Petals in the Storm

Chapter 3

After Maggie swept from the room, Rafe released a long, exhausted breath. For years he had cherished romantic memories of the girl he had loved and lost, with occasional speculations about what might have been. It was jarring to have that nostalgia shattered by the very real presence of the former beloved, now alive, impudent, and dismayingly competent.

He finished his wine, then set the glass on the sideboard. For all the haunting flashes of Margot Ashton, this woman was a stranger, hardened and unpredictable in ways he would never understand. The girl he had loved no longer existed, and he wasn't at all sure he liked this Maggie with her cool, polished surface and her prickliness. She acted as if he had been the one to betray her so many years ago, not vice versa.

He sighed and stood up. Most truths had more than one aspect; perhaps her memories of the incident were different from his. It didn't matter now. It takes youth to risk the appalling dangers of total love, and Rafe knew that he was no longer capable of that.

But he had been wrong on one point; he had thought no woman could be as desirable as his memories of Margot. As it turned out, she was even more alluring than he remembered. It had been difficult to keep his hands to himself even when she was spitting insults.

As he stepped into the corridor to return to the ball, he reminded himself that he was not in Paris to romance her, reminisce with her, or to make childish taunts, no matter how great the provocation. What mattered was the conference, and the lives of the men who were trying to build a lasting peace.

Before proceeding to her next rendezvous, Maggie stepped into a dark side passage for a moment to regroup her forces. Leaning against the wall and closing her eyes, she mentally went through the profanity that she knew fluently in five languages.

Damn Robin for talking her into meeting the Duke of Candover, damn Rafe Whitbourne both for his impenetrable coolness, and for that shattering kiss that proved that Margot was not as dead as Maggie had thought. Most of all, she damned herself for the faint, irrepressible anticipation she felt at the thought of seeing him again.

She reminded herself furiously that a kiss meant nothing to him. He must have participated in hundreds over the years. Probably not hundreds but thousands.

Which was why he was so very good at kissing…

The thought revived her fury. She was all the way down to Slovakian curses before she could laugh at herself and resume her journey. Her destination was another assignation room, a near-twin of the one she had just left. She entered without knocking and found Robin sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand, for all the world like a lover eagerly awaiting a lady. Which was, after all, more or less the truth.

He started to rise, but she waved him back. "No need to get up." She moved his feet from the sofa so she could sit down next to him, wanting the comfort of his familiar presence.

As he interpreted her expression, the look of fatuous vacuity he cultivated changed to amused intelligence. "Dare I ask how your confrontation with the duke came out?"

She sighed. "You and he win. I'll be staying through the end of the peace conference, no matter how long it takes."

Robin gave a soft whistle of surprise. "How did Candover accomplish that? If he has found some miraculous technique to persuade you, I should ask him what it is."

Maggie chuckled and patted his hand. "Don't bother, my dear. His method was not one that anyone else could use." Her brief amusement faded. "He happened to be in France when my father and Willis were killed, and he arranged to take the bodies back to England. They have been buried at my uncle's estate the last dozen years."

Robin looked at her narrowly. While it was good that she was staying, this new fact suggested a myriad of interesting questions. How well had Maggie known the duke, and were there implications here that might affect his own plans? Keeping those thoughts to himself, he asked, "Is it possible that he lied about that, to convince you to stay here?"

Maggie was startled by the question; it had never occurred to her to doubt Rafe's word. She did not pause to reconsider before shaking her head. "No, he's one of your proper English gentlemen, without enough imagination to lie."

Robin grinned, looking irresistibly boyish. "Haven't I convinced you yet that not all Englishmen are gentlemen?"

"You, Robin, are sui generis, absolutely one of a kind. The fact that you are English is a mere accident of birth." Maggie smiled at him affectionately. In spite of all his strenuous objections to the contrary, Robin was completely a gentleman, more so than Rafe Whitbourne had proved to be.

Over the years she had often wondered about Robin's background. She suspected that he was the illegitimate son of a noble house, raised and educated among gentlemen but forever an outsider in the ranks of polite society. That would explain why he showed no desire to return to his native land. But she had never asked for confirmation, and Robin had never volunteered. Though in many ways they were very close, some subjects were not discussed.

