Petals in the Storm (18 page)

Disdaining preliminaries, the dark figure said, "Draw me a detailed sketch of the British embassy stables. There have been changes since the Princess Borghese sold it to Wellington, and I need to know about them. I am particularly interested in where Castlereagh's horses are kept. I want you to describe his beasts exactly, in both looks and temper."

The Englishman's eyes widened. "You're plotting against Castlereagh? If anything happens to him, there will be hell to pay. Wellington is his best friend, and he would set the whole British Army to searching for assassins if necessary."

And a diligent investigation might uncover matters to the Englishman's detriment. Only a complete lack of suspicion had made it possible for him to pass so much information.

Reading his mind again, Le Serpent smiled nastily. "You needn't fear for your worthless neck. Whatever happens to Castlereagh will seem like an accident. Soon the illustrious duke himself will be in no position to investigate anything."

As the Englishman started sketching floorplans of the stable and its yard, his mind was racing. It sounded like his repellent host wished to eliminate both of the top British officials, a fact that had interesting ramifications. Clumsy attempts had been made on Wellington's life before, but there would be nothing clumsy about an attempt by Le Serpent. The question was, how could this information be turned to account?

Le Serpent asked a number of questions about the routine of the stables and the grooms, curtly demanding that his visitor find the answers to anything he couldn't answer immediately. After discussing the stables, he made exhaustive queries about the daily routines and habits of Castlereagh and Wellington.

Tiring under the interrogation, the Englishman said irritably, "Surely you know that the duke prefers low company—he doesn't even live at the embassy. How am I supposed to know about all his movements?"

"I am quite aware that Wellington lives at Ouvrard's Hotel," Le Serpent replied. "Nonetheless, he is often at the embassy, and if you have the brains of a rodent you should be able to learn what I require. I will expect a report with the answers you could not supply tonight within forty-eight hours."

"And if I decide I no longer wish to be in your employ?" It was an ill-chosen time for defiance, but the Englishman was too tired and irritated to be wise.

In a voice heavy with menace, Le Serpent hissed, "Then you are ruined,
mon Anglais
. I can have you assassinated, or I can let Castlereagh know of your duplicity and your own people will destroy you. Publicly, so that every one of your relatives and friends, if you have any, will know of your humiliation. Do not think you can buy your life by informing against me, because you know nothing."

He slapped his hand on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. "You live on my sufferance, you dunghill cock. I
own
you, and you are fortunate that I am a man of honor. If you serve me well you will prosper, unless you are caught through your own stupidity. If you try to betray me, you are a dead man. Those are the only choices you have."

The Englishman's eyes fell as he tried to hide his fear. That was what led to his stroke of luck; the hand his adversary had braced on the desk bore a heavy gold ring with a complicated crest on it. He knew better than to stare, but his quick glance showed that the central coat of arms was twined by a three-headed serpent.

It would take time to identify the owner, but at least the Englishman had a clue. Slumping in pretend defeat, he muttered, "I will serve you well."

Inside, his heart sang with inner exaltation. He'd find out who Le Serpent was, by God, and then the bastard would be sorry for his insults. If he played his cards right, he would be able to come out of this a hero—a
rich
hero.

The next morning Maggie received a note from Helene Sorel reporting that a discontented French officer had asked a group of café idlers if anyone wanted to earn some money by shooting the Duke of Wellington. Since the idiot had made his offer before a dozen witnesses, he had been arrested within minutes.

Maggie smiled wryly as she set the note aside. There was plenty of dissatisfied grumbling in the city, but most of it was as harmless as this. Men like the foolish French officer were not the problem.

Her amusement faded as she considered her own lack of progress. Robin had stopped by the night before and they had stayed up late talking, but without reaching any new conclusions. It was vastly frustrating. Too many possibilities, too little time ...

She spent the day pushing harder, looking at the information she had and trying to see some pattern, but without success. She could only continue as she was doing, and hope that General Roussaye might hold the key.

As she dressed for Prince Orkov's ball, even her favorite green satin gown failed to improve her mood. She was silent as Inge styled her hair into a tumble of golden curls. Privately she wondered how much Rafe was adding to her tension.

Though she trusted his good intentions about their mission, that was all she trusted. As a spy, he was an untested amateur. On a personal level, he was like a loose cannon on the deck of a ship: uncontrolled and dangerous. Maggie could pretend to a sophistication that played at love without being burned, but she knew how perilously thin her facade was. For her, lack of deep feeling was an act. For Rafe Whitbourne, it was the real thing.

