Petals in the Storm (43 page)

"A group of us had been out one night, drinking and carrying on. When I knew that Candover was within earshot, I described how you had spread your legs for me in the back garden of one of those balls. I pretended that I was too drunk to know that I was being indiscreet, but I knew exactly what I was saying." Northwood gave a smile of pure malice. "Candover acted as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He got up and left right away, and the next I knew, you had left London."

She stared at the florid, self-satisfied face, feeling ice in her veins. Though her opinion of Northwood had never been high, it was still a numbing shock to hear him boast of performing the vicious, cold-blooded act that had had such catastrophic repercussions. He had a genius for low cunning; something said by a man in his cups was far more convincing than a direct slander would have been. No wonder Rafe had come to her that morning half mad with pain and jealousy. His lack of trust was still a betrayal, but a far more understandable one.

Though she felt ill, she daren't give in to it. If she lost her self-possession now, she would be at the mercy of this beast. She shaped her mouth into a pout. "Really, Oliver, that wasn't at all nice of you. It injured him—and believe me, he took it
very
badly—but you caused all kinds of problems for me, too. If you'd wanted me for yourself, all you would have had to do was wait a decent interval after the wedding."

"You would have been interested in an affair?" Northwood said, skeptical but willing to be convinced.

"Of course I would have." She looked wistful. "Once I had the ring on my finger, I could have done anything I wanted. Candover is far too proud to sully his name with divorce, no matter what his wife did. Oh, I would have given him an heir, of course, fair is fair. But after that ..." Her smile was infinitely suggestive.

She stood and poured the rest of the wine into Northwood's glass, careful to give him a good look down the low-cut bodice of her dress. Then she sat again and crossed her legs, exposing a fair amount of shapely calf.

"Before we get down to pleasure, could you satisfy my curiosity? I've been wondering what you and Varenne are up to."

Northwood reached over and roughly squeezed her breast. If she had flinched, it might have roused his doubts, so she gave him a sultry smile instead.

Willing to boast of his cleverness again, he said, "We're blowing up the British embassy this afternoon."

Her eyes widened involuntarily. "Is that possible?Surely it would require an enormous amount of gunpowder."

"Actually we're only blowing up one section, but that is where everyone important will be." He slid his hand down the front of her bodice and pinched her nipple.

It took every hard-won shred of control Maggie had not to hit him. Reminding herself how many lives were at stake, she squeezed his knee, as if being mauled by a swine aroused her. "I've heard that all the important meetings are being held in Castlereagh's bedchamber," she said throatily.

"Exactly, and there is a closet directly below. I filled it with gunpowder, and it will explode this afternoon at four o'clock. Nobody will find it, either. I have the key to the closet right here." He patted his jacket pocket smugly.

"Oh, then you'll have to leave soon! I was hoping you could stay." Then, as if the thought had just struck her, she asked, "Won't it be dangerous for you to set off the powder?"

"That's where cleverness was called for," North-wood boasted. 'I set a candle in the closet. When it burns down, it will hit a trail of gunpowder, ignite the boxes and,
Boom
! Everyone in Castlereagh's bedchamber will be blown to bloody shreds."

Maggie shuddered, then tried to make it appear that she was excited by the idea. "How splendid! I wish that I could have been involved in something as important."

Northwood's eyes raked her. "Oh, really? I thought that you were quite the loyal little British spy."

"Whatever gave you that idea? If you're a girl of no fortune like me, you have to take what money comes. And I've taken it from everyone."

Now that she had learned what was planned, it was time to act, because if she didn't move quickly she would lose the initiative. She got to her feet and stretched provocatively, her arms over her head. His heated gaze followed the sway of her breasts.

"I've done what's needful for money, Oliver." With a rich bedroom chuckle, she gave him her hand. He took it and tugged her onto his lap, exactly as she had expected.

"But some things I do for myself ..."

Breathing heavily, he pulled her gown from one shoulder and grabbed her bare breast. She looked deep into his eyes, and finished, "... and this will be pure pleasure." Bending her head for a kiss, she murmured, "Oh, Oliver ..."

Then, as his lips crushed into hers, she lifted the china pitcher that she had carefully positioned on the table and smashed it into his head with all her strength.

The impact made a ghastly sound, pulpiness mixed with shattering china, and water cascaded over both of them. Northwood's eyes showed a flash of incredulity before he pitched over sideways, taking the chair and Maggie with him.

The fall knocked the breath from her, but she scrambled up quickly, equally fearful of having killed him and of not having hit hard enough. To her relief, he was unconscious but alive.

