Petals in the Storm

Chapter 5

After Inge had dressed her for the reception, Maggie dismissed the maid and studied her reflection with clinical detachment. She wore a striking coral pink gown that guaranteed that she would be noticed. Gold chains wound around her neck, and her shining hair was twisted into an elaborate knot high on her head.

Thinking that she looked too formal, she loosened a single ringlet. It drifted delicately across the bare skin of one shoulder in a subtle invitation for a man to wonder what it would be like for his lips to trace the same path.

She gave a nod of satisfaction; she had found the perfect balance between lady and trollop.

It wasn't yet eight o'clock, which gave her time to think about Rafe. It was important to understand her feelings before they began their charade, because she found that her emotions fluctuated wildly when she was near him. She kept swinging from exasperation to anger to amusement, and that was dangerous. The project they were undertaking was too important to be endangered by personal issues.

She must not make the mistake of allowing any more kisses. Above all, she must not challenge him, or he would feel compelled to prove his virility. It would be safer to tease a tiger.

Granted, Rafe had acted very badly when he ended their engagement, but she had not been without blame in the affair. He had made amends for that particular sin when he had taken the bodies back to England. It was an odd, generous gesture to make on behalf of a woman he had once claimed to despise. But whatever his motives had been, he had balanced the scales between them.

She would try to pretend they had met just two days before. She would accept him as an attractive, enigmatic man who shared her goal of uncovering a dangerous plot: no more, no less. A pity he was so handsome, because that complicated matters. He was used to getting what he wanted, and he obviously wanted her. Partly, she supposed, it was simply because she was there, and partly because he had not had her all those years ago.

Men were like fishermen; they never forgot the one that got away.

Over the years, she had become very familiar with Rafe's type. A complete lack of response would intrigue him since he was accustomed to women falling into his arms. Therefore, her best approach would be friendliness, tempered with a wistful regret that business prevented her from getting on closer terms with him. That should flatter him enough to salve his ego.

Her reflection looked back at her, cool, glamorous, and self-possessed. That image was her armor in the covert wars she had fought, and it was very effective. Though the features were identical, it was not the face of Margot Ashton, daughter of Colonel Gerald Ashton and fiancee to Rafael Whitbourne.

Maggie felt a wave of sadness. Where had she gone, that impetuous girl who had been so disastrously honest, and who had been so unable to control her temper when it mattered most? Gone to where all youth and innocence went.

Luckily Inge chose that moment to announce that the duke had arrived. Maggie lifted her chin and turned away from her mirror. After living so long among the French, she was developing their deplorable habit of morose philosophizing. Thank God she had been born an Englishwoman, with all the pragmatism of her race.

Looking ridiculously handsome, the duke wore his impeccably tailored black evening clothes with the same graceful unconcern that he would have bestowed on his oldest riding garments. If he was impressed by Maggie's flamboyant appearance, it showed only in the faint lift of a dark brow. As he offered his arm, he murmured, "Is this the same urchin who scrambled out of my bedroom window last night?"

Maggie relaxed as she took his arm. As long as Rafe behaved, it shouldn't be hard to stay on amiable terms with him. "You have urchins in your bedroom, your grace? Of which sex?"

As they stepped out through the door, a hint of a smile played around his mouth. "It was hard to say. Alas, I didn't have the opportunity to investigate more carefully."

His carriage was resplendent in gleaming black and burgundy, the four black horses perfectly matched and the Candover crest lacquered on each door. Rafe handed Maggie in, then settled on the seat opposite as the carriage set off.

As they began clattering through the streets, she said, "You had best call me Magda. I suppose you could use Maggie, since you are English, but never call me Margot. It might raise questions, which could be dangerous."

"It will be hard not to call you Margot, but I'll do my best." He smiled a little. "Strange-when you were English, you had a French name. Now that you are claiming to be Hungarian, you think of yourself as a good British Maggie."

"If only that were the least of my oddities," she replied with an exaggerated sigh.

"Dare I ask what the others are?"

"Not if you value your longevity, your grace," she retorted.

He was unsure what had caused her change of attitude, but it was a relief to find Maggie in this relaxed, teasing mood rather than bristling defensively. "You really must call me Rafe, my dear, since we are supposed to be on terms of intimacy."

"Never fear. I will be so convincing that even you will have trouble remembering that this is a charade." Changing languages, she said, "We should speak French now."

Rafe listened with interest. "Is that French with a Magyar accent that you are speaking?"

"Of course! Am I not a Hungarian countess?" She continued with a different accent. "Of course it's a pity to waste my pure Parisian"-she changed again-"but as long as I don't speak with an English accent, I will not disgrace myself."

It was startling to hear her switch between three different modes of speech. Rafe could tell that the Parisian and English-accented versions were flawless, and was willing to take the Magyar one on faith. "How the devil do you do that?"