When Inge announced that the duke had arrived, Maggie schooled her face to pleasantness and went to join him. When she entered the salon, her attention was distracted from the concerns of spying by Rafe's admiring expression.

"You look splendid tonight, Countess. Thank you for wearing that dress. It will go very well."

"Go very well with what?"

He held out a velvet-covered box. "With these."

Maggie opened the box, then caught her breath at the sight of an emerald necklace and earrings of dazzling beauty. Delicate gold settings entwined with flawless stones to create jewelry that looked light and airy while at the same being indecently sumptuous. "For heaven's sake, Rafe, what are these for?"

"For you, of course."

"I can't possibly accept anything this valuable. People would think ..." She stopped.

"That you were my mistress? That is the point, my dear."

His voice was deep and caressing, and for one perilous moment she considered what it would like be to be his mistress in fact as well as fiction. Then her jaw hardened.

Even though he was the most attractive man she'd ever known, she'd be damned if she would let this unreliable nobleman conquer her, no matter how much they would both enjoy it. Conquest was still conquest, and she was no man's trophy.

She snapped the box shut and handed it back. "A queen's ransom in gems is not necessary to our charade, your grace."

Undeterred, Rafe said, "But it is necessary. Half of London society is in Paris now, and my habits are not exactly a secret. I've always given bits of trumpery to my lady friends. People would think it strange if I didn't do the same with you."

"Bits of trumpery!" she said with exasperation. "You could buy half an English county with the value of these."

"You exaggerate, my dear. No more than a quarter, and it would have to be a small county at that."

His smile invited her to be amused, and Maggie could not resist laughing with him. "Very well, if you insist, I will accept the
loan
of these until our masquerade is done. Then you can store them away for your next genuine mistress."

Taking the box from her hand, Rafe steered her over to a pier glass hanging between two of the windows. He stood behind her and deftly unhooked her simple jade necklace.

"But these emeralds wouldn't be appropriate for just any woman. They will look best on one whose eyes will turn green to match." He lifted the necklace from the box. "Someone with the style and countenance to wear what you call a queen's ransom without being overpowered by it. I can't think of another woman they would suit as well."

Rafe placed the necklace around her neck, his warm hands contrasting with the cool touch of the gems. Her ball gown was cut very low, exposing her neck, shoulders, and a dramatic expanse of bosom, and she felt suddenly naked as his fingers brushed her bare skin. Desire coiled inside her, tense and demanding. When she was eighteen, she had first explored the nearer edges of sexuality with this same impossible, attractive man, and time had only deepened her yearning.

Her gaze met Rafe's in the mirror. His hands came to rest on her exposed, sensitive shoulders and when he spoke there was no teasing undertone in his voice.

"Margot, why can't we forget all the complications of our past and be ourselves? You are the most irresistible woman I have ever known. Being so close to you without touching is in a fair way to driving me mad." He began gently massaging the back of her neck with his thumbs. "I want you, and I think you want me, too. Why can't we be lovers in truth?"

He was no longer the polished, sardonic duke who set her nerves on edge, but the direct young man she had fallen in love with. Her heart ached for what they had once had,
am
lost. Struggling for sanity, she said weakly, "It would be a mistake."

Bending over, he kissed the edge of her ear where it showed beneath her golden hair, then nibbled down her neck. His hands skimmed down her bare arms with feather lightness, then wrapped around her waist to pull her back against him. She gasped and tried to ignore the fiery reaction his touch aroused.

"We are both adults, old enough to know what we want," he whispered in his deep, velvet-rich voice. "No one would be hurt, and I know we would find a rare pleasure together." His hands brushed upward to cup her breasts. Slowly he moved them in a circle, and she felt her nipples harden against his palms.

Involuntarily she rolled her hips into his groin. When a hard ridge of flesh pressed against her, she forced herself to be still. "No, blast you!" she said breathlessly. "Nothing is that simple."

His right hand slipped into her bodice and he began teasing her nipple. At the same time, his left hand stroked down her torso to the jointure of her thighs. "Do you really mean no?" he asked as his knowing hands found her most sensitive places. "Your words say one thing, but your body says another."

There was too much truth in what he said, and the fire in her body was no fiercer than the torrent of confusion in her mind. Of course she wanted him. She was weak with longing, and dared not admit how perilously close she was to consigning past and future to the devil and letting him make love to her in the intoxicating present.