"He has heard hints of a plot to assassinate one of the major figures here at the peace conference. He would like you to investigate as quickly and thoroughly as you can."
Maggie frowned, personal considerations forgotten. "Just three weeks ago a plot to assassinate the king, the tsar, and Wellington was exposed. Could that be the source of the rumors?"
"Lucien was aware of that affair and this is a different plot. What makes this new conspiracy so dangerous is that it seems to originate in the highest diplomatic circles of the conference. Not only will it be harder to detect, but it means the conspirators have better access to their targets." Rafe reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded and sealed sheet of paper. "Lucien sent this to explain what he knows."
Maggie accepted the note and made it disappear. "Did you read what he wrote?"
His brows arched. "Of course not. It was sent to you."
"You'd never make a spy."
Rafe's voice was silky, but for the first time emotion showed through. "Quite true. I could never match your talent for deceit and betrayal."
Maggie whipped herself upright in the chair, her kidskin slippers slapping to the floor as the room pulsed with the unspoken past. For a moment her fury threatened to spill out, but years of hard training stood her in good stead and she managed to master herself.
"No, I'm sure you couldn't," she said acidly. "When your fairy godmother waved her wand over the ducal crib, the special gifts she bestowed were stubbornness and self-righteousness."
Their gazes locked—two angry, passionate people determined to give nothing away. Rafe was the first to regain his control, probably because he needed her more than she needed him.
Shrugging off the insult, he said, "No doubt you are right—I never claimed to have an admirable character. To return to business, do you think Lucien is right to be concerned? He is going mostly on guesswork." His long fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet. "Of course, Luce is a brilliant guesser. You're closer to the situation. What's your opinion?"
Glad to leave the charged emotions that kept surfacing, Maggie said, "I've heard nothing in particular, but there has been a surprising silence from the radicals. It isn't like them to give up as long as there are still young men left to die for their revolutionary ideals."
Curious about another point, she continued, "You use Lord Strathmore's first name. You know him well?"
"Very. You used to tease me about being part of a group nicknamed the Fallen Angels. Luce was another member. Since I was a little older than my friends, I finished at Oxford and went to London a year earlier. Luce and the others were still at university when you had your London Season."
Maggie had only met Lord Strathmore twice during the years she had worked with him, but he had left a strong impression. It was strange to learn that he was a close friend of Rafe's. The world was indeed a small place. "As I recall, the four of you acquired the nickname because of some unholy combination of angelic looks and diabolical deeds."
She had hoped to disconcert Rafe, but he only smiled slightly. "Both the looks and the deeds were exaggerated."
Her hand tightened around the handle of her fan. The deeds might have been an exaggeration, but not the looks. Rafe had been glorious at twenty-one; now maturity had added power to his tall frame, character to his face, and authority to his presence. Though she recalled that his dark coloring had come from an Italian grandmother, she had forgotten how dramatic a contrast his clear gray eyes made.
She wished she were immune to his attractions, but she wasn't. What made it worse was that she was no longer an innocent girl; she was a woman, and she knew something of passion. And of longing...
Thank God she wouldn't need to see Rafe again; he was having a terrible effect on her concentration. Getting to her feet, she said, "I'll start investigating immediately. If I hear anything important, I'll notify my contact in the British delegation. Now if you'll excuse me, there are some people I must talk to."
He stood also, his expression wary. "There is one more thing: Lucien wants you to work with me on this, not with the delegation."
"What!" Maggie exclaimed. "Why the devil should I waste time dealing with an amateur? If there is a conspiracy afoot, time is critical. At the risk of insulting your grace's consequence, you would only get in the way."
Rafe's lips tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Lucien suspects that someone in the British delegation is either careless or treacherous, and this matter is too important to take chances. He wants you to report to me. We've set up a temporary courier service between here and London to keep him informed. If events warrant it, I'll go directly to Castlereagh or Wellington."
"How nice to know that Strathmore trusts them," she said with heavy sarcasm. "However, I prefer to work in my own way."
"I am not in a position to compel you," Rafe said gently, "but for the sake of the task at hand, do you think you could manage to choke down your repugnance and work with me? It won't be for very long."
Maggie glared at him, suppressing the desire to pour the rest of her wine over his head to see if that would disturb his impenetrable calm. Unfortunately, there was no compelling reason not to work with him except for her personal distaste, and like it or not, she was under a heavy obligation to him. Through slightly gritted teeth, she said, "Very well, I will let you know whatever I find."
After she set down her wineglass and opened the door to leave, he said, "Let me give you my direction."
She smiled at him wickedly. "No need. I already know where you are staying, the names of your groom and valet, and the number of pieces of luggage you brought." Having finally managed to produce a surprised look on the Duke of Candover's face, she added sweetly, "Remember, information is my business."
Maggie felt rather pleased as she left. At least she had gotten the last word for tonight.
A pity it wouldn't be the last word with him forever.
Chapter 3
After Maggie swept from the room, Rafe released a long, exhausted breath. For years he had cherished romantic memories of the girl he had loved and lost, with occasional speculations about what might have been. It was jarring to have that nostalgia shattered by the very real presence of the former beloved, now alive, impudent, and dismayingly competent.
He finished his wine, then set the glass on the sideboard. For all the haunting flashes of Margot Ashton, this woman was a stranger, hardened and unpredictable in ways he would never understand. The girl he had loved no longer existed, and he wasn't at all sure he liked this Maggie with her cool, polished surface and her prickliness. She acted as if he had been the one to betray her so many years ago, not vice versa.
He sighed and stood up. Most truths had more than one aspect; perhaps her memories of the incident were different from his. It didn't matter now. It takes youth to risk the appalling dangers of total love, and Rafe knew that he was no longer capable of that.
But he had been wrong on one point; he had thought no woman could be as desirable as his memories of Margot. As it turned out, she was even more alluring than he remembered. It had been difficult to keep his hands to himself even when she was spitting insults.
As he stepped into the corridor to return to the ball, he reminded himself that he was not in Paris to romance her, reminisce with her, or to make childish taunts, no matter how great the provocation. What mattered was the conference, and the lives of the men who were trying to build a lasting peace.
* * *
Before proceeding to her next rendezvous, