Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 8

Maggie gestured vaguely. "Surely not all the French are devoid of honor."

  "No? With a king who fled his own capital and slunk back in the baggage train of the Allies? With turncoats like Talleyrand leading them?" The colonel's words began to spill out in an angry torrent. "France rose up behind the Corsican when he returned from Elba, and she deserves to be punished. Her lands should be divided and given to other nations, her people humiliated, her very name wiped from the map of Europe."

  Rafe was startled by von Fehrenbach's intensity. The colonel was clearly a dangerous man, quite capable of destroying any Frenchmen that crossed his path.

  Maggie said softly, "Have we not learned anything in two thousand years? Shall there be only vengeance, with no place for forgiveness?"

  "You are a woman," the colonel said with a dismissive shrug. "It is not to be expected that you would understand such things."

  Deciding that he had been silent long enough, Rafe interjected, "I do not suffer from the countess's failing in that regard, but I agree with her that vengeance may not be the best course. To humiliate a losing opponent is to make an implacable enemy. It's better to help him rise and keep his dignity."

  The cold blue eyes shifted from Maggie to Rafe. "You English and your obsession with sportsmanship and fair play," he said with contempt. "That is all very well with boxing and games, but we are talking about war. It was the French who taught my people what we know about savagery and destruction, and it is a lesson we have learned well. Would you be so fair-minded if your lands had been burned, your family murdered?"

  The other man's obvious anguish caused Rafe to back away from what he might have said. "I would like to think that I would try, but I don't know if I would be successful."

  The tension eased and von Fehrenbach retreated behind his impassive mask. "I am glad to hear you admit doubt. Every other Briton in Paris seems to think he has all the answers."

  It could have been taken as an insult, but Rafe let the comment pass. He touched the back of Maggie's right arm, silently questioning whether it was time they left.

  Before either of the three could move, a woman joined them. She was small, with a sweetly pretty face framed in soft waves of brown hair. Her rounded body was more sensual than elegant, but her blue satin gown showed the unmistakable style of a Frenchwoman.

  "Hélène, my dear, you are looking very well. It has been too long," Maggie said warmly.

  After a swift glance at the colonel, the newcomer kissed Maggie's cheek. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Magda. I've only just returned to the city." Her voice had the same sweetness as her face.

  Maggie introduced her to the two men as Madame Sorel. After offering her hand to Rafe, the Frenchwoman turned to the Prussian. "Colonel von Fehrenbach and I are acquainted."

  The colonel's face pokered up even more, if that was possible. In a voice that could only be described as forbidding, he said, "Indeed we are."

  Sensing the tension, Rafe wondered if Maggie knew what lay between her friend and the Prussian.

  Before Madame Sorel could reply, von Fehrenbach said, "If you will excuse me, I must attend Marshal Blücher. Ladies, your grace." He nodded, then made his escape.

  As she watched the ramrod-straight back vanish into the crowd, Maggie exclaimed, "Good heavens, Hélène, what did you do to that man to make him bolt like a cavalryman?"

  Madame Sorel shrugged, the movement causing a charming ripple of curves. "Nothing. I have met him several times at various functions. He always glares at me as if I were Napoleon himself, then walks away. Who knows what might be on his mind? Except that he has no use for anything or anyone French."

  Studying her friend with shrewdly narrowed eyes, Maggie said, "But he is a fine figure of a man, no?"

  Hélène said dryly, "He is not a man, he is a Prussian." After exchanging a few more remarks, she took her leave with a charming smile.

  Rafe watched her swaying walk with male appreciation. When she was out of earshot, he asked, "What was going on there that I did not understand?"

  "I'm not sure," Maggie said thoughtfully, "though I might hazard a guess." Glancing up at him, she said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  As she headed for the ladies' retiring room, Rafe compared her walk with Madam Sorel's, and decided that while the Frenchwoman was well worth watching, it was amazing Maggie didn't have crowds of men following her down the street.

