Petals in the Storm (13 page)

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 Vendóme.

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 Vendóme, 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.