Petals in the Storm

Chapter 6

Rafe was quite capable of administering a setdown that would dismiss even so thick-skinned an oaf as Oliver Northwood, but he refrained. Northwood was obviously waiting in hopes of an introduction to Countess Janos, and Rafe had a perverse, unhealthy desire to see how Maggie would react when unexpectedly confronted with her first lover. Assuming that Northwood had been the first, as he had claimed.

With his advantage of height, Rafe could see Maggie making her way through the swirling crowd, pausing sometimes to greet acquaintances. It was all casual, until she stopped to talk with a fair-haired man in the center of the room.

Ordinarily Rafe would have thought nothing of it, but his perceptions had been heightened by his present mission. For a moment Maggie's social mask slipped and intense concentration showed on her face. Then she continued her progress.

The fair-haired man had his back to Rafe, but when Maggie moved away, he turned to gaze after her. With surprise, Rafe identified Robert Anderson, the British embassy underling who had introduced Rafe to the mysterious lady spy. Lucien had told Maggie not to deal with anyone in the delegation except the men at the top, so why had she been talking to Anderson with such earnestness?

Rafe wished he could remember who Anderson reminded him of. The fellow had struck Rafe as negligible on their first meeting, but when he had looked after Maggie, there had been an expression of shrewd capability on his face.

As a smiling Maggie came to his side, Rafe wondered if this foray into spying was making him overly fanciful. Soon he would be suspecting everyone and everything. No wonder Maggie had been prickly and suspicious in their first meetings. After years in the shadowy world of intelligence gathering, she must have forgotten what normal life was like.

Maggie laid one hand on Rafe's arm and raised her smoky eyes to his. "Are you ready to leave, mon cher?" Things are sadly flat here, and I can offer better amusement at home."

"Anywhere you wish to go, Magda, my love." Rafe covered her hand with his own. "But first, let me introduce you to an admirer. This is Oliver Northwood, of the British delegation. Northwood, Countess Janoes."

Maggie's control was admirable. Though Rafe watched her closely, her only visible reaction to Northwood was a faint tightening of her lips. Of course, she probably knew that he was in Paris and that they would meet sooner or later, so she had mentally prepared for this encounter.

Or had she had so many lovers that the first meant nothing? Very few of Rafe's old mistresses could have disconcerted him. Why should Maggie be any different?

Why indeed, except that he wanted her to be different?

Northwood bowed and said ingratiatingly, "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Countess. I have indeed been admiring you from afar."

Maggie acknowledged his words with a cool nod. It had taken her several moments to recognize him. As a young man he had not been without a certain boisterous charm, but the years had coarsened him. Or rather, his actions over time had indelibly shaped his face. His eyes reminded her of slugs-cold, damp, and slimy. She did not offer her hand.

He must be Cynthia Northwood's husband. Poor Cynthia. She would have been too young and innocent to realize the kind of man she was marrying.

Northwood said with heavy gallantry, "Our little northern island is incapable of producing beauties such as you."

From the twitch of Rafe's lips, Maggie gathered that he was amused by the wrongheadedness of Northwood's compliment. Smiling sweetly, she said, "You are too hard on your countrywomen, Mr. Northwood. I have just met one who is the fairest of English roses. Such a lovely complexion, and such a forthright manner!" Drawing her brows together, she added, "But surely she said her name was Northwood, Cynthia Northwood?"

His expression soured. "My wife is held to be a good-looking female."

"You are too modest on her behalf, monsieur." Smiling brilliantly, she continued, "It's been a pleasure to meet you. I trust our paths will cross again. But now we must be leaving."

Deftly she removed Rafe and herself from the reception.

When they were safely alone in his carriage, Rafe said with sardonic admiration, "It's an education to watch you work, whether you're coaxing a man to talk, or depressing his aspirations."

"Mr. Northwood is a common type. Unfortunately." She carefully peeled off her long gloves. "His wife offered her felicitations on my choice of lovers."