  His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the regrettable Oliver Northwood. "Congratulations, Candover, you're a fast worker. Three days in Paris and you've captured the countess." Northwood's words were jovial, but his beefy face was malicious. "Not that she's hard to capture, for a man who has the price."

  Turning to give Northwood his most frigid stare, Rafe said, "I thought you were unacquainted with the lady."

  "After you told me her name, I made inquiries. No one knows much except that she's a widow, she's received everywhere, and she has expensive tastes." He winked meaningfully. "She's very good at getting others to pay for her pleasures."

  Rafe should have buried his fist in Northwood's gut. Instead, to his disgust, he found himself asking, "What else did you learn about her?"

  "She's said to be worth every penny of her price, but then, you would know that better than I, wouldn't you?"

  It was the vulgarity that disturbed him, Rafe decided. After all, Maggie was a spy, and what better way to get men to talk than over a pillow? She had to support herself, and it was doubtful that the British government paid her enough to maintain that house or that wardrobe. Behaving like any other highborn tart who expected jewels in return for her favors was a splendid way of concealing her deeper purposes.

  Odd how it was easier to think Maggie was a whore than to believe she would betray her country.

  * * *

  Maggie was seated at one of the mirrored vanity tables when the only other lady in the retiring room said in English-accented French, "Isn't Candover a splendid lover?"

  Maggie swiveled around to stare at the young woman sitting at the neighboring vanity table. In her chilliest tone, she said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm sorry, that was dreadfully forward of me," the girl said remorsefully. "But I saw you with Candover and it seemed from the way you were acting that, well..." She finished with a vague wave of her hand. Her face was flushed, as if she was only now realizing how outrageous her comment had been.

  Amusement replaced Maggie's irritation. "I assume from your comment that you have personal experience of his grace's skills?"

  The girl ducked her head in agreement. She must be at least twenty-five, not really a girl, but her guileless air made her seem younger. "My name is Cynthia Northwood. Rafe was... very kind to me earlier in my marriage, when I needed kindness."

  Intrigued, Maggie asked, "And now your marriage is better and you no longer need kindness?"

  "No," Cynthia said, her wide brown eyes hardening, "now my marriage is nothing to me, and I have found kindness elsewhere."

  Maggie sighed inwardly. It was one of the curses and blessings of her life that people felt compelled to tell her their innermost secrets. Even total strangers like this artless chit seemed to assume that she would offer good advice, or at least an understanding ear.

  A talent for getting people to talk was an asset to a spy, but did she really want to hear about the Duke of Candover's amorous prowess from his former mistresses? In an effort to head off more confidences, she said, "I am Magda, Countess Janos, but perhaps you know that already."

  "Oh, yes, everyone seems to know you. I've been admiring you since you came in. You have such presence. You and Rafe are the handsomest couple here. He seems so absorbed in you. Not like he is with most women."

  How could one be insulted by such a naive tribute? Nonetheless, Maggie said severely, "Mrs. Northwood, don't you know how improper such remarks are?"

  Cynthia flushed again. "My wretched tongue! My mother died when I was very small, and my father always encouraged me to speak my mind in the most unla
dylike manner. And... and my friend Major Brewer likes it, too. He says I'm not missish, like most women. Truly, I mean no insult," she said earnestly. "But I am very fond of Rafe. He looked happy with you. I don't think he is happy very often."

  Intrigued against her better judgment, Maggie said, "Surely Candover has everything a man could want: birth, wealth, intelligence, enough charm and address for three men. What makes you think he is not happy?"

  "He always seems a little bored. Perfectly polite, but not really caring about what he does. Of course," she added sadly, "perhaps that was just how he was with me. I know he never thought I was interesting, I was nowhere near intelligent enough for him. He only got involved with me because he had nothing better to do at the time."

  Maggie listened to Cynthia's speech with horrified fascination and a certain respect. Perhaps there was more to the girl than had been first apparent. "Mrs. Northwood, you really should not say such things to a stranger."