"It's a knack I was born with, like musical pitch," she explained. "I can duplicate any accent after hearing it spoken. Once I start using it, I will continue in the same mode until I consciously choose to use another. Here I will restrict myself to Magyar-accented French, since that is how people know me."

"It's quite a gift," he said admiringly, "and it explains why a Prussian, an Italian, and a Frenchman all swore to Lord Strathmore that you were one of their nationals."

"Really?" She laughed. "That shows the drawback of having an ear for languages. It's not good to have too many identities-there's always the risk of meeting someone from an earlier incarnation."

They halted in the line of carriages waiting to discharge passengers in front of the magnificent, torch-lit British embassy. Soon they were among the crowd in the receiving line. The Duke of Wellington had bought the building a year earlier from the Princess Borghese, Napoleon's notorious sister Pauline.

As they progressed down the line, Maggie stood on her toes and whispered seductively into Rafe's ear, "A sculpture of the Princess Borghese was done by the great Canova. When one of her friends asked how she could bear to pose in the nude, she smiled innocently and said that it was no problem at all, because there was a fire in the studio."

Determined to play the game as well as Maggie, Rafe slid his arm under her shawl and caressed the smooth skin of her arm as he murmured, "Were all the stories about the princess true?"

She gave a shiver that he thought was not just acting, then chuckled richly and fluttered her eyelashes. "Very true. They say she conquered as many men as her brother, but her methods were much more… shall we say, intimate?"

As Maggie continued her scandalous commentary, he admired her sparkling eyes and full, kissable lips. Any onlookers would see them as a perfect tableau of intoxicated new lovers. It was easy to be convincing since he had been simmering ever since that maddening, delicious kiss the day before.

He guided her forward with a hand at the back of her slim waist. After exchanging greetings with Wellington, the Castlereaghs, and other dignitaries, they joined the chattering crowd in the main reception hall. Maggie stayed close, one hand tucked in Rafe's elbow as they made their way around the room.

He knew most of the British aristocrats present, and she seemed to know everyone else, for there were numerous salutations and kisses for the dearest countess. The better part of an hour was spent in meeting people and sipping champagne.

Rafe noticed how men examined him with curiosity or envy, trying to determine how he had won such an enchanting creature. It was equally amusing to see how women studied him, and then gave Maggie the same kind of glance.

How did Maggie contrive to look so exotic and un-English? Certainly she had those bold Eastern cheekbones, and she used her hands with Continental verve, but it was more than that.

When she pressed against him in the crush, he caught a haunting whiff of the scent she wore. It explained part of her aura; not for her the delicate floral fragrances of England. Instead, she wore a complex, spicy blend that hinted of silk roads and Persian gardens. Scent was a primitive but powerful form of identification, and to be around her was to think of the mysteries of the Orient.

Maggie was as convincing as she had promised; she almost had Rafe himself believing that they were engaged in a torrid affair. The coral silk dress caressed her magnificent figure so lovingly that he desired to do the same. When her smoky, laughing eyes met his, or when she snuggled against him, he was tempted to whisper that it was time they sought a place of greater privacy. He would have suggested that to any other woman who made his blood race as she did; more than once he had to remind himself that this was only a charade.

When he looked away in an attempt to cool his rampaging male urges, he saw that there was a method to the way Maggie was steering him across the room. Though she stopped to introduce Rafe frequently, they drew ever closer to a tall man in the uniform of a Prussian colonel.

The colonel stood unmoving in a circle of silence, his back against the wall. His blond hair was so fair that it appeared almost white in the candlelight. He would have been handsome if his face hadn't held chilly distaste for the people around him. Occasionally he nodded to someone, but he made no attempt to join in the frivolity.

Rafe said quietly, "That's von Fehrenbach?"

"Yes." When she turned her face up to reply, their lips almost met, and she flinched away from him.

Ignoring that brief, telltale withdrawal, he asked, "Do you know him?"

"Not really. I was introduced to him once, but he avoids most social gatherings. He wouldn't be here tonight if this affair wasn't in honor of Marshal Blucher."

When they were close enough, Maggie gushed, "Colonel von Fehrenbach! What a pleasure to see you again." Extending her hand, she said, "I am Countess Janos. We met at the last Russian review of troops, you'll recall."

The colonel didn't look as if he remembered, but he bowed politely over her hand. As he straightened and got a better look at the plunging coral neckline of her gown, his expression thawed a little. Rafe was glad to see that the man was human.

When Maggie introduced her companion, the colonel gave a slight, stiff bow. Rafe felt chilled when he looked into von Fehrenbach's pale blue eyes. The colonel looked as if he had gone into hell, and not come all the way back.