Rafe sighed inwardly. Though he had always rather enjoyed Cynthia's forthrightness, he wished she had held her tongue this time. "I'm sure she meant well."

By this time thoroughly tired of the Northwoods, he asked, "What does your intuition tell you about Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

In the brief flare of a streetlamp, he saw a grave expression on Maggie's face. "It should be obvious why we consider him a major suspect. What were your impressions?"

"He certainly hates the French enough to be dangerous, and with his military background he would be a skilled, formidable adversary. And yet"-Rafe paused, trying to define his perceptions-"he makes no attempt to disguise his feelings. Surely a conspirator would be more circumspect?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," she said reflectively. "He might be so angry that he wouldn't care what happened to him after he accomplished his goal."

"Do you think he is our man?"

The silence was so long that Rafe wondered if she was going to answer. With a hint of steel in his voice, he said, "Maggie, for the sake of our mission I will let you drag me around like a fur muff to disguise your interrogations, but do not treat me like a backward child when we are alone. Like it or not, we are in this together, and there is a greater likelihood of success if we share our information and surmises."

"Is that a threat, your grace?" Her voice was lightly mocking. "If I don't choose to lay bare my thoughts, will you beat me until I change my mind?"

"I have a better way of persuading you than that," he replied with deliberate ambiguity.

"If Cynthia Northwood was correct in her praise of your abilities, I suppose that means you intend to overpower my feeble female brain with kisses." The sarcasm was blistering.

"Not at all. All I have to do is appeal to your sense of fairness, the inbred Achilles heel of Britain."

After a moment of surprised silence, she laughed out loud. "Rafe, your talents are wasted. You should have become a negotiator like Castlereagh. You certainly know how to take advantage of an opponent."

"We are not opponents," he pointed out. "We are partners."

"I must admit that I have trouble remembering that." She paused, then said, "Despite von Fehrenbach's anger, I don't think he is our man. He's not the sort to plot in secret; he would think it ignoble. He might walk up to Talleyrand and shoot him in the heart, but I doubt that he would lower himself to conspire with others. Though the colonel is like a wounded, dangerous bear, I don't think that he is the one we seek."

"Tell me about Madame Sorel."

"He1ene is a widow with two daughters. Her husband was a French officer who died at Wagram. She was left comfortably off, and is received in the best Parisian society. We've been friends for years, and I trust her."

"Would you care to guess why von Fehrenbach reacted to her presence so vehemently?"

"I think the reason is very simple, and not at all political."

Rafe accepted that without comment. "If you're right about von Fehrenbach, one of the Frenchmen is the most likely villain."

"If I am right." Maggie's voice took on a note of bitterness. "But it's not unknown for me to be wrong."

Things can be done in the darkness that would be impossible in the light. Rafe impulsively reached across the seat to take her cool, tense hand in his own. He neither knew nor cared what memories brought that tone to her voice. All that mattered was that she had carried burdens too heavy for even the broadest of shoulders, and that she was feeling that weight.

Her fingers tightened convulsively around his, though she made no other acknowledgment. Her hand warmed, became more relaxed. For the first time, Rafe felt that the barriers between them had gone down. Perhaps they would get along better if they didn't talk to each other.

When they reached her house, Maggie released his clasp to pull her cashmere shawl about her shoulders. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, her mouth quirked up. "You see yourself as a fur muff?"

He smiled. "Or some other useless, ornamental object carried only for display." He turned and dismissed his carriage.

Maggie gave him a hard look when he followed her into the house. Before she could comment, he said, "If we are to maintain the illusion of an affair, I can't drop you at your doorstep and leave. After a suitable interval, I'll walk back to my hotel. It isn't far from here."

She accepted his reason with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. "I suppose it's necessary."

They went into the salon and she poured brandy for them both. Then she kicked off her sandals and curled up on one of the sofas. "Should I have asked Cynthia Northwood how long you must stay to uphold your reputation? Perhaps I should make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, since no one would expect to see you before morning."

