Petals in the Storm (12 page)

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.

"Helene, 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, Helene, 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?"

Helene 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 in astonishment 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 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 seemed 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 unladylike 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, and 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.

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?