"Your suggestion to tantalize the duke with my irresistible body was a dead loss, by the way," she added wryly. "It wouldn't have mattered if I were as beautiful as Helen of Troy, or as ugly as Madame de Stael. The duke's noble mind is above such crass matters as lust, at least when he is engaged on His Britannic Majesty's business." His kiss, after all, had only been a way to confirm her identity.

"He merely has superhuman control. Seeing you in that gown tempts me to lock the door and overpower you with kisses myself."

Maggie glanced away, not wanting to deal with what lay beneath his teasing tone. "Before I return to England, I'm going to acquire an entire wardrobe of gowns that come up to my throat. It's tedious to have men always talking to one's chest rather than one's face."

Serious again, Robin said, "Why did Candover do something as extraordinary as returning your father's body to England? It must have been very difficult to arrange."

"I imagine it was." Maggie was reluctant to tell even Robin her history with the duke. Choosing part of the truth, she said, "He and my father were friends." Before Robin could inquire further, she went on, "For your sins, you can now learn about the urgent project Candover dropped onto our plates."

Succinctly she outlined what Rafe had said about a possible plot hidden in Parisian diplomatic circles. At the end, she produced the paper Lord Strathmore had sent, and she and Robin read it together.

"If Strathmore is right, this is deadly serious," Robin said soberly. "There have been other conspiracies, but always by insignificant people far from the centers of power. This plot looks different."

"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I can already think of several names to put behind this conspiracy."

"So can I, all men who will be impossible to accuse without rock-solid proof, even if we were sure ourselves."

"After you and I have both checked with our informants, it may reduce the number of possibilities."

"Or it may increase them. All we can do is get to work and hope for the best." He glanced at the letter again. "You're disobeying orders-according to this, you should have nothing to do with anyone in the delegation save Castlereagh and Wellington. What if I'm Strathmore's weak link?"

"Nonsense," she retorted. "He means the regular delegation, not you. You've worked with Strathmore longer than I have."

As Robin got to his feet, he shook his head with mock sorrow. "I see that all my lessons have been wasted. How many times have I told you not to trust anyone, even me?"

"If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Yourself, of course. I'll leave first. Shall I come by tomorrow night so we can discuss our findings?"

She nodded and watched him don his low-level diplomat's face. Every delegation was cursed with junior officers who had better family connections than wits, and Robin looked like one of those: ineffectual and too handsome to have a brain. In reality, of course, he had a mind like Saracen steel, highly polished and razor sharp. It was he who had taught her how to gather and analyze facts that might be of value, as well as how to cover her own tracks and avoid suspicion.

But he was wrong on one count, she thought as she prepared to return to the ball. At the moment, she was not at all sure she could trust herself. Her life was no longer entirely under her own control, and she didn't like it one bit.

Downstairs, the ball churned on exactly as Rafe had left it, with too many costumes, scents, and languages struggling for notice. Seeing nothing that encouraged him to stay, he started working his way across the room toward the exit.

Because of the crowd, he had no warning before coming face-to-face with Oliver Northwood. Rafe was hard-pressed to conceal his shock. Bloody hell, it only needed this!

The other man did not share his feelings. "Candover!" Northwood said jovially. "Splendid to see you. I had no idea you were in Paris, but of course, half the ton has come over. Too many years trapped on our island, don't you know."

He laughed heartily at his own wit and offered his hand, which Rafe accepted without enthusiasm.

Northwood was a beefy blond man of medium height, a younger son of Lord Northwood and almost a caricature of the hearty country squire. The first year that Rafe had been on the town, when his closest friends were still at Oxford, he had moved in the same circles as Northwood. Though not close, they had been on amiable terms, until Northwood's disastrous role in ending Rafe's engagement. Rafe knew it was irrational to blame the other man for what had happened, but he had done his best to avoid him ever since.

Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid him now. "Good evening, Northwood," Rafe said with what patience he could muster. "Have you been in Paris long?"