He refused to be drawn. "I'll slip out the back door in an hour or so. After all, it would be a blow to both our reputations if I left too soon."

Wandering across the room, he found an antique chess set on a small game table. The chess pieces were designed as a medieval court. The smooth enameled figures were about three inches high, and each was a sculpture with individual, hand-drawn features.

Rafe picked up the white queen, an exquisite golden-haired lady riding a white palfrey, then glanced at Maggie. The resemblance was undeniable. The queen, the most powerful figure on the board.

Setting the piece down, he lifted the black king from the opposite side of the board. His dark face arrogant and hawklike, the king brandished a sword from a rearing charger. Rafe studied the figure for a moment, wondering if he imagined its resemblance to himself. The kings were the ultimate objectives in chess, but had relatively little power themselves.

It was not unlike the game he and Maggie were playing, with the white queen in charge and the king standing by. But they were on the same side, weren't they?

He lifted the fair-haired white king. The face was cool and enigmatic, and it took little imagination to see the figure as Robert Anderson. If it was an omen, it was a disturbing one.

Rafe set down the white king. "Care for a game of chess? At the reception, you promised me better amusement at your home."

Maggie rose gracefully and joined him at the chess board. "If you wish. You'll find that my playing has improved a bit. Shall we toss a coin to see who plays white?"

Traditionally white moves first, an advantage, but Rafe picked up the white queen again, admired the proud chin, then handed it to Maggie. "She could only be yours."

They sat down and began. In younger days, Maggie had played with a wild brilliance that occasionally brought victory, but more often led to defeat against Rafe's more thoughtful style. Now they were evenly matched. He was interested to see that she still played boldly, but with a much keener eye for strategy.

An hour passed where the only words were an occasional compliment on a good move. When the clock struck eleven, Maggie looked up in surprise. "At the risk of seeming a poor hostess, I must ask you to leave. We can finish the game another day. I doubt that anyone is watching the house, but just in case, I'll show you to the rear door where you can slip out unobserved."

Rafe followed her through the halls, admiring the house. Though not exceptionally large, it had been designed to feel spacious and every detail was perfect. It was very much the home of a gentlewoman, reinforcing the idea that it was not supported on a spy's wages. He wondered acidly how many lovers were contributing to the establishment.

When Maggie turned to face him at the back door, Rafe was surprised to see how small she seemed in her stocking feet. The top of her head scarcely reached his chin. She looked young and soft and utterly desirable, and the air between them seemed charged with possibilities.

Once Margot Ashton had looked up at him with just such an expression in her eyes. For a moment Rafe's world tilted as the past and present crashed together. He desired her with all the passionate intensity of twenty-one; he wanted to bury his face in tangles of golden hair, to discover one by one the mysteries of Margot's laughing, elusive spirit and lush body.

It was a painful moment of disorientation, and his only salvation was that the present-day Maggie was unaware of it. A faint tremor went through him as he fought the desire to draw her into his arms. Experience told him that it would be better to play a waiting game. She desired him; allow time for her desire to grow. If he moved too quickly, she would become antagonistic instead.

He bid her a polite good night, and hoped that it was a trace of disappointment that he saw in her eyes. Then he walked down the steps, crossed the stable yard, and turned left into a narrow, deserted alley.

He was far too restless to retire tamely to his apartments. He considered going to the Palais Royale to find a card game or a woman, but the prospect did not appeal. Deciding to walk, he headed toward the Place Vendome.

Maggie was irresistibly on his mind. Even when she was eighteen her innocence had existed only in his mind, so it should be no surprise to learn that she had joined the company of women who collected expensive tributes in return for their favors. It was very common where women had greater beauty than fortune. He didn't think it would be fair to call her a courtesan; she had merely found a practical way to combine business and enjoyment.

