"Precisely."
"Tell me about her. Is she French?"
Lucien made a face. "The plot thickens. I met Maggie through someone else and I know almost nothing about her background, but I've always thought she was British. Certainly she speaks and looks like an Englishwoman. I never probed further, because what mattered was that she hated Napoleon and looked on her work as a personal crusade. Her information was always good, and she never gave me a reason to distrust her."
Hearing the unspoken reservation, Rafe said, "But something has happened that makes you question her reliability."
"I still have trouble believing that Maggie would betray us, but I don't know if I can trust my own judgment. She can convince a man of anything, which is one reason she is so effective." Lucien frowned. "The situation is too grave to take anything for granted, including her loyalty. Now that Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena, she may be feathering her nest by selling British secrets to the other Allies. Perhaps she's in a hurry to leave Paris because she's earned a fortune through double or triple-dealing and wants to escape before she is caught."
"Is there any evidence that she's disloyal?"
"As I said, I always assumed Maggie was an Englishwoman." Lucien glanced at Nicholas. "You knew Maggie as Maria Bergen. Recently you wrote me a letter, and rather than mention her by name, you discreetly referred to her as 'the Austrian woman you had worked with in Paris."'
Nicholas straightened in his chair, expression startled. "You mean that Maria is actually English? I find that hard to believe. Not only was her German flawless, but her gestures, her mannerisms, were Austrian."
"It gets worse," Lucien said with reluctant amusement. "I became curious, and made inquiries of other men who had known her at earlier stages of her career. The French royalist knows that she is French, the Prussian says that she is a Berliner, and the Italian is willing to swear on his sainted mother's grave that she is from Florence."
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 returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. 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 awry 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 r
ain 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.
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 as 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 his 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 hand snapped, cutting his fingers and splashing brandy across 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.
Chapter 2
"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."
Robin came to stand behind her. Taking the brush from her hand, he began pulling it gently through her thick, dark gold hair. It was odd how they still shared some of the intimacy of husband and wife, though they had never married. He had always enjoyed brushing her hair, and the faint sandalwood scent took him back to the years when they had been impassioned young lovers, challenging the world with few thoughts for the future.
Maggie was looking stonily into the mirror. Her eyes were now a cold gray, not sparkling as they had been earlier. After several minutes of brushing, she began to relax.
"Did Candover do something dreadful?" he asked quietly. "If it would upset you to see him, I won't mention it again."
She chose her words carefully, knowing Robin was uncomfortably adept at detecting hidden meanings. "He was rather despicable, but it was a long time ago and it wouldn't bother me to see him. I simply don't want another man nagging me to keep doing what I don't want to do."
Robin's gaze met hers in the mirror. "Then why not meet him once to tell him that? If you want to wreak a bit of vengeance for past injuries, a fitting punishment would be to look your seductive best. You can drive him mad with longing while you turn down his request."
"I'm not sure that would work," she said dryly. "We parted on rather poor terms."
"That makes no difference—he's probably been thinking lustful thoughts of you ever since. Half the diplomats in Europe have let state secrets fall from their lips while struggling for one of your smiles." Robin grinned. "Wear that green ball gown, heave an alluring sigh as you refuse his request, then glide gracefully from the room. I guarantee it will cut up his peace for at least the next month."
She regarded her reflection thoughtfully. While she had a great deal of whatever it was that drove men mad, she was not convinced that Candover would succumb to her charms. Still, anger and lust were closely related, and Rafael Whitbourne had been very angry indeed at their last meeting....
A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. Then she threw back her head and laughed. "Very well, Robin, you win. I'll meet with your ridiculous duke. I owe him a few nights of ruined sleep. But I guarantee he won't change my mind."
Robin dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Good lass." In spite of her protests, if she saw Candover there was a chance that she could be persuaded to continue her work for a while longer. And that would be a very good thing.
* * *
When Robin left, Maggie did not immediately summon her maid to complete her toilette. Instead, she crossed her arms on the edge of the vanity and laid her head on them, feeling sad and tired. It had been foolish to agree to see Rafe Whitbourne. He had behaved very badly, yet even then she had seen how his cruelty had come from pain, and she had been denied the pleasure of hating him.
Nor did she love him; the Margot Ashton who thought the sun revolved around his handsome head had died over a dozen years before. Maggie had been many different people in the ensuing years, as Robin had taken her under his wing and given her a reason to go on living. Rafe Whitbourne was only a bittersweet memory, with no relevance to her present self.
Love and hate were indeed opposite sides of the same coin because both meant caring; the true opposite was indifference. Since indifference was the only feeling Rafe could rouse in Maggie now, minor forms of revenge were not worth the effort. She just wanted to be done with this phase of her life, with deceit and misdirection and informers.
Most of all, she wanted to accomplish the task that had been delayed too long, then go home to England, which she hadn't seen in thirteen years. She would have to start over again, this time without Robin's protection. She would miss him bitterly, but even her loneliness would contain relief; the two of them knew each other too well for Maggie to reinvent herself if he
was near.
She lifted her head and propped her chin on one fist while she regarded herself in the mirror. Her high cheekbones made her a convincing Magyar, and she spoke the language well enough so that no one had ever doubted that she was Hungarian. But how would Rafe Whitbourne see her after so many years?
A wry smile curved her full lips—lips that had had at least eleven pieces of bad poetry dedicated to them. Apparently the man could still arouse some emotion in her, even if it was only vanity. She studied her image critically.
Maggie had never been a great fancier of her own appearance, for her face lacked the classic restraint of true beauty. Her cheekbones were too high, her mouth too wide, her eyes too large.
But at least she looked little different from when she had been eighteen. Her complexion had always been excellent, and riding and dancing had kept her figure shapely. Though there was more fullness to the curves, no man had ever objected to that. Granted, her hair had darkened, but instead of becoming dull tan as blond hair often did, it was now the shade of rippling, golden wheat. Overall, she decided, she looked better now than when she and Rafe had been engaged.
It was tempting to imagine that he was fat and balding, but the damned man had the sort of looks that would only improve with age. His personality was another matter. Even at twenty-one he had not been free of the arrogance of wealth and rank, and the intervening years would only have made him worse. By this time, he must be insufferable.
As she resumed dressing for dinner, she told herself that it would be amusing to try to pierce his smugness. Yet she could not rid herself of the uneasy feeling that meeting him would prove to be a mistake.
* * *
The Duke of Candover had not been in Paris since 1803, and there had been many changes. Yet even in defeat, the capital of France was the center of Europe. Four major sovereigns and scores of minor monarchs had come to glean what they could from the wreckage of Napoleon's empire. The Prussians wanted revenge, the Russians wanted more territory, the Austrians hoped to roll the calendar back to 1789, and the French wanted to save themselves from massive reprisals after Napoleon's insane and bloody Hundred Days.
Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 2