Earlier she had disconnected the drapery cords, and she used them to tie his wrists and ankles. Another length secured him to the legs of the heavy table. She also tore a length of fabric from the drapery lining and gagged him.

Then she searched his pockets. Besides the key to her room, he had a ring with several other keys in his coat. Not knowing which was for the closet in the embassy, she took them all.

After unlocking the door, she peered cautiously into the corridor. It was deserted. She gave the black cat pressing against her ankle a quick glance. "Come on,

Rexie darling. We're going to find Robin."

* * *

At Silves' cafe Roussaye settled at the table of a man he had served with in Italy, Raoul Fortrand. As soon as he could, he raised the subject of Henri Lemercier.Fortrand spat on the floor. "The swine. He was always a swine, and before his death he proved it."

His pulse speeding up, the general leaned forward. "What was he doing? And for whom?"

Fortrand shrugged. "God knows—something illegal, no doubt. I heard that he was working for Count de Varenne. They say Varenne expected to be prime minister after Talleyrand, and that he was furious when the king picked Richelieu. Maybe Varenne wanted Lemercier to assassinate the new prime minister."

Roussaye thought for a moment. Varenne's estate lay scarcely an hour outside Paris, convenient for plots and prisoners. Perhaps Roussaye was wrong, but his soldier's instinct demanded he investigate, and do it in force.

Rising to his feet, he looked around the cafe at the two dozen men there, many former comrades-in-arms. In a battlefield voice he called, "
Mes amis
!"

Quiet settled on the room as everyone turned to him.

Roussaye climbed onto his chair so that he could be seen by all. "My friends, I have evil news of a royalist plot against the Duke of Wellington, a soldier second only to Bonaparte himself. They say the Iron Duke will be assassinated, and the Bonapartists will be blamed. Men like us who have faithfully served our country will be persecuted, and France herself may be driven to the brink of civil war."

The silence was absolute. Roussaye looked at the familiar faces: at Moreau, who had lost his arm at Waterloo; at Chabrier, one of the handful of survivors of the disastrous Moscow campaign; at Chamfort, with whom he had shared a billet in Egypt. His voice soft, he said, "We may find the answers, and perhaps even a beautiful lady to rescue, at Chanteuil, the estate of the Count de Varenne. Will you come with me?"

Men began to rise to their feet, coming to him and offering their arms. Pitching his voice above the babble, Roussaye said, "All of you who have horses and weapons, follow me. Together we will make one last ride for France."

Helene Sorel had run two blocks before fatigue and common sense made her slow down. She was sure that Varenne was Le Serpent, and his lack of obvious motive had shielded his activities. But merciful heaven, what should she do now?

As she stood on a corner of Faubourg St. Germain, agonized indecision on her face, the clattering hooves of a passing horse suddenly stopped beside her. She looked up to see Karl von Fehrenbach swinging down from his mount, an uncertain expression on his face.

"Madame Sorel, I'm glad to see you. I have been thinking ..." Then he registered her distraught face and said sharply, "What's wrong?"

Logically Helene knew the colonel lived nearby, and it was mere chance that he was passing by. Yet when she looked at his broad, capable shoulders, it was hard not to think that he had been sent by heaven. The colonel was an influential man, and since he knew of her spy work he might believe her story.

After pausing a moment to organize her thoughts, she poured out the story of the conspiracy: the disappearance of the three British agents, her realization that Varenne must be the master plotter, and her belief that Chanteuil contained the answers.

The colonel listened without interrupting, his light blue eyes intent. When Helene came to the end of her story, he swung onto his horse, then extended his hand to her. "There is a Prussian barracks near the St. Cloud road. I will be able to get some men there to search Varenne's estate."

As Helene hesitated, he said impatiently. "To save time, you must come with me and show us the way to Chanteuil. If you are right, there is no time to be wasted."

Helene took his hand, and he lifted her easily onto the horse. As she settled sideways in front of him, she said anxiously, "But if I am wrong?"

'If you are wrong, there are compensations." The grave Prussian colonel did not quite smile, but he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. For the first time since they had met, it was possible to believe that he was really only thirty-four years old, the same age as she.

Helene became abruptly conscious of how close she was to his lean, athletic body, and how warm was the arm that held her steady. For a moment, the serene and worldly widow disappeared, and she blushed like a girl.

This time von Fehrenbach actually did smile. Then he put his heels to the horse, and they were away.

Though they knew the odds were poor, Rafe and Robin decided that they would attempt to break out the next time anyone entered their cell. Not long after the midday meal, the key rattled in the lock. Immediately they took the positions previously agreed on. Since Robin was in poor shape to fight, he lounged innocently in the straw while Rafe concealed himself in the corner behind the door so that he could attack whoever entered.