Petals in the Storm (5 page)
Her denial triggered a surge of the greatest anger Rafe had known in years. He could think of only one sure way to determine the identity of the woman in front of him. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, drew her hard against him, and kissed her mocking mouth.
It was Margot; he knew it in his bones. Not only because of the way her body curved into his, or the familiar softness of her lips, but because of a unique, elusive essence that was unmistakably hers.
Even without that recognition he would have known, because he had never met another woman whose touch produced such a blaze of desire. As passion burned through him, he forgot why he was in
Paris
, forgot the reason for this embrace, forgot everything but the miracle in his arms.
Margot shivered, and for an intoxicating instant she yielded, her body pliant and her mouth opening under his. The years seemed to fall away. Margot was alive, and all was right with the world for the first time in a dozen years....
The moment was over almost before it began. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight a little longer while he explored her mouth and marveled at how little she had changed in this particular way.
When she shoved violently against his chest, he reluctantly released her. She stepped back, her eyes blazing with such rage he thought she might strike him. To himself he acknowledged that she had the right to be angry, and he would have made no effort to avoid a blow.
Instead, in a mercurial change of mood, she laughed with genuine amusement. In her natural English accent she said, "I had you guessing, didn't I?"
"You certainly did." Glad to see a flash of the old Margot, Rafe studied her face, still not quite believing she was real. Why the devil hadn't Lucien told him who the spy was? Then he remembered that none of the other Fallen Angels had met Margot. Not knowing Maggie's real name or background, Lucien had no reason to make a connection between her and Rafe. Trying to sound collected, Rafe said, "Please forgive the impertinence, but it seemed the best way to establish your identity."
"Forgiveness is not my policy," she said flippantly, donning her worldly mask again. It was not an improvement.
She went to the sideboard where glasses arid an open bottle of
Bordeaux
stood. After pouring two glasses of vine, she handed one to Rafe. "Our kind hosts have provided everything a misbehaving couple might want. A pity to waste it all. Pray be seated." She sat in one f the solitary chairs, pointedly ignoring the velvet sofa.
As he settled in the other chair, she said, "Why should I have been hard to identify? I am said to be well preserved for woman of my advanced years."
" 'Age cannot wither her ...'?" He smiled faintly as he quoted the line. "That in itself is a cause of confusion—you scarcely look older now than at eighteen. But the real reason I had trouble deciding if you were Margot Ashton was that you were supposed to be dead."
"I am no longer Margot Ashton," she said, her tone edged, "but neither am I dead. What made you think I was?"
Even now that he knew she was alive, he needed to school his expression before he spoke. "You and your father were in
France
when the Peace of Amiens ended. It was reported that you were both killed by a French rabble on their way to offer their arms to Napoleon."
Her smoky eyes narrowed with an expression he couldn't interpret. "The news of that reached
England
?"
"Yes, and it caused quite an uproar. The public was outraged that a distinguished army officer and his beautiful young daughter were murdered simply for being British. However, since we were already at war with the French, no special diplomatic sanctions were possible." He studied her face as he drank his wine. "How much of the story is true?"
"Enough," she said tersely. Setting down her glass, she got to her feet. "You are here to try to persuade me to continue my services to
England
. You will appeal to my patriotism, then you will offer me a substantial amount of money. I will reject both. Since the outcome is already determined, I see no reason to waste my time listening to you. Good night, and good-bye. I hope you enjoy your stay in
Paris
."
She started toward the door, but stopped when Rafe raised his hand. "Please, wait a moment."
Now that he knew that "Maggie" was Margot, part of his job was done. She was certainly English, not French, Prussian, Italian, Hungarian, or any other role she chose to play.
Beyond that, he flatly refused to believe that she would ever betray her country. If British state secrets were being sold, it was not by her. But he was uncertain how to proceed. Given the resentment Margot obviously felt for him, Lucien could not have made a worse choice of envoy. "Will you give me ten minutes?" he asked. "I may surprise you with something you don't expect, Margot."
For a moment, the issue waved in the balance. Then she shrugged and took her seat again. "I doubt it, but go ahead. And kindly remember that I am not Margot. I am Maggie."
"What is the difference between the two?"
Her eyes narrowed again. "None of your bloody business, your grace. Please say your piece so that I may leave."
Though it was hard to continue in the face of such hostility, he had to try. "Why must you leave
Paris
at this particular moment? The new treaty will be negotiated and signed before the end of the year. It may be only a few more weeks."
She made a dismissive gesture. "That argument was used on me at Boney's first abdication. The Congress of Vienna was supposed to be over in six or eight weeks, and lasted nine months instead. Before it was finished, Napoleon had returned and once more my services were indispensable."
She lifted her wineglass and sipped. "I am tired of postponing my life," she said with a trace of weariness. "Bonaparte is on his way to
St. Helena
to preach his destiny to the sea gulls, and it is time for me to take care of some long overdue business."
Sensing that her mood had changed, he risked asking another personal question. "What kind of business?"
She stared down at her glass, swirling the wine. "I will go first to
Rafe felt a prickle at the base of his neck as he guessed what she had in mind. "Why?"