Maggie glanced across the room at Prince Blucher. "What a privilege it must be to serve the field marshal. We shall not see another like him."

Von Fehrenbach nodded gravely. "Indeed. He is the bravest and most honorable of men."

Artlessly she continued, "Such a pity that people do not fully appreciate the part he played at Waterloo. For all of Wellington's brilliance, who knows what might have happened if Marshal Bliicher hadn't arrived when he did?"

Rafe wondered if Maggie might be overdoing her enthusiasm, but von Fehrenbach was regarding her with definite approval.

"You're very perceptive, Countess. Wellington had never faced the emperor before, and it is not impossible that Napoleon might have turned defeat into victory."

Rafe felt a prickle of chauvinistic irritation. Wellington had never been defeated in his entire career, and the battle of Waterloo had already been won by the time Bliicher had arrived at seven in the evening. However, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Still admiring, Maggie continued. "They say the marshal was told he would never reach Wellington in time, and that he should not even try."

"That is true," the colonel confirmed with signs of animation. "But the marshal refused to listen to such talk. Though ill, he led the march, swearing that he had given his word to Wellington, and nothing in heaven or hell would stop him."

"Were you with him?"

"I had that honor. The marshal was an inspiration, a true soldier and a man of complete integrity." Von Fehrenbach's eyes chilled. "Not like these wretched lying French."

Maggie gestured vaguely. "Surely not all the French are devoid of honor."

"No? With a king who fled his own capital and slunk back in the baggage train of the Allies? With turncoats like Talleyrand leading them?" The colonel's words began to spill out in an angry torrent. "France rose up behind the Corsican when he returned from Elba, and she deserves to be punished. Her lands should be divided and given to other nations, her people humiliated, her very name wiped from the map of Europe."

Rafe was startled by von Fehrenbach's intensity. The colonel was clearly a dangerous man, quite capable of destroying any Frenchmen that crossed his path.

Maggie said softly, "Have we not learned anything in two thousand years? Shall there be only vengeance, with no place for forgiveness?"

"You are a woman," the colonel said with a dismissive shrug. "It is not to be expected that you would understand such things."

Deciding that he had been silent long enough, Rafe interjected, "I do not suffer from the countess's failing in that regard, but I agree with her that vengeance may not be the best course. To humiliate a losing opponent is to make an implacable enemy. It's better to help him rise and keep his dignity."

The cold blue eyes shifted from Maggie to Rafe. "You English and your obsession with sportsmanship and fair play," he said with contempt. "That is all very well with boxing and games, but we are talking about war. It was the French who taught my people what we know about savagery and destruction, and it is a lesson we have learned well. Would you be so fair-minded if your lands had been burned, your family murdered?"

The other man's obvious anguish caused Rafe to back away from what he might have said. "I would like to think that I would try, but I don't know if I would be successful."

The tension eased and von Fehrenbach retreated behind his impassive mask. "I am glad to hear you admit doubt. Every other Briton in Paris seems to think he has all the answers."

It could have been taken as an insult, but Rafe let the comment pass. He touched the back of Maggie's right arm, silently questioning whether it was time they left.

Before either of the three could move, a woman joined them. She was small, with a sweetly pretty face framed in soft waves of brown hair. Her rounded body was more sensual than elegant, but her blue satin gown showed the unmistakable style of a Frenchwoman.

"Helene, my dear, you are looking very well. It has been too long," Maggie said warmly.

After a swift glance at the colonel, the newcomer kissed Maggie's cheek. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Magda. I've only just returned to the city." Her voice had the same sweetness as her face.

Maggie introduced her to the two men as Madame Sorel. After offering her hand to Rafe, the Frenchwoman turned to the Prussian. "Colonel von Fehrenbach and I are acquainted."

The colonel's face pokered up even more, if that was possible. In a voice that could only be described as forbidding, he said, "Indeed we are."

Sensing the tension, Rafe wondered if Maggie knew what lay between her friend and the Prussian.

Before Madame Sorel could reply, von Fehrenbach said, "If you will excuse me, I must attend Marshal Blucher. Ladies, your grace." He nodded, then made his escape.

As she watched the ramrod-straight back vanish into the crowd, Maggie exclaimed, "Good heavens, Helene, what did you do to that man to make him bolt like a cavalryman?"

Madame Sorel shrugged, the movement causing a charming ripple of curves. "Nothing. I have met him several times at various functions. He always glares at me as if I were Napoleon himself, then walks away.Who knows what might be on his mind? Except that he has no use for anything or anyone French."

Studying her friend with shrewdly narrowed eyes, Maggie said, "But he is a fine figure of a man, no?"

Helene said dryly, "He is not a man, he is a Prussian." After exchanging a few more remarks, she took her leave with a charming smile.

Rafe watched her swaying walk with male appreciation. When she was out of earshot, he asked, "What was going on there that I did not understand?"

