Petals in the Storm (15 page)

Maggie was silent as she tried to assimilate this new piece of information. Was this the same plot that she was pursuing, or a separate one? She felt as if she were trying to find a needle in a cellar at midnight. As they entered a new path between bright flowerbeds, she briefly outlined what little she knew of the conspiracy.

Helene's face became bleak as she listened. "It sounds very dangerous. With so many troops of all nations around, the slightest spark could set France into flames again."

"I know," Maggie said grimly. "But other such plots have failed. God willing, this one will too." Shifting the subject, she asked, "What do you know of Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

Helene's softly rounded face was shadowed under her lacy parasol and her voice gave no clue to her thoughts. Though the two women were friends, each had her secrets. "Not very much. We've met several times at social events. He is like many of the Prussian officers—angry, and determined to see France suffer."

"Forgive me if I seem to pry, Helene," Maggie said hesitantly. "But is there anything between you two?"

"He sees me and thinks of everything he hates," her friend said in a colorless voice. "Apart from that, there is nothing."

"Do you think he might be involved in this plot?"

"No, he is an uncomplicated man and would have no use for plots." With a wintry smile, Helene added, "Not unlike my late husband Etienne, going forward bravely, unperturbed by doubt or common sense. Do you have reason to suspect the colonel?"

"Not really. Von Fehrenbach is well placed to do mischief, but my assessment agrees with yours. Still, if you should see him again and observe anything suspicious, you will let me know?"

"Of course." Helene gestured at an unoccupied bench under a chestnut tree. "Shall we sit while you tell me about that magnificent Englishman you have attached?"

Maggie felt strangely unwilling to discuss Rafe. "He is rich, bored, and in Paris. For the moment he fancies me." She brushed a stray leaf from the wooden bench before sitting. "There is nothing else to tell."

Helene's dark eyes studied her skeptically. "If you say so."

It was time to change the subject again. Maggie asked, "Do you know anything about Cynthia Northwood? Her husband Oliver is a member of the British delegation."

Waving her flat reticule like a fan to stir the heavy air, Helene thought for a moment before replying. "She is one of life's heedless innocents. She is having an affair with a British officer, a Major Brewer of the Guards, and she doesn't care who knows it. Having met her husband, I can see why she has strayed, but she shows no discretion whatsoever. Why do you ask about her?"

"No reason, really, except that yesterday she was telling me a great many things one doesn't usually say to a complete stranger." Maggie frowned. "She's unpredictable, and because she is connected to the British delegation she might become involved in something she doesn't understand."

"You're right—Mrs. Northwood is just the sort to blurt out secrets unthinkingly. But if she and her husband are on bad terms, she would probably not have access to important information."

"True, but we can't afford to ignore any possibility. Can you find out something about her associates, besides her major?" After Helene's nod, Maggie continued, "Also, do you know anything about Count de Varenne?"

Her friend gave her a worried glance. "Yes, and none of it is good. That one is dangerous. Is he involved with your plot?"

"Possibly. Do you know where I might casually meet him?"

"He is often at Lady Castlereagh's evening salons. Be careful, my friend, when you meet him. They say he writes his name in blood."

In spite of the afternoon's heat Maggie felt a shiver along her spine. Firmly she told herself that she was only reacting to Helene's melodramatic phrasing.

If Castlereagh and Wellington were the targets, Varenne should be dropped from the list of likely candidates. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, she wanted to meet him. Rafe was taking her to the theater tonight. Afterward they could go to the salon at the British embassy and hope that the Ultra-Royalist count was there.

But if Varenne was uninvolved, why did thinking of him give her a nagging sense of danger?

When Rafe called to take Maggie to the theater, she entered the salon in a shimmering, silver gray dress that reflected hints of blue and green in its folds. She was so lovely that it hurt to look at her. He took a slow, deep breath. Patience was not going to come easily.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, your grace. Shall we be on our way?" The honeyed voice was friendly and intimate.

Rafe was impressed at how calm his reply sounded. "You're looking particularly lovely tonight, my dear. I shall be the envy of every man in Paris."

She gave a sorrowful shake of her head. "I'm disappointed, your grace. Surely a gentleman with your reputation for address can offer more imaginative flattery."

"I speak only the truth, Countess," Rafe replied as he escorted her through the door. "Flattery would be useless with a woman of your acuity."

She gave him a mischievous smile. "My apologies for underestimating you. Clearly you flatter on a higher level. A woman who is often complimented on her appearance much prefers to hear lies about her intelligence."

Grinning, he helped her into his carriage. It would take every ounce of wit and charm he possessed to seduce her; he hadn't felt so alive in years. Having more money and more women than he knew what to do with had become a bloody bore, and the harder she made him work, the sweeter the prize at the end.

As the carriage rattled down the Boulevard des Capucines, Maggie spoke, her teasing gone. "The plot is thickening. I have a reliable report of a threat against Lord Castlereagh within the next fortnight."

"The devil you say!" Lechery vanished as Rafe listened to the meager facts that Maggie had. Briefly he wondered who her informant had been—another patron of the gambling hell, over a pillow this afternoon?—but shoved the thought aside for more serious considerations. "Perhaps I can visit that club later this evening, after I leave you off."

"It's not likely to do much good. You can hardly ask the people who work there the names of the two men discussing assassination last night."

"True, but the fellows might be regular customers. If I make a few critical comments about Castlereagh or Wellington, one might strike up a conversation with me."

At her continuing silence, he added, "I'm not wholly incapable of subtlety, you know."

"I suppose not," she said, clearly not convinced. "I presume you know enough to go armed? There are French officers who make a point of insulting foreigners in the hopes of starting a duel. As an Englishman, you will be fair game. Not as good as a Prussian, but still appealing to a belligerent Frenchman."

