Petals in the Storm (4 page)

Robin came to stand behind her. Taking the brush from her hand, he began pulling it gently through her thick, dark gold hair. It was odd how they still shared some of the intimacy of husband and wife, though they had never married. He had always enjoyed brushing her hair, and the faint sandalwood scent took him back to the years when they had been impassioned young lovers, challenging the world with few thoughts for the future.

Maggie was looking stonily into the mirror. Her eyes were now a cold gray, not sparkling as they had been earlier. After several minutes of brushing, she began to relax.

"Did Candover do something dreadful?" he asked quietly. "If it would upset you to see him, I won't mention it again."

She chose her words carefully, knowing that Robin was uncomfortably adept at detecting hidden meanings. "Though he
was
rather despicable, it was a long time ago and it wouldn't bother me to see him. I simply don't want another man nagging me to keep doing what I don't want to do."

Robin's gaze met hers in the mirror. "Then why not meet him once to tell him that? If you want to wreak a bit of vengeance for past injuries, a fitting punishment would be to look your seductive best. You can drive him mad with longing while you turn down his request."

"I'm not sure that would work," she said dryly. "We parted on rather poor terms."

"That makes no difference—he's probably been thinking lustful thoughts of you ever since. Half the diplomats in
Europe
have let state secrets fall from their lips while struggling for one of your smiles." Robin grinned. "Wear that green ball gown, heave an alluring sigh as you refuse his request, then glide gracefully from the room. I guarantee it will cut up his peace for at least the next month."

She regarded her reflection thoughtfully. While she had a great deal of whatever it was that drove men mad, she was not convinced that Candover would succumb to her charms. Still, anger and lust were closely elated, and Rafael Whitbourne had been very angry indeed at their last meeting___

A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. Then she drew back her head and laughed. "Very well, Robin, you win. I'll meet with your ridiculous duke. I owe him a few nights of ruined sleep. But I guarantee he won't change my mind."

Robin dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Good lass." In spite of her protests, if she saw Candover there was a chance that she could be persuaded to continue her work for a while longer. And that would be a very good thing.

When Robin left, Maggie did not immediately summon her maid to complete her toilette. Instead, she crossed her arms on the edge of the vanity and laid her head on them, feeling sad and tired. It had been foolish to agree to see Rafe Whitbourne. He
had
behaved very badly, yet even then she had seen how his cruelty had come from pain, and she had been denied the pleasure of hating him.

Nor did she love him; the Margot Ashton who thought the sun revolved around his handsome head had died over a dozen years before. Maggie had been many different people in the ensuing years, as Robin had taken her under his wing and given her a reason to go on living. Rafe Whitbourne was only a bittersweet memory, with no relevance to her present self.

Love and hate were indeed opposite sides of the same coin because both meant caring; the true opposite was indifference. Since indifference was the only feeling Rafe could rouse in Maggie now, minor forms of revenge were not worth the effort. She just wanted to be done with this phase of her life, with deceit and misdirection and informers.

Most of all, she wanted to accomplish the task that had been delayed too long, then go home to
England
, which she hadn't seen in thirteen years. She would have to start over again, this time without Robin's protection. She would miss him bitterly, but even her loneliness would contain relief; the two of them knew each other too well for Maggie to reinvent herself if he was near.

She lifted her head and propped her chin on one fist while she regarded herself in the mirror. Her high cheekbones made her a convincing Magyar, and she spoke the language well enough so that no one had ever doubted that she was Hungarian. But how would Rafe Whitbourne see her after so many years?

A wry smile curved her full lips—lips that had had at least eleven pieces of bad poetry dedicated to them. Apparently the man could still arouse some emotion in her, even if it was only vanity. She studied her image critically.

Maggie had never been a great fancier of her own appearance, for her face lacked the classic restraint of true beauty. Her cheekbones were too high, her mouth too wide, her eyes too large.

But at least she looked little different from when she had been eighteen. Her complexion had always been excellent, and riding and dancing had kept her figure shapely. Though there was more fullness to the curves, no man had ever objected to that. Granted, her hair had darkened, but instead of becoming dull tan as blond hair often did, it was now the shade of rippling, golden wheat. Overall, she decided, she looked better now than when she and Rafe had been engaged.

It was tempting to imagine that he was fat and balding, but the damned man had the sort of looks that would only improve with age. His personality was another matter. Even at twenty-one he had not been free of the arrogance of wealth and rank, and the intervening years would only have made him worse. By this time, he must be insufferable.

As she resumed dressing for dinner, she told herself that it would be amusing to try to pierce his smugness. Yet she could not rid herself of the uneasy feeling that meeting him would prove to be a mistake.

* * *

The Duke of Candover had not been in
Paris
since 1803, and there had been many changes. Yet even in defeat, the capital of
France
was the center of
Europe
. Four major sovereigns and scores of minor monarchs had come to glean what they could from the wreckage of Napoleon's empire. The Prussians wanted revenge, the Russians wanted more territory, the Austrians hoped to roll the calendar back to 1789, and the French wanted to save themselves from massive reprisals after Napoleon's insane and bloody Hundred Days.

The British, as usual, were trying to be fair-minded. It was like trying to mediate a discussion between pit bulls.

In spite of the plethora of rulers, "the king" always meant Louis XVIII, the aging Bourbon whose unsteady hand held the French throne, while "the emperor" always meant Bonaparte. Even in his absence, the emperor cast a longer shadow than the physical presence of any other man.

Rafe took rooms at a luxurious hotel whose name had changed three times in as many months, to reflect changing political currents. Now it was called the Hotel de la Paix, since Peace was an acceptable sentiment to most factions.

