't tell me, naughty man. Do sit down." She gestured to the brocade chair that she had set by the table. "Would you care for some wine?"

Taken aback, Northwood took the seat indicated.

With the air of a hostess in her own drawing room, Maggie poured part of her lunchtime carafe of wine into her glass, then handed it to her visitor. "Here you are. I'm sorry that it's only vin ordinaire, but I have nothing better to offer you."

Expression baffled, he accepted the glass. "You're glad to see me?"

"But of course! I've always fancied you, you know."

"You picked a damned funny way of showing it, Margot Ashton," he said belligerently. "You always treated me like dirt."

She took the chair opposite him, soft folds of green muslin settling in a way that exposed a hint of ankle.

That morning she had spent considerable time combing her hair into a loose style designed for the boudoir, and she had also made some adjustments to her neckline. Judging by Northwood's expression, her appearance was having the desired effect.

With a delicate sigh, she said, "Oh, dear, I had always hoped that you would understand. We are kindred spirits, you know-I have always sensed that."

Obviously enjoying her flirtatious manner, Northwood leaned back in his chair. Nonetheless, he would not let himself be appeased too easily. "If we're such bloody kindred spirits, why were you always so rude to me, both when you made your come-out and these last weeks? You never treated Candover like that."

"Of course not." She put a hint of exasperation in her voice. "The man's insanely jealous, and it wouldn't be safe to flirt with anyone else when he's around. You're much cleverer than he is, though. He mentioned that I looked like a girl he had known once, but even though we had been engaged, he has never recognized me! The gullible fool actually believes that I'm a Hungarian countess."

Gulping a third of the wine, Northwood said, "Oh, I'm clever all right, though I never let that lot at the embassy know. They all think they're so bloody superior." He brooded for a moment. "So why did Candover get the royal treatment, not me?"

"Because he's rich, of course," Maggie said, making her eyes wide and innocent. "Surely you don't think women would waste time on the man for any other reason?"

"You're talking nonsense," Northwood said viciously. 'The bastard has always had any woman he wanted-including my wife."

"Well, he's always been very, very rich, hasn't he?" Maggie said reasonably. "Oh, he's not bad-looking, but he's also a bore, both in and out of bed." She gave a bawdy chuckle, then asked silent forgiveness for the enormous lie she was about to utter. "Really, Oliver-do you mind if I call you Oliver? I always think of you that way-if Candover had to rely on his physical attributes to keep a mistress, no woman would go back for a second round."

It was what Northwood wanted to hear. Leaning forward greedily, he asked, "How much of a man is he, then?"

"Well, a lady really shouldn't talk of such things. Let's just say that where she would hope to find the most, she would have to be content with the least." She giggled and undulated in her chair a little, her posture signaling availability. "He's also a thirty-second wonder with absolutely no imagination. Why, he won't even…"

She listed several exotic variations on the common theme, and had the satisfaction of seeing Northwood's eyes nearly bulge from their sockets with fascinated lust.

Tilting her head to one side, she said reflectively, "In spite of losing all that lovely money, I was rather relieved that I didn't marry him. Besides being tedious and madly jealous, he's dreadfully stuffy. But when I was eighteen, I was so proud to have attached the heir to a dukedom that I didn't care what he was like."

"You have me to thank for his breaking the engagement."

Maggie felt a cold chill on the back of her neck, but she managed to purr, "How did that happen?"

"It was easy. You're right, Candover isn't very clever. Anyone could see that he was head over heels for you even without an announcement."

"He did follow me around like a stag in rut," she agreed.

Northwood sipped more wine, his expression dark.

"I always despised him. We were in school together, my birth is as good as his-and a damned sight better than that Gypsy friend of his-but Candover was always too high in the instep to associate with the likes of me. Just because he had a fortune and was heir to a grand title, he acted as if that made him better than me. But I watch people, you know, I know what their weaknesses are."

Cutting off the flow of self-congratulation, Maggie coaxed him back to the original topic. "What was his weakness?"

"Why, his weakness was you, of course. He thought you were so pure and perfect. I decided to let him find out that you weren't." Northwood looked at her challengingly. "Even though you had him flummoxed, I knew you were too good to be true. It was obvious that you were a hot-tailed wench."

She had to swallow before she could say admiringly, "That was very perceptive of you, Oliver. What did you do about it?"

