Petals in the Storm (11 page)

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  Blücher."

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."