He had just time to bathe and change before going to an Austrian ball where Lucien had arranged for him to meet the mysterious Maggie. Rafe dressed carefully, mindful of his friend's suggestion that he charm the lady spy. Experience had taught him that he could generally get what he wanted from women with a debonair smile and some earnest attention. Frequently, the ladies offered a good deal more than he wanted to accept.

Every inch The Duke, he went to the ball, which was a glittering assemblage of the great and notorious of
Europe
. Guests included not only all the important monarchs and diplomats, but hundreds of the lords, ladies, sluts, and scoundrels who were always drawn to power.

Rafe wandered about, sipping champagne and greeting acquaintances. But under the surface gaiety, he sensed dangerous undercurrents swirling. Lucien's fears were well founded—
Paris
was a powder keg, and a spark here might set the continent ablaze once more.

The evening was well advanced when he was approached by a young Englishman with fair hair and a slight, elegant figure. "Good evening, your grace. I'm Robert Anderson, with the British delegation. There's someone who wishes to meet you. If you'll come with me?"

Anderson
was shorter and younger than Rafe, with a face that seemed vaguely familiar. As they snaked their way through the crush, Rafe surreptitiously examined his guide, wondering if this man was the weak link in the delegation.
Anderson
was so good-looking as to be almost pretty, and gave an impression of amiable vacuity. If he was a cunning, dangerous spy, he concealed it well.

They left the ballroom and went up a stairway to a door-lined corridor. Stopping outside the last door,
Anderson
said, "The countess is waiting for you, your grace."

"Do you know the lady?"

"I have met her."

"What is she like?"

Anderson
hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll let you discover that for yourself." Opening the door, he said formally, "Your grace, may I present Magda, the Countess Janos." After a respectful bow, he left.

A single branch of candles cast a soft glow over the small, richly furnished room. Rafe's gaze went immediately to the shadowed figure standing by the window. Even though her back was turned to him, he would have known that she was beautiful by the confidence in her graceful carriage.

As he closed the door, she turned to face him with a slow, provocative movement that caused the candlelight to slide tantalizingly over the curves of her lush figure. A feathered fan concealed most of her face, and one wheat gold curl fell charmingly over her shoulder. She radiated sensuality, and Rafe understood why Lucien had said that she could cloud a man's judgment. As his body tightened in involuntary response, he had to admire how well she understood the power of suggestion.

Less subtly, her decolletage was low enough to rivet the attention of any man not yet dead. If Rafe was required to sacrifice his honor in his attempts to persuade the lady, he would do so with great pleasure. "Countess Janos, I'm the Duke of Candover. A mutual friend asked me to speak with you on a matter of some importance."

Her eyes watched mockingly above the fan. "Indeed?" she purred, her words spiced by a Magyar accent. "Perhaps it is of importance to you and Lord Strathmore, Monsieur le Duc, but not to me." Slowly she lowered the fan, revealing high cheekbones, then a small, straight nose. She had creamy rose-petal skin, a wide, sensual mouth___

Rafe's inventory stopped, and his heart began hammering with stunned disbelief. It was said that everyone had a double somewhere in the world, and apparently he had just met Margot Ashton's.

Struggling to control his shock, he tried to compare the countess to his memories. This woman appeared to be about twenty-five years old; Margot would be thirty-one, but she might look younger than her age.

Surely the countess was taller than Margot, who had been only a little above average height? But Margot's bearing and vitality had made her appear taller than she actually was. It had been a surprise how far he had had to bend over the first time he kissed her....

Sharply he retreated from his chaotic emotions and forced himself to continue his analysis. This woman's eyes seemed to be green, and she had an exotic, foreign look. But she was wearing a green gown, and Margot's eyes had been changeable, shifting from gray to green to hazel with her mood and costume.

The resemblance was uncanny, and there were no differences that could not be ascribed to time or faulty memory. He had the wild thought that this might be Margot herself. Though she had been reported dead, perhaps a mistake had been made; news was often mangled as it traveled. If Margot had been living on the Continent all these years, she might no longer have the air of an Englishwoman.

Yet the countess's behavior implied that they were strangers. If she was Margot, she must surely recognize him, for he looked much the same. If so, he couldn't believe that she wouldn't acknowledge him, if only with a curse.

Instead, she stood with a faint, amused smile during Rafe's lengthy inspection. The silence had gone on too long, and as the supplicant, it was up to him to make the next move.

He fell back on The Duke, who was never at a loss for words. With a deep bow, he said, "My apologies, Countess. I was told that you were the most beautiful spy in
Europe
, but even so, the description did you less than justice."

She gave a rich, intimate laugh. Margot's laugh. "You speak very prettily, your grace. I have heard of you also."

"Nothing to my discredit, I hope." Rafe decided that it was time to use his vaunted charm. Stepping toward the countess, he smiled and said, "You know why I am here, and it is a serious business. Let us not stand on formality. I would prefer that you use my given name."

"Which is?"

If she was Margot and this was an act, she was performing it superbly well. His smile showing signs of strain, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "Rafael Whitbourne. My friends usually call me Rafe."

She snatched her hand back as if he had bitten it. "Surely a rake should not have been named for an archangel."

At her words, Rafe's doubt vanished. "My God, it
is
you, Margot," he said in a wondering voice. "You are the only one who ever dared mention my lack of similarity to archangels. It was a good quip; I've used it myself many times. But how the devil did you come to be here?"

She gave a languid flutter of her fan. "Who is this Margot, your grace? Some vapid little English girl who resembles me?"