"A group of us had been out one night, drinking and carrying on. When I knew that Candover was within earshot, I described how you had spread your legs for me in the back garden of one of those balls. I pretended that I was too drunk to know that I was being indiscreet, but I knew exactly what I was saying." Northwood gave a smile of pure malice. "Candover acted as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He got up and left right away, and the next I knew, you had left London."

She stared at the florid, self-satisfied face, feeling ice in her veins. Though her opinion of Northwood had never been high, it was still a numbing shock to hear him boast of performing the vicious, cold-blooded act that had had such catastrophic repercussions. He had a genius for low cunning; something said by a man in his cups was far more convincing than a direct slander would have been. No wonder Rafe had come to her that morning half mad with pain and jealousy. His lack of trust was still a betrayal, but a far more understandable one.

Though she felt ill, she daren't give in to it. If she lost her self-possession now, she would be at the mercy of this beast. She shaped her mouth into a pout. "Really, Oliver, that wasn't at all nice of you. It injured him-and believe me, he took it very badly-but you caused all kinds of problems for me, too. If you'd wanted me for yourself, all you would have had to do was wait a decent interval after the wedding."

"You would have been interested in an affair?" Northwood said, skeptical but willing to be convinced.

"Of course I would have." She looked wistful. "Once I had the ring on my finger, I could have done anything I wanted. Candover is far too proud to sully his name with divorce, no matter what his wife did. Oh, I would have given him an heir, of course, fair is fair. But after that…" Her smile was infinitely suggestive.

She stood and poured the rest of the wine into Northwood's glass, careful to give him a good look down the low-cut bodice of her dress. Then she sat again and crossed her legs, exposing a fair amount of shapely calf.

"Before we get down to pleasure, could you satisfy my curiosity? I've been wondering what you and Varenne are up to."

Northwood reached over and roughly squeezed her breast. If she had flinched, it might have roused his doubts, so she gave him a sultry smile instead.

Willing to boast of his cleverness again, he said, "We're blowing up the British embassy this afternoon."

Her eyes widened involuntarily. "Is that possible?Surely it would require an enormous amount of gunpowder."

"Actually we're only blowing up one section, but that is where everyone important will be." He slid his hand down the front of her bodice and pinched her nipple.

It took every hard-won shred of control Maggie had not to hit him. Reminding herself how many lives were at stake, she squeezed his knee, as if being mauled by a swine aroused her. "I've heard that all the important meetings are being held in Castlereagh's bedchamber," she said throatily.

"Exactly, and there is a closet directly below. I filled it with gunpowder, and it will explode this afternoon at four o'clock. Nobody will find it, either. I have the key to the closet right here." He patted his jacket pocket smugly.

"Oh, then you'll have to leave soon! I was hoping you could stay." Then, as if the thought had just struck her, she asked, "Won't it be dangerous for you to set off the powder?"

"That's where cleverness was called for," North-wood boasted. 'I set a candle in the closet. When it burns down, it will hit a trail of gunpowder, ignite the boxes and, Boom! Everyone in Castlereagh's bedchamber will be blown to bloody shreds."

Maggie shuddered, then tried to make it appear that she was excited by the idea. "How splendid! I wish that I could have been involved in something as important."

Northwood's eyes raked her. "Oh, really? I thought that you were quite the loyal little British spy."

"Whatever gave you that idea? If you're a girl of no fortune like me, you have to take what money comes. And I've taken it from everyone."

Now that she had learned what was planned, it was time to act, because if she didn't move quickly she would lose the initiative. She got to her feet and stretched provocatively, her arms over her head. His heated gaze followed the sway of her breasts.

"I've done what's needful for money, Oliver." With a rich bedroom chuckle, she gave him her hand. He took it and tugged her onto his lap, exactly as she had expected.

"But some things I do for myself…"

Breathing heavily, he pulled her gown from one shoulder and grabbed her bare breast. She looked deep into his eyes, and finished, "… and this will be pure pleasure." Bending her head for a kiss, she murmured, "Oh, Oliver…"

Then, as his lips crushed into hers, she lifted the china pitcher that she had carefully positioned on the table and smashed it into his head with all her strength.

The impact made a ghastly sound, pulpiness mixed with shattering china, and water cascaded over both of them. Northwood's eyes showed a flash of incredulity before he pitched over sideways, taking the chair and Maggie with him.

The fall knocked the breath from her, but she scrambled up quickly, equally fearful of having killed him and of not having hit hard enough. To her relief, he was unconscious but alive.

