Petals in the Storm (9 page)

Still, though she never doubted that she had done the right thing, her bed had been cold and lonely. No doubt that was why Rafe looked so blasted attractive... . Hastily she changed the direction of her thoughts.

Robin had recently emerged from the murkier pools of spying to join the British embassy as a clerk. Maggie assumed that his identity was known to Lord Castlereagh, but the rest of the mission probably thought he was merely an agreeable rattle of no particular ability.

She was glad that he was nearby, and not only because she enjoyed his company. Given the possible threat to the peace negotiations, his remarkable talents were needed.

After deciding on her plan of action, Maggie donned her inconspicuous widow costume and set off to visit her most useful informants. If her women knew what to look for, they should be able to add to Maggie's sketchy knowledge. And if she was lucky, her friend Helene Sorel would soon be back in Paris and able to assist in the task.

Over pot-au-feu, a long baguette of bread, and a jug of wine, Maggie and Robin discussed what they had learned in the last twenty-four hours. Splitting the last of the wine between them, she said, "We're agreed then?"

"Yes, the three men we have decided on are the most likely masterminds, though we'll have to watch half a dozen more." Robin ran a tired hand through his fair hair. "Even then, we may not have the right man."

"Well, it's the best we can do. I suppose we could warn the guards around the most important persons, but there have been so many other plots that everyone is already cautious."

"True." Robin studied Maggie's face. There were shadows under the changeable gray-green eyes, as if she had slept badly. "I have an idea you're not going to like."

Maggie's mouth quirked up. "I have disliked the majority of your ingenious ideas over the years, so don't let that stop you."

Refusing to respond to her teasing, he said, "I think that you and Candover should pretend you are lovers."

"What!" Maggie banged her glass down so hard the wine sloshed out. "Why the devil should I do a mad thing like that?"

"Hear me out, Maggie. Our suspects are all senior officials who divide their time between fighting over the treaty and attending salons and balls with the rest of the diplomatic corps. The best way to approach them is by going to the same places."

"Can't you do that?"

"I'm not important enough. A junior clerk would be out of place at the more exclusive functions."

"Why can't I go by myself?"

Robin said patiently, "Maggie, you're being unreasonable. It was bad enough going to that Austrian ball alone—if you do it again, it will be assumed that you are looking for a lover. You'll spend all your time fighting off men who are interested in you for nonpolitical reasons."

"I have had ample experience dealing with that!"

Ignoring her interjection, he continued, "Candover is a perfect escort. He's important enough to be invited everywhere, yet he has no official government position. And, of course, he's a friend of Strathmore's and here to help us investigate this conspiracy. If you and he go about together, you can go anywhere and talk to anyone without rousing suspicion."

Fighting a valiant rearguard action, Maggie said, "Do you think it's really necessary for me to do this, Robin?"

"Your intuition is the best weapon we've got." He caught her eye, trying to impress his opinion on her. "Time and again you have felt there was something wrong about a person we had no reason to suspect, and have been proved right. In the absence of hard evidence we are going to need every advantage we have, which means you must get well enough acquainted with our suspects to develop an opinion, and perhaps pick up some clues. But you can't do that unless you get close to them."

"You're right," she said reluctantly. "If I knew them well, they wouldn't be on our list because I would already have an excellent notion of their innocence or guilt. But I don't know if I can make convincing cow-eyes at Candover. I'm more likely to throw a glass of wine in his arrogant face."

Robin relaxed, knowing he had won his point. "I'm sure that someone with your magnificent acting skills can do a good job of draping yourself over the duke. In fact, I should think most women would envy you the job."

Ignoring her snort, he added, "Besides, this investigation might be very dangerous, much more so than your usual sort of work. We're talking about desperate men, and time is running out for them. The Allied rulers are all anxious to finalize the treaty and return to their kingdoms. They should be gone by the end of September at the latest, so if anything is going to happen, it will be in the next two or three weeks."

"So?" she prompted.

"If someone suspects you, your life could be forfeit," he said bluntly. "Candover might not be a professional agent, but he looks like he'd be useful in a fight. Since I can't be near you most of the time, I'll feel better if he is."

"Since when have you decided that I am incapable of taking care of myself?" she snapped.

"Maggie," he said gently, "no one is invulnerable, no matter how clever he—or she—is."

Her face paled at the reference. Robin didn't like reminding her of the circumstances of their first meeting, but wanted to ensure that she would be cautious. He knew from experience that Maggie was brave to the point of recklessness.

After a moment she gave him a resigned smile. "Very well, Robin. Assuming Candover can be convinced to cooperate, he and I shall become an object of gossip. We will be seen everywhere, and will appear so enraptured that no one will suspect us of having a useful thought in our heads."

"Good." He stood. "Time to go. I have to meet someone who never lets himself be seen by the light of day."

Maggie rose also. "Since time is in short supply, I'll pay a visit to Candover and explain his dire fate to him. But if he objects, I will give you the job of convincing him."

Robin shook his head. "I think it better that he not know of our connection. You know the first rule of spying."

" 'Never tell anyone anything he doesn't need to know,' " she quoted. "I suppose you're right. Candover is an amateur at these games, and the less he knows, the better."

"Let's hope he proves to be a talented amateur." After a light farewell kiss, Robin was gone. Maggie closed the door on him with a sense of vexation. Here he was, worried about her safety, when she expected that what he was doing was twice as dangerous.

She shrugged and climbed the stairs to her room. If she had been of a nervous disposition, she would never have lasted long as a spy. Far better to spend her time wondering how she was going to tolerate so much time around Rafael Whitbourne.