"I'm with the British delegation, been here since July. M'father thought I should get some diplomatic experience." Northwood shook his head mournfully. "Wants me to settle down and take a seat in Parliament, make myself useful, y'know."

Parisian diplomatic circles were small, so they would be running into each other often. Rafe resigned himself to being civil. "Is your wife here with you?"

He was unprepared for the ugly glint that came into Northwood's eyes as he looked across the room. "Oh, Cynthia's here. A sociable female like her wouldn't miss the opportunity to… make so many new acquaintances."

Following the direction of the glance, Rafe saw Cynthia Northwood at the edge of the ballroom, in earnest conversation with a dark, handsome British infantry major. Even at this distance Rafe could see how absorbed they were in each other, as if they were alone instead of in the midst of a crowd.

Knowing better than to comment, Rafe returned his gaze to Oliver Northwood and decided to start gathering information. "How are the negotiations going?"

Northwood shrugged. "Hard to say. Castlereagh plays everything very close to his chest, y'know, don't let us underlings do much except copy documents. But I'm sure you've heard that the first problem-what to do with Napoleon-has been taken care of. They were thinking of exiling him to Scotland, but decided it was too close to Europe."

"St. Helena should be far enough away to reduce the opportunities for mischief. But one can't help thinking that it would have been simpler if Marshal Blucher had been able to capture Bonaparte and shoot him out of hand, as he wanted to."

Northwood laughed. "It certainly would have, but once the emperor surrendered to the British, we were stuck with preserving his wretched hide."

"One has to admire the man's effrontery, not to mention his cunning," Rafe agreed. "After calling Britain the most powerful, steadfast, and generous of his enemies, there was no way the Prince Regent could throw him to the wolves, even though most of the British people would cheerfully see Boney in hell."

"Instead, he retires at British expense to an island that is supposed to have one of the best climates in the world. Still, if he'd stayed on Elba I wouldn't be here in Paris now." Northwood gave a man-to-man chuckle. "It certainly is true what they say about the Parisian ladies, isn't it, Candover?"

Rafe gave one of his coldest stares. "I've only just arrived and have no opinion on the subject."

Immune to the setdown, Northwood glanced toward a side door in time to see Maggie return to the ball, her golden hair shimmering above the provocative green gown. She looked every inch the highborn trollop. Northwood stared, his jaw slack. "Say, would you look at that blond doxy! Must have been upstairs with some lucky devil. Think I'd have any success if I asked her for an encore?"

It took Rafe a moment to register that Northwood was referring to Maggie. He had never thought of her as blond, a word that conjured up thoughts of pale anemic maidens. Maggie's glowing cream-and-gold vitality was too vivid for such an insipid description. When he did realize who Northwood meant, Rafe felt a powerful urge to use his fists to wipe the smirk off his companion's face.

He held his breath until the impulse faded, then said, "I doubt it. I met the lady earlier, and she struck me as particular in her tastes."

The implied insult also bounced off Northwood's impenetrable skin. "Tell me about her." He frowned as Maggie disappeared into a clump of Austrian officers. "You know, she looks familiar, but I can't quite remember…" He snapped his fingers. "That's it! She reminds me of an English girl I knew years ago. Margaret, no, Margot, something."

Rafe's stomach turned. "Do you mean Miss Margot Ashton?"

"Yes, she's the one. You were after her yourself, weren't you? Was she as good as she looked?" The coarse laugh left no doubt about the kind of relationship that Northwood assumed Rafe had had with Margot.

Rafe took another deep breath. Had Northwood always been this vulgar, or had he gotten worse with the years? Icily he said, "I wouldn't know. I barely remember Miss Ashton. Didn't she die a year or so after her come-out?" He made a pretense of studying Maggie. "I suppose there is some resemblance between them, but the lady you are admiring is Hungarian- Magda, the Countess Janos."

"Hungarian, eh? I've never had a Hungarian. Will you introduce me?"