Earlier she had disconnected the drapery cords, and she used them to tie his wrists and ankles. Another length secured him to the legs of the heavy table. She also tore a length of fabric from the drapery lining and gagged him.

Then she searched his pockets. Besides the key to her room, he had a ring with several other keys in his coat. Not knowing which was for the closet in the embassy, she took them all.

After unlocking the door, she peered cautiously into the corridor. It was deserted. She gave the black cat pressing against her ankle a quick glance. "Come on,

Rexie darling. We're going to find Robin."

At Silves' cafe Roussaye settled at the table of a man he had served with in Italy, Raoul Fortrand. As soon as he could, he raised the subject of Henri Lemercier.Fortrand spat on the floor. "The swine. He was always a swine, and before his death he proved it."

His pulse speeding up, the general leaned forward. "What was he doing? And for whom?"

Fortrand shrugged. "God knows-something illegal, no doubt. I heard that he was working for Count de Varenne. They say Varenne expected to be prime minister after Talleyrand, and that he was furious when the king picked Richelieu. Maybe Varenne wanted Lemercier to assassinate the new prime minister."

Roussaye thought for a moment. Varenne's estate lay scarcely an hour outside Paris, convenient for plots and prisoners. Perhaps Roussaye was wrong, but his soldier's instinct demanded he investigate, and do it in force.

Rising to his feet, he looked around the cafe at the two dozen men there, many former comrades-in-arms. In a battlefield voice he called, "Mes amis!"

Quiet settled on the room as everyone turned to him.

Roussaye climbed onto his chair so that he could be seen by all. "My friends, I have evil news of a royalist plot against the Duke of Wellington, a soldier second only to Bonaparte himself. They say the Iron Duke will be assassinated, and the Bonapartists will be blamed. Men like us who have faithfully served our country will be persecuted, and France herself may be driven to the brink of civil war."

The silence was absolute. Roussaye looked at the familiar faces: at Moreau, who had lost his arm at Waterloo; at Chabrier, one of the handful of survivors of the disastrous Moscow campaign; at Chamfort, with whom he had shared a billet in Egypt. His voice soft, he said, "We may find the answers, and perhaps even a beautiful lady to rescue, at Chanteuil, the estate of the Count de Varenne. Will you come with me?"

Men began to rise to their feet, coming to him and offering their arms. Pitching his voice above the babble, Roussaye said, "All of you who have horses and weapons, follow me. Together we will make one last ride for France."

Helene Sorel had run two blocks before fatigue and common sense made her slow down. She was sure that Varenne was Le Serpent, and his lack of obvious motive had shielded his activities. But merciful heaven, what should she do now?

As she stood on a corner of Faubourg St. Germain, agonized indecision on her face, the clattering hooves of a passing horse suddenly stopped beside her. She looked up to see Karl von Fehrenbach swinging down from his mount, an uncertain expression on his face.

"Madame Sorel, I'm glad to see you. I have been thinking…" Then he registered her distraught face and said sharply, "What's wrong?"

Logically Helene knew the colonel lived nearby, and it was mere chance that he was passing by. Yet when she looked at his broad, capable shoulders, it was hard not to think that he had been sent by heaven. The colonel was an influential man, and since he knew of her spy work he might believe her story.

After pausing a moment to organize her thoughts, she poured out the story of the conspiracy: the disappearance of the three British agents, her realization that Varenne must be the master plotter, and her belief that Chanteuil contained the answers.

The colonel listened without interrupting, his light blue eyes intent. When Helene came to the end of her story, he swung onto his horse, then extended his hand to her. "There is a Prussian barracks near the St. Cloud road. I will be able to get some men there to search Varenne's estate."

As Helene hesitated, he said impatiently. "To save time, you must come with me and show us the way to Chanteuil. If you are right, there is no time to be wasted."

Helene took his hand, and he lifted her easily onto the horse. As she settled sideways in front of him, she said anxiously, "But if I am wrong?"

"If you are wrong, there are compensations." The grave Prussian colonel did not quite smile, but he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. For the first time since they had met, it was possible to believe that he was really only thirty-four years old, the same age as she.

Helene became abruptly conscious of how close she was to his lean, athletic body, and how warm was the arm that held her steady. For a moment, the serene and worldly widow disappeared, and she blushed like a girl.

This time von Fehrenbach actually did smile. Then he put his heels to the horse, and they were away.