"I'm not sure," Maggie said thoughtfully, "though I might hazard a guess." Glancing up at him, she said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

As she headed for the ladies' retiring room, Rafe compared her walk with Madam Sorel's, and decided that while the Frenchwoman was well worth watching, it was amazing Maggie didn't have crowds of men following her down the street.

His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the regrettable Oliver Northwood. "Congratulations, Candover, you're a fast worker. Three days in Paris and you've captured the countess." Northwood's words were jovial, but his beefy face was malicious. "Not that she's hard to capture, for a man who has the price."

Turning to give Northwood his most frigid stare, Rafe said, "I thought you were unacquainted with the lady."

"After you told me her name, I made inquiries. No one knows much except that she's a widow, she's received everywhere, and she has expensive tastes." He winked meaningfully. "She's very good at getting others to pay for her pleasures."

Rafe should have buried his fist in Northwood's gut. Instead, to his disgust, he found himself asking, "What else did you learn about her?"

"She's said to be worth every penny of her price, but then, you would know that better than I, wouldn't you?"

It was the vulgarity that disturbed him, Rafe decided. After all, Maggie was a spy, and what better way to get men to talk than over a pillow? She had to support herself, and it was doubtful that the British government paid her enough to maintain that house or that wardrobe. Behaving like any other highborn tart who expected jewels in return for her favors was a splendid way of concealing her deeper purposes.

Odd how it was easier to think Maggie was a whore than to believe she would betray her country.

Maggie was seated at one of the mirrored vanity tables when the only other lady in the retiring room said in English-accented French, "Isn't Candover a splendid lover?'

Maggie swiveled around in astonishment to stare at the young woman sitting at the neighboring vanity table. In her chilliest tone, she said, "I beg your pardon."

"I'm sorry, that was dreadfully forward of me," the girl said remorsefully. "But I saw you with Candover and it seemed from the way you were acting that, well…" She finished with a vague wave of her hand. Her face was flushed, as if she was only now realizing how outrageous her comment had been.

Amusement replaced Maggie's irritation. "I assume from your comment that you have personal experience of his grace's skills?"

The girl ducked her head in agreement. She must be at least twenty-five, not really a girl, but her guileless air made her seem younger. "My name is Cynthia Northwood. Rafe was… very kind to me earlier in my marriage, when I needed kindness."

Intrigued, Maggie asked, "And now your marriage is better and you longer need kindness?"

"No," Cynthia said, her wide brown eyes hardening, "now my marriage is nothing to me, and I have found kindness elsewhere."

Maggie sighed inwardly. It was one of the curses and blessings of her life that people felt compelled to tell her their innermost secrets. Even total strangers like this artless chit seemed to assume that she would offer good advice, or at least an understanding ear.

A talent for getting people to talk was an asset to a spy, but did she really want to hear about the Duke of Candover's amorous prowess from his former mistresses? In an effort to head off more confidences, she said, "I am Magda, Countess Janos, but perhaps you know that already."

"Oh, yes, everyone seems to know you. I've been admiring you since you came in. You have such presence. You and Rafe are the handsomest couple here. He seemed so absorbed in you, not like he is with most women."

How could one be insulted by such a naive tribute? Nonetheless, Maggie said severely, "Mrs. Northwood, don't you know how improper such remarks are?"

Cynthia flushed again. "My wretched tongue! My mother died when I was very small, and my father always encouraged me to speak my mind in the most unladylike manner. And… and my friend Major Brewer likes it, too. He says I'm not missish, like most women. Truly, I mean no insult," she said earnestly. "But I am very fond of Rafe, and he looked happy with you. I don't think he is happy very often."

Intrigued against her better judgment, Maggie said, "Surely Candover has everything a man could want: birth, wealth, intelligence, enough charm and address for three men. What makes you think he is not happy?"

"He always seems a little bored. Perfectly polite, but not really caring about what he does. Of course," she added sadly, "perhaps that was just how he was with me. I know he never thought I was interesting, I was nowhere near intelligent enough for him. He only got involved with me because he had nothing better to do at the time."

Maggie listened to Cynthia's speech with horrified fascination and a certain respect. Perhaps there was more to the girl than had been first apparent. "Mrs. Northwood, you really should not say such things to a stranger."

"No, I shouldn't. But I have been doing wrong things ever since I arrived in Paris, and I have every intention of getting worse before I get better." With a lift of her chin, she added, "Countess Janos, I am sincerely sorry if I have embarrassed you. I hope you will believe that I wish both you and the Duke of Candover well. I wish everyone well, except my husband."

Then she left, not without a certain dignity.

Maggie shook her head as she thought over the strange conversation. If ever she had seen a young woman headed for trouble, it was Cynthia Northwood.