"I am touched by your concern for my continued existence."

"Don't flatter yourself, your grace," she said tartly. "I merely dislike losing a chess partner in the middle of a game."

He couldn't tell whether it was sarcasm or humor that laced her voice.

She added, "If you do get forced into a duel, pistols would probably be a better choice. Most of the French officers are capital swordsmen, and it's a rare foreigner who can best them."

Rafe was about to ask why she had faith in his marksmanship when he remembered a long-ago afternoon when they had shot at wafers together in a friend's private pistol gallery. She must remember his skill. Margot had been equally good, the only woman he had ever met who could shoot as well as a man. It was one of many things her father had taught her, treating her as if she had been a son instead of a daughter. One of the many things that made her different from any other woman he had ever known.

The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Maggie attracted a great deal of attention from gawkers as Rafe helped her from the carriage. She played up to it, casting flirtatious smiles around her. No one watching would ever imagine that she was a coldblooded spy rather than a hot-blooded tart.

He escorted her upstairs to their private box. The play was excellent, and for whole minutes at a time Rafe forgot serious thoughts in the humor of Moliere's
Tartuffe
.

But as the performance progressed, he became increasingly aware of Maggie's closeness. After the second act began, he casually laid his arm across the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel warmth from her skin.

He was pleased to see her lean forward, as if absorbed in the play. It wasn't Moliere that put that flush on her high cheekbones; she was as aware of him as he was of her, and he guessed that she didn't trust herself to relax against him. Good. He let his fingertips drift across her bare shoulder.

She shivered, and her hand tightened on her folded fan. He wondered how far he could go before she called a halt. Not much further, he suspected. He rested his arm on the chair again. Gradually she relaxed and leaned against the padded chair back, her shoulders barely grazing his arm.

It was a pleasant game. He was considering massaging the nape of her neck when a growling sound emerged from the pit. Instantly alert, Rafe withdrew his arm and leaned forward to look over the railing of the box. The growl became a rumble, and he saw men shoving each other below.

The actors tried to shout their lines over the increasing noise, but cries of
Vive le Roi
! began warring with
Vive I'Empereur
! The next actor who spoke was pelted with pieces of fruit, and the whole cast bolted for the wings.

Some members of the audience raised white banners, signifying support for the king. When Bonapartists began brandishing violet flags, Rafe realized that a brawl was in the making. One of the most frightening experiences of his life had been when he was caught in a London street riot, and the mob below was heading in the same dangerous direction.

The royalists outnumbered the Bonapartists, and one by one the violet flags were ripped apart. One brawny fellow with an imperial eagle banner was dragged down, disappearing under brutal kicks and punches. A woman screamed, her voice abruptly cutting off. The cries of
Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi
! became a harsh, threatening chant that made the walls and ceiling vibrate.

Rafe looked across to see Maggie silently staring down. She was utterly impassive, only the tight set of her lips indicating concern. As he studied the calm profile and flawless golden hair, he had a sudden, horrifying vision of Maggie surrounded and pulled down by rough men. The scene was so vivid that for a moment it blurred the reality of the theater. She was fighting frantically, but there were too many attackers and she disappeared beneath vicious hands.

The shocking image gave Rafe a frantic urge to take Maggie away before violence engulfed the whole theater. He grabbed her arm and half lifted her from her chair. "Come on," he snapped. "We're getting out of here."

He swept her toward the back door of the box. The tumult drowned out the sound of his voice, and at first she resisted. Rafe was on the verge of swinging her off her feet and bodily carrying her through the corridor when she capitulated.

Other patrons were beginning to empty out of the boxes, but Rafe was quicker. He looped his arm around her waist and hustled her down the nearest staircase.

Halfway to the ground floor, their way was blocked by two ruffians who were racing upward. The men stopped, their eyes gleaming at the sight of Maggie.

Without waiting to see whether the men would attack, Rafe threw a savage fist into the belly of the nearer one. His victim made a hoarse, squawking sound as he tumbled against his fellow.

While the two men struggled to save themselves from falling down the steps, Rafe caught Maggie's hand and pulled her past them. No longer protesting, she lifted her skirts with her free hand and ran swiftly beside him, her fingers tight on his.

The stairs came out into a deserted passage. The sounds of the riot came from the right, so they turned and continued left until they reached a side exit.

Outside, they found that both aristocrats and common people were pouring from the theater. A man was running down the boulevard screaming for the Guards. Fortunately, Rafe's carriage was waiting nearby. He bundled her inside, and within a few moments they were heading away from the theater.

Maggie's skirts rustled as she settled herself in the corner of the carriage. Rafe's heart was still pounding. The threat to her safety had roused the most primitive of protective responses in him, and he still felt shaken an her behalf. On impulse he moved across the seat and put his arms around her, needing to reassure himself that she was all right.

She gave a kind of shiver, then turned her face up, her mouth seeking his. Their tongues touched, and suddenly they were kissing with frantic intensity. She slipped her hands under his coat and began kneading his back, her nails digging deep into the muscles.

Dimly he realized that the brush with danger had unleashed something in her, something dark and primal that roused him to equal madness. They sank into the deep velvet-cushioned seat. Her exotic scent filled his nosstrils, intoxicating him. He buried his face in the warm curve of her throat, kissing her beating pulse. The sound of her rough breathing filled the coach.

Remembering that she had always had exquisitely sensitive ears, he trailed kisses upward, along the line of her jaw, until he could tease her lobe with his teeth. She gasped and stiffened, her head arching back and her legs separating so that his knee slipped between hers. They twisted against each other as their bodies instinctively sought a closeness impossible in the cramped quarters.