Petals in the Storm (3 page)

Rafe couldn't help laughing. "So you are no longer sure where the lady's loyalties lie, if indeed she can be called a lady."

"She's a lady, no doubt about that," Lucien snapped. "But whose lady is she?"

Rafe was surprised by the vehement reaction, for Lucien was not sentimental where his work was concerned. Mildly Rafe said, "What should I do if I find that she has been betraying the British—assassinate her?"

Lucien gave Rafe a hard glance, not sure if the remark had been a jest. "As I said earlier, it's not a killing matter. If she's untrustworthy, simply inform foreign Minister Castlereagh so that he won't rely on what she says. He may want to use her to feed false information to her other masters."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Rafe said. "You want me to seek the lady out and persuade her to use her skills to uncover any assassination plots that might be afoot. In addition, I must ascertain where her loyalties lie, and if there are grounds for suspicion, I warn the head of the British delegation not to rely on her work. Correct?"

"Precisely. But you'll have to move quickly. The negotiations won't last much longer, so any conspirators will have to strike soon." Lucien glanced at Nicholas, who had been listening in silence. "Based on your dealings with Maggie in her Maria Bergen disguise, do you have anything to suggest?"

"Well, she's undoubtedly the most beautiful spy in
Europe
." Nicholas went on to contribute his evaluation of the woman, but the ensuing discussion resolved nothing.

Finally Rafe said, "The information we have is nothing if not contradictory. Obviously your Maggie is a superb actress. I'll have to play the situation by ear and hope that she proves susceptible to my famous charm."

As they all got to their feet, Lucien asked Rafe, "How soon will you be able to leave?"

"Day after tomorrow. The most beautiful spy in
Europe
? The prospect sounds quite stimulating." There was a gleam in Rafe's eye as he stubbed out his cigar. "I promise that I shall do my utmost for king and country."

They all returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. After he had done enough socializing to seem normal, Rafe was impatient to get away, but it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask what the so-beautiful Maggie looked like. Since Lucien had disappeared, Rafe went in search of Nicholas.

Seeing his friend step into a curtained alcove, Rafe followed. Yet when he pushed aside the curtain, he halted, one hand clenching the edge of the drapery.

In the shadowy alcove, Nicholas and his wife Clare were in each other's arms. Not kissing; if that had been the case, Rafe would have smiled and left without a second thought. But the sight that met his eyes was simpler, yet more disturbing.

Clare and Nicholas were resting against each other, eyes closed, his arms circling her waist, her forehead against his cheek. It was a tableau of perfect trust and understanding, and far more intimate than the most passionate embrace.

Since his presence had not been noticed, Rafe silently withdrew, his face tight.

It wasn't good to be too envious of one's friends.

After a day of frenzied preparation, the Duke of Candover was ready to leave
England
. He would be traveling fast, taking only one carriage, his valet, and a wardrobe that would do justice to his rank in the most fashionable capital in
Europe
.

As the clock struck
midnight
, he sat down in his study with a glass of brandy and leafed through the day's correspondence to see if there was anything urgent. Near the bottom of the pile was a note from Lady Jocelyn Kendal. Or rather, Lady Presteyne; since she was now very married, he must stop using her maiden name. In the note she thanked Rafe for his good advice in sending her back to her husband, extolled the joys of a happy marriage, and urged him to try it himself.

He smiled a little, glad to hear that matters had worked out. Underneath her beauty, famous name, and extravagant fortune, Jocelyn was also a very nice girl.If she and Lord Presteyne were both raving romantics,perhaps they would stay happy indefinitely, though Rafe had his doubts. He raised his glass in a solitary toast to her and her fortunate husband and drained the brandy, then smashed the glass into the fireplace.

The toast came from the heart, yet his smile went wry as he contemplated the shattered results of his uncharacteristic gesture. A man known for savoir faire would have been wiser to refrain. All he had to show for the moment was one less crystal goblet and a nagging sense of loss.

He poured another glass of brandy, then settled back in the wing chair and surveyed his library with a jaundiced eye. It was a beautifully proportioned room, a symphony of Italianate richness. In all of Rafe's vast holdings, there was no spot he enjoyed as much. That being the case, why the devil did he feel so depressed?

Wearily he recognized that the only way to cure his morbid mood was by giving in to it. Jocelyn wasn't the issue; if he had wanted the girl that much, he could have married her.

What disturbed Rafe was the way she had reminded him of Margot—beautiful, betraying Margot, dead these last dozen years. There was little physical resemblance, but both women had had a bright, laughing spirit that was irresistible. Whenever he had been with Jocelyn, he had found himself remembering Margot. She had moved him as no other woman ever had—and since he could never be that young again, no other woman ever would.