At least she also had goals beyond her own pleasure. Presumably she chose her lovers both for wealth and for the information they could provide. In bed with a woman like Maggie, a man might say anything and not care, nor remember it later.

He entered the octagonal Place Vendome, which was nearly deserted at this hour. In the center was an enormously tall pillar that Napoleon had erected to commemorate the Battle of Austerlitz. The bronze spiral that twined up the column had been made by melting down the twelve hundred cannon Bonaparte had captured at that battle. Not surprisingly, the Prussians wanted to pull the column down.

His mouth twisted. It was hard to care about politics when his mind was disabled by lust. He might as well face the fact that he wanted Maggie for a mistress. Though it was true that he had bedded women that could be considered more beautiful, he had never known one who was so alluring.

In spite of her protests, she was not indifferent to him, and this evening her hostility seemed to have lessened. It was time for them to put aside the past and enjoy each other as they were now, without recriminations or complications.

Instead of sparring with her, he would make a straightforward offer. Perhaps part of the reason she had been so adamant about keeping her distance was because she didn't want to give away what usually was a source of profit.

Well, he was a reasonable man, and recognized that Maggie had to support herself. Though he had never paid for a mistress before, he was willing to make an exception in her case. In fact, he was prepared to be extremely generous. If she agreed to a long-term arrangement, he would even consider making a permanent financial settlement, so she would have some security for the future.

He turned decisively and headed back to the Boulevard des Capucines. Though it was late, he returned to the alley behind her house, hoping for some sign that she was still awake, perhaps as restless as he was himself.

As he scanned her windows, he saw a stealthy figure coming along the alley from the other direction. Rafe stepped farther back into the shadows so that he wouldn't be seen.

Instead of passing by, the other man stopped and looked around warily. Rafe flattened himself against the wall, glad that he was wearing dark clothing.

Apparently satisfied that he was unseen, the stranger climbed Maggie's back steps and knocked at the door. It swung open immediately. Maggie was standing inside, illuminated by a lamp in her hand. She had changed to a flowing dark robe and her bright hair was loose around her shoulders, like the white queen.

Her visitor bent to kiss her, and Rafe stayed to watch no more.

The stealthy newcomer was Robert Anderson, the white king himself. No wonder she had talked to him with such intensity at the reception; they had been setting up an assignation.

Rafe was coldly furious without quite understanding why. He knew that Maggie had lovers, so why should it anger him to see one entering? It certainly wasn't jealousy; he hadn't felt jealous about a woman since… since he was twenty-one, and Margot had betrayed him with Northwood.

He swore out loud, rejecting the idea. His anger was not a result of jealousy, but concern for his mission. Maggie had been told not to associate with the lesser members of the British delegation, yet she was defying Lucien's orders.

This was a dangerous, complicated business, and getting more so by the hour. Rafe stalked the streets until long after midnight, thinking hard about the new development.

Since Maggie was an expert at espionage, he had assumed that she would not make foolish errors of judgment. That had been careless of him. While he still refused to believe that she would deliberately betray her country, in the future he would be more skeptical of her actions.

Though her affair with Anderson might be irrelevant to the business at hand, it was safer to assume the worst. Women were just as susceptible to misjudging bedmates as men were. If Anderson was a traitor, he might be using Maggie exactly as she had used countless other men.

By the time Rafe reached his hotel, he had decided on a strategy. He knew enough of Maggie's stubborn independence to be sure that if he asked her not to see Anderson, she would laugh in his face. Rafe would have to become her lover so that he would have more influence over her. Then he would tell her to get rid of Anderson-and any other damned men she had on her string.

He had wanted to bed her for purely physical reasons. Now that desire was reinforced by a need to secure her loyalty. For the sake of their mission, he was prepared to use every weapon he had to gain the upper hand with Maggie.

How convenient that in this instance, duty would march with pleasure.

He didn't doubt that ultimately he would be successful; he had never failed to win a woman he really wanted. But he would have to move very carefully. Since time was critical, he daren't risk antagonizing her. Rather than make a straight financial offer, he would first soften her resistance with expensive gifts.