She looked up at him, her face expressionless. "To find my father's body and take it back to
England
. It has been twelve years. It will take time to find where they buried him."
Though he had guessed correctly, he took no pleasure in it. The wine tasted bitter on his tongue, for he must speak of something he would have preferred to keep private. "There is no need to go to
Her brows drew together. "What do you mean?"
"I happened to be in
Paris
when news of your deaths arrived, so I went to the village in
les deux Anglais
,' and assumed that you and your father were buried there. I arranged to have the bodies returned to
England
. They are in the family plot on your uncle's estate."
The worldly veneer dissolved and she bent over, burying her face in her hands. Rafe wished he could comfort her, but knew that there was nothing she would accept from him.
He had envied the friendly, loving relationship between Margot and her father, so different from the distant politeness between Rafe and his own sire. Colonel Ashton had been an affable, direct soldier, less interested in seeing his daughter a duchess than in seeing her happy. His death at the hands of a mob would have devastated her.
After a long silence, Maggie raised her head. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, but her face was composed. "The second coffin must have been Willis, my father's orderly. He was a small man, about my height. The two of them ... gave a good account of themselves when we were attacked."
She stood and crossed to the window, pushing the heavy brocade drapery aside to gaze down into the boulevard. Her haunted image was reflected in the dark glass. "Uncle Willy was almost a member of the family. He taught me how to shoot dice and cheat at cards. My father would have been appalled if he had known."
A faint smile crossed her face, then vanished. "I'm glad that Willis is in
England
—he would have loathed the thought of his bones spending eternity in
France
. I was going to take his body back as well, but you have made that unnecessary."
She turned to face Rafe, no longer hostile. "Why did you do it? It couldn't have been easy."
Indeed it hadn't been, even for a young man of wealth and determination. Rafe had come to
France
with the secret hope of finding Margot. Even when war threatened to break out again, he had postponed his departure.
Then, just as the Peace of Amiens ended, news of their deaths at the hands of a mob had reached
Paris
. A sensible man would have instantly returned to
London
to avoid being interned for the duration of the war. Rafe, who had not been sensible where Margot was concerned, had instead sent his servants home and made his way across
France
alone, using his excellent French to pass as a native.
It had taken weeks to locate the graves. Because of the danger, he had taken the lead-encased coffins over the
Pyrenees
into
Spain
rather than risk crossing
France
again.
The two coffins had been reinterred at the Ashton family estate in Leicestershire. With his own hands Rafe had planted daffodils on the smaller grave, because he had met Margot in the spring and daffodils always reminded him of her. He would not speak of that. The action was not only maudlin and sentimental, but vaguely laughable since hindsight now showed that he had acted under a misapprehension.
He wondered where Margot had been when he was in
After a long pause, she asked, "Why did you feel it was necessary to apologize?"
"Because I behaved very badly, of course." He shrugged. "The more time passed, the worse my behavior looked."
Maggie took a deep, slow breath. She should have known this interview would not go according to plan. Rafe Whitbourne had always been able to find the vulnerable spots in her. That sensitivity had been welcome when they were young and in love, but it was intolerable now that love was gone. She hated losing her control in front of him.
When she was sure her voice would be even, she looked directly at him and said, "I am obligated to you." Cynically she wondered if he would try to use her sense of duty to persuade her to stay in
Paris
.
Instead, he said, "There is no obligation. I suppose I did it for myself as much as for you."
His quiet disclaimer bound her as nothing else could have. Resigned, she said, "You can tell Lord Strathmore that I will stay and continue working until the conference is over and the treaty is resolved. Is that satisfactory?"
He wisely refrained from any show of triumph when he answered. "Very good, especially since there is more at stake here than routine information gathering. Lord Strathmore has a special task for you."
"Oh?" Maggie returned to her chair. "What does Strathmore want me to do?"
"He has heard hints of a plot to assassinate one of the major figures here at the peace conference. He would like you to investigate as quickly and thoroughly as you can."
Maggie frowned, personal considerations forgotten. "Just three weeks ago a plot to assassinate the king, the tsar, and
Wellington
was exposed. Could that be the source of the rumors?"
"No, Lucien was aware of that affair, and this seems to be separate. What makes this new conspiracy so dangerous are indications that it originates in the highest diplomatic circles of the conference. Not only will it be harder to detect, but it means the conspirators have better access to their targets." Rafe reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded and sealed sheet of paper. "Lucien sent this to explain what he knows."
Maggie accepted the note and made it disappear. "Did you read what he wrote?"
His brows arched. "Of course not. It was sent to you."
"You'd never make a spy."
Rafe's voice was silky, but for the first time emotion showed through. "Quite true. I could never
match
your talent for deceit and betrayal."
Maggie whipped herself upright in the chair, her kid-skin slippers slapping to the floor as the room pulsed with the unspoken past. For a moment her fury threatened to spill out, but years of hard training stood her in good stead and she managed to master herself. "No, I'm sure you couldn't," she said acidly. "When your fairy godmother waved her wand over the ducal crib, the special gifts she bestowed were stubbornness and self-righteousness."