In stage-mad Paris, the playhouses were an accurate barometer of public opinion, so Rafe decided to spend the evening at the theater. It was a disquieting experience.

All playhouse managers had been ordered to admit free of charge a certain number of soldiers from the armies of occupation. Unfortunately, what had been intended as a goodwill gesture had resulted tonight in brawling in the pit between Frenchmen and Allied soldiers. Though no one had been badly injured, the performance had been disrupted for almost half an hour. Another English playgoer had casually mentioned that such disturbances were not uncommon.

Rafe was in a somber mood when he returned to his rooms. In spite of Lucien and Maggie's fears, he had not truly believed that the battered nations of Europe might go to war again, but the incident at the playhouse had convinced him. He had the sense that stormclouds were gathering, and there was a very real risk of another cataclysm.

Lost in thought, Rafe entered his bedchamber. He was about to ring for his valet when a cool voice emerged from a shadowed corner.

"I'd like a word with you before you retire, your grace."

The voice was unmistakable—honey with a touch of gravel—and he identified his visitor even before his eyes had adjusted to the dim candlelight. Maggie was casually sprawled across a chair, dressed entirely in dark men's clothes, her bright hair covered by a knit cap and a black cloak tossed across the bed.

Rafe wondered how the devil she had gotten in, but refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. "Are you practicing to be a Shakespearean heroine—Viola, perhaps?"

She gave a peal of laughter. "Actually, I rather fancy myself as Rosalind."

He removed his coat and dropped it over the sofa. "I assume you have a reason for being here that is different from what a man usually expects on finding a woman in his bedchamber."

The remark was a mistake. Giving him a dagger look, she said, "You assume correctly. There are several matters we must discuss, and this seemed the quickest and most private way."

"Very well. Care to join me in some cognac?" When she nodded, he poured them each a glass, then took a chair at right angles to his visitor. "What have you discovered?"

She absently swirled the brandy around in her glass. "My sources indicate three principal suspects, and several minor ones. They are all prominent men, the sort usually considered above suspicion. Each of them has the ability and the motivation to plan this kind of conspiracy."

"I'm impressed by your efficiency." He took a sip of brandy. "Who are your suspects?"

"In no particular order, they are a Prussian, Colonel Karl von Fehrenbach, and two Frenchmen, the Count de Varenne and General Michel Roussaye."

"What would their motives be?"

"The Count de Varenne is an Ultra-Royalist, a close associate of King Louis's brother, the Count d'Artois. As I'm sure you know, d'Artois is a fanatic reactionary. He and his emigre friends want to wipe out every trace of revolutionary spirit in France and take it back to the ancien regime."

She made a Gallic gesture of exasperation. "Of course that is impossible—one might as well try to hold back the tide—but they won't accept that. Varenne has spent the last twenty years skulking around Europe on dubious royalist business. Some of his past projects qualify him for our list."

"I see." Her high cheekbones were impossibly dramatic in the candlelight, and strands of golden hair escaped from the hat to glow around her face, softening the starkness of her garb. With an effort, Rafe forced himself to concentrate on her words. "If this plot comes from the Ultra-Royalists, who do you think the target would be?"

"This may sound farfetched," she said hesitantly, "but perhaps Varenne might try to kill King Louis himself so that the Count d'Artois would take the throne."

Rafe whistled softly at the idea. It was an ugly thought, but given France's current instability, he supposed that anything was possible. "What about the other Frenchman?"

"Roussaye is a Bonapartist. He was born the son of a baker, and he fought his way up to being one of France's top generals. He's tough and brave, and dedicated to Napoleon and the revolution. Currently he is on Talleyrand's staff, dealing with questions relating to the French army."

"Who would be his most likely target?"

She shrugged. "From his point of view, almost any important Allied official would do, because that would result in a much harsher treaty. If anything happens to the leading voices of moderation, the radicals will get all the humiliation they want."

"And Europe might be at war again within a year or two." Rafe frowned. "Wellington would be the best target. Not only is he universally revered, but it's common knowledge that he won't take precautions because he thinks it would be cowardly to seem to value his life too much."

"Even a charmed life may eventually run out," Maggie said dryly. "If anything happens to him, Britain will be baying after France's blood as loudly as the Prussians are."

"Speaking of Prussians, what about Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

Maggie finished her cognac, then got up to refill their glasses. Rafe admired the way her skin-tight pantaloons clung to her shapely hips and legs. In the old days, when she had always dressed like a lady, he hadn't known how much he was missing.

Unaware of his scrutiny, Maggie sat down and said, "Von Fehrenbach is a typical Prussian, which means that he hates the French in a pure, uncomplicated way. Von Fehrenbach was an aide to Marshal Blücher, and is presently a military attache with the Prussian delegation."

"Do all Prussians feel such hatred for the French?"

"It's easier for the British to behave with restraint than the other Allies," she said obliquely. "Considering how horribly the nations of Europe have suffered, it's no wonder the Prussians and Russians and Austrians are determined to make France pay. France has sowed the wind, and now she is reaping the whirlwind."

Knowing her personal reasons for hatred, Rafe asked, "How do you think France should be treated?"

Maggie looked up, her gray eyes cool and steady. "If Napoleon stood before a firing squad, I would pull a trigger myself. But someone must stop the hating, or there will be no end to it. Castlereagh and Wellington are right: destroying France's pride and power will create another monster to rise up and fight again. If anything happens to either of them ..." She shrugged eloquently.

Rafe took her meaning. "They and Tsar Alexander are all that stand between France and a vengeful Europe. Do you think von Fehrenbach might want to assassinate one of those three?"