He also decided that he should develop some information sources of his own. A wealthy lord has many employees; it took Rafe only a few minutes to think of two clever, discreet, and trustworthy Frenchmen who worked for him.

Before going to bed, he wrote a letter to his agent, summoning both men to Paris immediately.

Robin looked tired and worried, which was unusual, so after giving him a welcoming kiss Maggie insisted that he join her in a midnight supper. They sat at the kitchen table and worked their way through pate, sliced squab, and sundry other delicacies that had been left by Maggie's cook.

When they finished, he pushed the remnants aside. "Nothing like good food to restore one's optimism. Did you learn anything useful this evening?"

Maggie described her encounter with Colonel von Fehrenbach, ending with her conclusion that he was probably not the man behind the conspiracy. "Now it's your turn, Robin. What has happened to worry you?"

He ran his right hand restlessly through his hair. It was a paler blond than Maggie's and looked silvery in the candlelight. "An informant told me that someone has been making discreet inquiries for a brave fellow who would like to bring down 'the Conqueror of the Conqueror of the World.' "

Maggie bit her lip. The Parisians had hung that nickname on the Duke of Wellington after his victory at Waterloo. It was appropriate, since Bonaparte had gotten into the habit of thinking himself the Conqueror of the World, and Wellington had most certainly cleared up that bit of hyperbole.

"So they really are going for Wellington," she said with depression. "They could hardly make a better choice for stirring up a hornets' nest. Were there any indications of who was making the inquiries?"

"Only that it was a Frenchman, which fits with the conclusion you reached tonight." Robin polished off the last slice of pate. "How are things going with Candover?"

Maggie shrugged and traced a pattern on the table in a few spilled drops of wine. "You were right, he's an excellent cover for my inquiries. He's perceptive, too-he reached the same conclusion about von Fehrenbach that I did. But I'm concerned…" Her voice trailed off.

"About what?"

"Though he's been cooperative so far, tonight he made a remark about me dragging him around like a fur muff to disguise my activities." Robin chuckled, but she said seriously, "For the moment it amuses him to play this game. I don't doubt his patriotism, but I'm afraid of what he might do when he is no longer amused."

Robin's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Only that he is used to being in charge, and doing exactly what he wants. The man is no fool, but if he gets all lordly and pigheaded at the wrong time, it could cause serious problems."

Robin's blue eyes crinkled slightly around the corners. "I rely on you to keep him in line."

Maggie leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. "You overrate my abilities, my dear."

"I doubt it." He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I'll be going along now. Who will your next target be?"

"I hope to intercept the Count de Varenne within the next day or two. He lives outside of Paris, but he is a habitue of the king's court and attends many social events. I should be able to further my acquaintance with him soon."

Maggie followed Robin to the back door. When he gave her a good-bye kiss, she put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. She had a sudden, intense desire to ask him to spend the night with her. Not only did she yearn for the warmth and fulfillment of lovemaking, but perhaps he would be able to drive thoughts of Rafe from her mind.

But she said nothing, for using Robin in such a way would be unforgivable. Nor would it be more than a temporary cure for what ailed her. Sadly she said, "When will this be over, Robin?"

He was touched by the note in her voice. For a moment, Maggie sounded like the girl she had not been able to be for too many years. He put his arms around her, holding her tight for a little longer than was wise. "Soon, my dear. Then we can all go home to England."

She looked up at him, her eyes widening. "Do you want to go back to England, too?"

"Perhaps." He gave a teasing smile. "I shall lie down until the feeling goes away."

Then he was gone. Maggie bolted the door after him, thinking that it was the first time Robin had ever shown any desire to see his homeland. Even he, with his eternal energy and good nature, must be weary of the endless deceit, and the tension that was a constant companion.

In that case, she was quite justified in having a few tears of exhaustion in her eyes, wasn't she? After all, she was only a woman.