  "No, I shouldn't. But I have been doing wrong things ever since I arrived in Paris, and I have every intention of getting worse before I get better." With a lift of her chin, she added, "Countess Janos, I am sincerely sorry if I have embarrassed you. I hope you will believe that I wish both you and the Duke of Candover well. I wish everyone well, except my husband."

  Then she left, not without a certain dignity.

  Maggie shook her head as she thought over the strange conversation. If ever she had seen a young woman headed for trouble, it was Cynthia Northwood.

  Chapter 6

  Rafe was quite capable of administering a setdown that would dismiss even so thick-skinned an oaf as Oliver Northwood, but he refrained. Northwood was obviously waiting in hopes of an introduction to Countess Janos, and Rafe had a perverse, unhealthy desire to see how Maggie would react when unexpectedly confronted with her first lover. Assuming that Northwood had been the first, as he had claimed.

  With his advantage of height, Rafe could see Maggie making her way through the swirling crowd, pausing sometimes to greet acquaintances. It was all casual, until she stopped to talk with a fair-haired man in the center of the room.

  Ordinarily Rafe would have thought nothing of it, but his perceptions had been heightened by his present mission. For a moment Maggie's social mask slipped and intense concentration showed on her face. Then she continued her progress.

  The fair-haired man had his back to Rafe, but when Maggie moved away, he turned to gaze after her. With surprise, Rafe identified Robert Anderson, the British embassy underling who had introduced Rafe to the mysterious lady spy. Lucien had told Maggie not to deal with anyone in the delegation except the men at the top, so why had she been talking to Anderson with such earnestness?

  Rafe wished he could remember who Anderson reminded him of. The fellow had struck Rafe as negligible on their first meeting, but when he had looked after Maggie, there had been an expression of shrewd capability on his face.

  As a smiling Maggie came to his side, Rafe wondered if this foray into spying was making him overly fanciful. Soon he would be suspecting everyone and everything. No wonder Maggie had been prickly and suspicious in their first meetings. After years in the shadowy world of intelligence gathering, she must have forgotten what normal life was like.

  Maggie laid one hand on Rafe's arm and raised her smoky eyes to his. "Are you ready to leave, mon cher? Things are sadly flat here, and I can offer better amusement at home."

  "Anywhere you wish to go, Magda, my love." Rafe covered her hand with his own. "But first, let me introduce you to an admirer. This is Oliver Northwood, of the British delegation. Northwood, Countess Janoes."

  Maggie's control was admirable. Though Rafe watched her closely, her only visible reaction to Northwood was a faint tightening of her lips. Of course, she probably knew that he was in Paris and that they would meet sooner or later, so she had mentally prepared for this encounter.

  Or had she had so many lovers that the first meant nothing? Very few of Rafe's old mistresses could have disconcerted him. Why should Maggie be any different?

  Why indeed, except that he wanted her to be different?

  Northwood bowed and said ingratiatingly, "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Countess. I have indeed been admiring you from afar."

  Maggie acknowledged his words with a cool nod. It had taken her several moments to recognize him. As a young man he had not been without a certain boisterous charm, but the years had coarsened him. Or rather, his actions over time had indelibly shaped his face. His eyes reminded her of slugs—cold, damp, and slimy. She did not offer her hand.

  He must be Cynthia Northwood's husband. Poor Cynthia. She would have been too young and innocent to realize the kind of man she was marrying.

  Northwood said with heavy gallantry, "Our little northern island is incapable of producing beauties such as you."

  From the twitch of Rafe's lips, Maggie gathered that he was amused by the wrongheadedness of Northwood's compliment. Smiling sweetly, she said, "You are too hard on your countrywomen, Mr. Northwood. I have just met one who is the fairest of English roses. Such a lovely complexion, and such a forthright manner!" Drawing her brows together, she added, "But surely she said her name was Northwood, Cynthia Northwood?"

  His expression soured. "My wife is held to be a good-looking female."

  "You are too modest on her behalf, monsieur." Smiling brilliantly, she continued, "It's been a pleasure to meet you. I trust our paths will cross again. But now we must be leaving."

  Deftly she removed Rafe and herself from the reception.