Deciding that if he didn't leave in the next ten seconds, he would do Northwood serious bodily harm, Rafe said, "Unfortunately I have a pressing engagement, but I'm sure you can find some other mutual acquaintance. If you will excuse me…?" He was on the point of escaping when someone latched on to his right arm. With a sense of tired inevitability, he looked down into Cynthia Northwood's wide brown eyes.

"Rafe!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you here. Will you be staying in Paris for a while?"

Cynthia was an attractive young woman with dark curls, a heart-shaped face, and an expression of misleading innocence. Her firm grip prevented Rafe's escape. Besides, she had been his mistress for a time and they had parted amiably, so he could hardly repulse ler.

"Yes, I've taken apartments and intend to stay through the autumn, perhaps longer." Gently he disengaged his arm. "Pray have a thought for my valet. He is so protective of my coats that I'm surprised he actually lets me wear them."

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "It comes from being in Paris, you know. People are so much more demonstrative here. I'm afraid it is contagious."

"Is that your excuse?" her husband asked nastily.

Rafe felt the tension as the two glared at each other. Knowing that he absolutely must escape before they started a public scene of the sort he most detested, he made the barest of farewells, then slid away into the crowd. This time he made sure that no one could catch his eye.

Outside in the warm night air, he gave a sigh of relief. Since it was still early, he decided to dismiss his carriage and walk back to his hotel. It would be interesting to see what Napoleon had done to the city. More important, he needed time to get his disordered thoughts under control.

First Margot-it was still hard to think of her as Maggie-whose very presence was a disruption and a reminder of things best forgotten. And as if that wasn't enough, the Northwoods. The evening might have been designed by the devil in a farcical mood.

But it was hard to be amused by a farce that made him feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. As he walked unseeing toward the Tuileries, events came back to him with the clarity of yesterday rather than thirteen years before.

He had loved Margot Ashton with uncritical adoration, awed and humble that a girl who could have her choice of London's most eligible men had chosen him. They had behaved discreetly in public since their engagement had been unannounced, but he had spent every possible moment with her. She had seemed as happy in his company as he was in hers.

Then had come that fatal bachelor party in June. He could remember the name of every young man in the group that night, could recall with excruciating accuracy how Oliver Northwood had drunkenly described relieving a girl of her unwanted virginity in the garden during a ball some days earlier. Rafe had scarcely paid attention, until the end, when Northwood had let slip the girl's name: Margot Ashton.

Most of the young men were admirers of Margot, and after a stunned moment, one of them had shushed Northwood, saying that it was ungentlemanly to speak so of a young lady. But the damage had already been done.

No one present knew of the engagement, so they thought nothing of it when Rafe excused himself a few minutes later. The green tinge of his face was attributed to the quantity of claret he had drunk, and he was forgotten as soon as he left the room.

Outside, Rafe had made it no farther than the street when he fell to his knees and began retching. Feeling as if his very guts would spew out, he thought of Margot's body under that drunken sot, her full lips kissing his, her long legs entwined…

The vision had burned on his brain with nauseating clarity. He had no idea how long it was before someone said, "You all right, lad? I'll call a chair for you." The Samaritan helped him to his feet, but Rafe had refused further aid, heading blindly down the street as if he could outrun his imagination.

He had spent the rest of the night walking the streets of London, heedless of his direction. More than once lurkers in the shadows considered the richness of his attire, balanced it against the expression on his face, and decided to let him continue unmolested on his journey. The young gentleman might be worth a pretty penny, but his dead gray eyes threatened disaster to any thief foolish enough to try to collect it.

Inevitably, he had ended up at Margot's house early the next morning, just before she left for her dawn ride. They had not planned to meet, but he had joined her unannounced before.

She had greeted him with delight despite his disheveled evening attire. An emerald-colored veil had floated over her wheat gold hair as she danced across the salon for a welcoming kiss, her changeable eyes green in the early morning, her laughing face brimming with life.

Rafe had pulled violently away, unable to bear her touch. Then he told her what he had learned, heaping abuse on her golden head. He knew her passionate nature, and only his idealistic desire to bring her a virgin to the marriage bed had prevented him from taking what she had so casually given to another man.

