Petals in the Storm (39 page)

At the time, he had taken her words as an admission of guilt, and that admission had confirmed his belief in Northwood's accusations. Now her answer took on a whole new meaning.

Burying his face in his hands, Rafe groaned, "Bloody, bloody hell..." His rasping breath filled the cell, and only the other man's presence kept him from a total, shattering breakdown.

Even when Rafe had felt the most desperate pain at her imagined betrayal, he had been soothed by his belief that he was the injured party. Now that comfort was gone, and he saw his actions as Margot must have seen them.

Whatever she had become could be traced back to his betrayal of her, to his jealousy and lack of trust. The dim hope he had of regaining her love crumbled among the ruins of his pride.

How could she ever trust him again when he had utterly failed her? By his own actions Rafe had lost what was most important to him, and there were no words strong enough for the bitterness of his guilt.

As Robin's anger faded, he felt reluctant sympathy for the other man. The poor devil—it must hurt like hell to be knocked off the moral high ground by the realization that he had caused his own suffering, and Maggie's as well. A man like Candover, who was obviously honest to the backbone, had been easy prey for Northwood's sly malice.

In spite of Candover's accusation, Robin was very familiar with the world of aristocratic Englishmen, with their infernal games and clubs and gentleman's codes. It would have been natural to believe a companion, and Northwood would have seemed bluff and honest.

On the other hand, a young woman would have been a mysterious, almost magical creature to a romantic young man. It took maturity to learn that the similarities between men and women were greater than the differences.

Given the passion and possessiveness of first love, it was easy to understand how Candover had blundered, his emotions swamping his judgment. Who wasn't a fool when he was young? Robin certainly had been, though his foolishness had taken a different form from that of Candover.

Robin also knew Maggie well enough to be sure that her temper had contributed to the problem. If she had had the sense to burst into tears and deny the accusation, the breach could have been patched up in half an hour, and the two of them might have been happily married these last dozen years. In that case Robin would never have met Maggie, which would have been his loss but her gain.

Robin located Rafe's mug and pressed it into the other man's hand. "It's a little late to be suicidal, if that is the direction your guilt is taking you," he said dryly.

Still shaking, Rafe straightened up enough to drink, wishing that he had something stronger. Over the years he had prided himself on his civilized attitude, thinking that he should have accepted Margot's infidelities in return for her charm and companionship. He had even felt regret that she had been more in tune with the morals of their order than he, and had attributed his violent emotional reaction to immaturity.

Instead, he had been closer to the truth with his youthful idealism than with all the fashionable cynicism he had cultivated over the years. Margot Ashton had been as true and loving as he had believed her. It was Rafael Whitbourne, heir to the dukedom of Candover, universally respected scion of the aristocracy, who had been unworthy of such love.

Anderson said acerbically, "No wonder Maggie didn't want to have anything to do with you when you came to Paris. If she had told me about your past relationship, I would never have suggested that she get within seven leagues of you."

He fumbled one-handed with the heavy wine jug. Rafe helped him pour another mugful. The jug was much lighter than it had been; the last of the wine emptied into Anderson's mug. They must have put away the equivalent of two or three bottles each. Rafe wished there was more, though there wasn't enough alcohol in France to drown the way he felt.

"I gather that you are still in love with Maggie," Anderson remarked, as if the matter were of only minor importance.

"I'm as unbalanced about her now as I was when I was twenty-one." Rafe drew a shuddering breath. "I had always rather prided myself on my balance." He finished the last of his wine with a gulp. "She's too good for me."

"I wouldn't argue the point."

"What has happened in the years since then, and how did Margot come to be a spy? You said that you'd explain." Now that Rafe saw how her journey had begun, he could better understand the wary, slightly brittle woman she had become, with her toughness and suspicion, her flashes of humor and vulnerability. But there was still much that he wanted—
needed
—to know.

"There's been enough raging emotion in this cell for one night," Anderson said as he rolled up in one of the blankets. "I'll tell you the rest of the story in the morning, by which time I may have slept off my desire to kick you in the teeth."

As he burrowed into the straw, he added, "If you're going to spend the night flagellating yourself, kindly be quiet about it."

Anderson was right, enough had been said for one night. Rafe wrapped himself in the other blanket against the increasing chill, then settled in the straw.

Unlike his companion, he doubted that he would sleep.