  When they were safely alone in his carriage, Rafe said with sardonic admiration, "It's an education to watch you work, whether you're coaxing a man to talk, or depressing his aspirations."

  "Mr. Northwood is a common type. Unfortunately." She carefully peeled off her long gloves. "His wife offered her felicitations on my choice of lovers."

  Rafe sighed inwardly. Though he had always rather enjoyed Cynthia's forthrightness, he wished she had held her tongue this time. "I'm sure she meant well." By this time thoroughly tired of the Northwoods, he continued, "What does your intuition tell you about Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

  In the brief flare of a streetlamp, he saw a grave expression on Maggie's face. "It should be obvious why we consider him a major suspect. What were your impressions?"

  "He certainly hates the French enough to be dangerous, and with his military background he would be a skilled, formidable adversary. And yet"—Rafe paused, trying to define his perceptions—"he makes no attempt to disguise his feelings. Surely a conspirator would be more circumspect?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not," she said reflectively. "He might be so angry that he wouldn't care what happened to him after he accomplished his goal."

  "Do you think he is our man?"

  The silence was so long that Rafe wondered if she was going to answer. With a hint of steel in his voice, he said, "Maggie, for the sake of our mission I will let you drag me around like a fur muff to disguise your interrogations, but do not treat me like a backward child when we are alone. Like it or not, we are in this together, and there is a greater likelihood of success if we share our information and surmises."

  "Is that a threat, your grace?" Her voice was lightly mocking. "If I don't choose to lay bare my thoughts, will you beat me until I change my mind?"

  "I have a better way of persuading you than that," he replied with deliberate ambiguity.

  "If Cynthia Northwood was correct in her praise of your abilities, I suppose that means you intend to overpower my feeble female brain with kisses." The sarcasm was blistering.

  "Not at all. All I have to do is appeal to your sense of fairness, the inbred Achilles heel of Britain."

  After a moment of surprised silence, she laughed out loud. "Rafe, your talents are wasted. You should have become a negotiator like Castlereagh. You certainly know how to take advantage of an opponent."

  "We are not opponents," he pointed out. "We are partners."

  "I must admi
t that I have trouble remembering that." She paused, then said, "Despite von Fehrenbach's anger, I don't think he is our man. He's not the sort to plot in secret; he would think it ignoble. He might walk up to Talleyrand and shoot him in the heart, but I doubt that he would lower himself to conspire with others. Though the colonel is like a wounded, dangerous bear, I don't think that he is the one we seek."

  "Tell me about Madame Sorel."

  "Hélène is a widow with two daughters. Her husband was a French officer who died at Wagram. She was left comfortably off, and is received in the best Parisian society. We've been friends for years, and I trust her."

  "Would you care to guess why von Fehrenbach reacted to her presence so vehemently?"

  "I think the reason is very simple, and not at all political."

  Rafe accepted that without comment. "If you're right about von Fehrenbach, one of the Frenchmen is the most likely villain."

  "If I am right." Maggie's voice took on a note of bitterness. "But it's not unknown for me to be wrong."

  Things can be done in the darkness that would be impossible in the light. Rafe impulsively reached across the seat to take her cool, tense hand in his own. He neither knew nor cared what memories brought that tone to her voice. All that mattered was that she had carried burdens too heavy for even the broadest of shoulders, and that she was feeling that weight.

  Her fingers tightened convulsively around his, though she made no other acknowledgment. Her hand warmed, became more relaxed. For the first time, Rafe felt that the barriers between them had gone down. Perhaps they would get along better if they didn't talk to each other.

  When they reached her house, Maggie released his clasp to pull her cashmere shawl about her shoulders. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, her mouth quirked up. "You see yourself as a fur muff?"

  He smiled. "Or some other useless, ornamental object carried only for display." He turned and dismissed his carriage.

  Maggie gave him a hard look when he followed her into the house. Before she could comment, he said, "If we are to maintain the illusion of an affair, I can't drop you at your doorstep and leave. After a suitable interval, I'll walk back to my hotel. It isn't far from here."