How many others had there been? She was much sought after; had he been the only one too foolish to sample her luscious flesh? Had she accepted his offer among so many only because he was heir to a dukedom? On those early morning rides, could he have mounted her as well as his stallion if he had had the temerity to ask?

Margot made no attempt to deny it. Had she offered the feeblest of defenses, he would have grasped it with craven gratitude. If she had wept and begged his forgiveness, he would have granted it, even knowing that he would never be able to trust her again.

He would have beggared himself of his whole life's pride if she had given him the barest reason to do so.

She had merely listened, her creamy complexion turning dead white. She did not even ask the name of the man who had revealed her wantonness-perhaps there were so many men that it didn't matter. Instead, she had said calmly that it was fortunate that they had discovered each other's true natures before it was too late.

Her reaction had been a death knell, for Rafe had been unable to suppress a desperate hope that the story was untrue. In that instant, something in him had withered and died.

Though they were not officially engaged, he had given her a Whitbourne heirloom ring, which she wore on a chain around her neck. When she finished speaking, she pulled it from between her breasts, breaking the gold links in her eagerness to be free. Then she had hurled the ring to the floor at Rafe's feet with such force that the large opal cracked.

Murmuring that she did not wish to keep her horse standing any longer in the cool air, she had walked out with her head held high, no emotion visible. He had never seen her again. Within days, she and her father had taken advantage of the newly negotiated Peace of Amiens and left for the Continent.

As the months passed, Rafe's fury and sense of betrayal were gradually overcome by his longing for Margot. He found himself waiting with hope and pain for the Ashtons to return to England. After almost a year of agonizing, he had gone to France, determined to find her again. If he had succeeded, he would have begged her to marry him.

Then in Paris the news had come that it was forever too late. The only thing he could do to make amends was bringing the bodies of her and her father back to England.

As time passed, Rafe had convinced himself that it was fortunate that she had died before he could abase himself to her. The thought of being married to a woman before whom he was so helpless was not a pleasant one.

The Seasons and the Beauties had come and gone since then, and few remembered the glorious Margot Ashton who had been so briefly the toast of London. Rafe had learned to take his pleasures from the skilled and willing married women of his set, kissing lightly and letting go gracefully. Not for him the tawdry problems of getting birds of paradise out of the lovenest when they were loath to go; he saw no reason for a man to pay for a mistress when there were so many volunteers available for the price of a few compliments and an occasional bauble.

Rafe had taken particular pleasure in cuckolding Oliver Northwood. Cynthia Browne had been a pretty, happy girl, the daughter of a prosperous country squire. It had been considered an excellent match for her to marry the younger son of a lord. Oliver had been attractive in a bluff, blond way, and she had not realized the kind of man she was getting.

After learning of her husband's gambling, drunkenness, and whoring, she had bitterly decided to play the same game. Though she was not promiscuous by nature, she had started taking lovers of her own. It was tragic, really; with a loving husband she would have been a devoted wife and mother. Instead, she gave herself to any man who wanted her.

Rafe had been quite willing to oblige. Not only was Cynthia attractive, but the affair fulfilled an ignoble desire for revenge. Though Northwood would never know how his indiscretion had shattered Rafe's life, there was still satisfaction in paying the man back by bedding Northwood's wife.

The affair had not lasted long, for Cynthia's desperation had made Rafe uncomfortable. He had disengaged himself gracefully, as he was so skilled at doing. In the years since, he had sometimes seen Cynthia socially, and been pleased to see her regain her equilibrium, no longer holding herself cheaply.

There had been recent rumors linking her with a soldier, perhaps the major she had been talking with at the ball. Rafe wondered if she really loved the man, or if she was using him as still another weapon in her war with her husband.

Her tactics seemed to be working. Oliver Northwood was apparently the sort of man who would chase anything in skirts, but was enraged when his wife claimed the same freedom to amuse herself. One of them would probably end up murdering the other.

As he went up the steps to his hotel, Rafe swore that he would not let himself get caught in their crossfire. Paris promised to be unpleasant enough without that.