As he sipped his brandy, he tried to think objectively about Margot Ashton, but it was impossible to be rational about his first love. First and last, actually; the experience had cured him forever of romantic illusions. But at the time, the illusion had seemed very real.

Margot was not the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and certainly not the wealthiest or best-born. But she had had warmth and charm in lavish abundance, and she had sparkled with matchless vitality.

Bittersweet images flooded his mind. The first time he saw her; the first hesitant, miraculous kiss; lengthy sessions over a chessboard, when the formal moves had masked a deeper, more passionate game; the interview with a gently amused Colonel Ashton when Rafe haltingly had asked for her hand.

Most vivid of all was a morning when they had met in
Hyde Park
for a dawn ride. A light rain had been falling as he trotted through the quiet
Mayfair
streets, but the sky cleared as he entered the park. Ahead of him, arching through the dawn-bright air, had been an intensely colored rainbow. As he admired it, Margot had emerged from the mist at the foot of the rainbow, riding a silvery gray mare like a fairy queen from legend.

She had laughed and held out her hand to him, a living treasure at rainbow's end. Even then he had known that the magical image was a mere trick of weather and light, but it had seemed like the deepest reality he would ever know.

A fortnight later the affair ended, and so did his illusions.

His deepest regret came from the knowledge that it was his own jealousy and anger that had ended their engagement. If he had possessed at twenty-one the cool composure he developed later—if he had been able to accept her deceitfulness—he could have had her friendship for all these years.

For when all was said and done, her companionship was what he missed most. He knew that time had enhanced his memories, for no woman could possibly be is desirable as recollection painted her. But he had never stopped missing the way Margot had shared his laughter, or the impact of her changeable eyes meeting us across a room with such intimacy that he would forget that the rest of the world existed.

His reverie ended when the stem of the goblet in his and snapped, cutting his fingers and splashing brandy cross his lap. Scowling at the mess, he stood up. He'd had no idea the stems were so fragile. The butler would sulk for days when he discovered that the set of crystal goblets was now two short.

Rafe rose and headed upstairs to his bedchamber. A little self-indulgent melancholy was poetic, but he was beginning a hard journey early the next morning. It was time to bury thoughts of youthful foolishness and get some rest.

"NO!"

Though the perfume bottle whizzed by his temple with no more than two inches to spare, Robert Anderson made no attempt to dodge, knowing that Maggie had an excellent aim and no real desire to damage him. She was merely, so to speak, sending him a message. With her usual good sense, she had chosen to throw the bottle of cheap scent given to her by a purse-pinching Bavarian with poor taste.

Robin smiled at his companion. Her magnificent bosom was heaving and her eyes flashed sparks; gray ones today, because of the silvery robe she wore. "Why don't you want to meet this duke that Lord Strathmore is sending? You should be flattered that the Foreign Office is taking such an interest in you."

A spate of Italian profanity was his answer. He tilted his blond head to one side and listened critically. When her outburst was over, he said, "Very creative, Maggie, love, but it isn't like you to slip out of character. Surely Magda, Countess Janos, should swear in Magyar?"

"I know more profanity in Italian," she said loftily. 'And you know perfectly well that I never slip out of character with anyone but you." Her look of aristocratic dignity gave way to an impish chuckle. "Don't think you can change the subject, which is the Most Noble, the Duke of Candover."

"So it is." Robin studied his companion thoughtfully. They had known each other for a long time, and though the relationship was no longer an intimate one, they were still the best of friends. It was unlike her to be temperamental, even when she had been acting the part of a volatile Hungarian noblewoman for two years. "What do you have against the duke?"

Maggie sat down at her vanity table and lifted an ivory-backed brush, then began pulling it through the tawny waves of hair that fell over her shoulders. Scowling into the mirror, she said, "The man's a prig."

"Does that mean he didn't adequately appreciate your charms?" Robin said with interest. "Strange— Candover has the reputation of being quite the lady's man. I can't believe that he would ignore a tasty morsel like you."

"I am nobody's tasty morsel, Robin! Rakes are the biggest prigs of all. Pious hypocrites, in my experience." She tugged viciously at a knot in her hair. "Don't try to pick a new fight until we've finished with the current one. I refuse to have anything to do with the Duke of Candover, just as I refuse to continue spying. That part of my life is over, and no one—not you, not the duke, not Lord Strathmore—can change my mind. As soon as I take care of a few matters of business, I will be leaving
Paris
."