Considering how much wine he had drank the night before, Rafe felt fairly well the next morning. He had even slept a little. By the time Anderson stirred, Rafe had come to terms with his new knowledge. There was no chance that Margot would ever forgive him, but he hoped that he would have a chance to beg her pardon for his criminal misjudgment. It seemed very important that he do so.

Breakfast proved to be fresh bread, sweet butter, strawberry preserves, and a large quantity of excellent hot coffee. As Rafe spread preserves on the bread, he said, "I have eaten a good deal worse at respectable English country inns."

"A pity Varenne's ambitions aren't aimed at the restaurant trade rather than at dictatorship," Anderson commented.

Rafe studied his companion. Though Anderson claimed that his arm was feeling better, he was probably lying; his face was flushed and he seemed feverish. Again Rafe was struck with a fleeting sense of recognition. The more he saw of Anderson, the more familiar the man seemed, yet the memory still eluded him.

They were just finishing breakfast when the door creaked open. Rafe expected that it would be a servant to remove the tray, but Varenne himself entered, the usual shotgun-carrying guards behind him.

Not bothering with amenities, he said tersely to Anderson, "I suppose Candover has explained what I am about?"

Anderson drained his coffee mug before answering. "He did. I was curious where I went wrong."

"Good." Reaching under his black coat, Varenne drew out a pistol. Aiming it at the precise center of Anderson's forehead, he said, "I would be reluctant to kill a man who doesn't know why he is dying. Though I regret the necessity of this, I have been unable to imagine any circumstances where you might be useful to me, and as long as you are alive you are a danger. A pity you could not be brought over to my side, but even if you pretended to do so now, I would not trust your promises."

As Rafe watched with frozen horror, Varenne added, "Do you have any last prayers or messages, Anderson? If so, be quick about it. This will be a busy day for me."

His face pale, Anderson glanced at Rafe. "Please ... give Maggie my love."

In the silence that followed his words, the sound of the hammer being cocked rang like the anvil of doom.

Though the hour was very early, the British embassy buzzed with activity and Oliver Northwood was greeted with relief by several of his colleagues who had worked all night. Even bedridden, Lord Castlereagh generated enough letters, proposals, memos, and draft treaties to keep a dozen men fully occupied, and being short-handed was taking its toll on the staff.

He heard several men express concern about Robert Anderson, who had been missing for several days. No surprises there; Northwood had a very good idea what had happened to him. Served the supercilious puppy right.

Shortly before eight o'clock, Northwood excused himself and made his way to the passage that ran beneath Castlereagh's bedroom. After nervously checking that the corridor was deserted, he unlocked the closet door and entered, closing it behind him. He hadn't considered how he would feel carrying a candle into an enclosure filled with gunpowder, and his hands were sweaty as he made the necessary preparations.

First he used his regular candle to create a pool of melted wax on the floor. Then he set the special candle of dense beeswax firmly into the puddle. When the wax had cooled and the candle was secure, he used his penknife to gouge a hole in the corner of a box of gunpowder. Finally he took a small bag of gunpowder from his pocket and laid a careful trail from the box to the candle, ending with a mound of powder around the base.

With exquisite care, he lit the beeswax candle. Then he cautiously let himself out of the closet, making sure that no draft would bring flame and gunpowder together prematurely.

Le Serpent had said it would take about eight hours for the candle to burn down. Except for the remote chance that someone would notice the scent of a burning candle in this seldom-used part of the embassy, the explosion would go off about four in the afternoon. By then, Northwood would be long gone.

When he was safely upstairs, he dug out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He deserved every bloody franc he had been paid, and then some. In the last couple of days security had gotten very tight at the embassy, with British soldiers at every entrance checking the credentials of strangers. As a regular employee Northwood had gotten in easily; Le Serpent could never have done this without him. Maybe he should ask for more money.

After returning to the clerks' copying room, Northwood settled down to make a fair copy of one of the interminable letters. The only other person present was a senior aide called Morier, who looked up with a tired smile. "Glad to see you, Northwood. Are you sure you're well enough to work? You look a little gray."

He couldn't look half as bad as Morier would after the explosion. The other man would attend the meeting this afternoon and he would be blown up, a minnow dying with the big fish. Northwood suppressed the thought uneasily; Morier had always been pleasant to him, and it was too bad that he would be caught in the conflagration. Well, it couldn't be helped. Smiling bravely, he said, "I still feel pretty beastly, but I thought I could manage a couple of hours. I know how overworked the rest of you are. A rotten time to be ill."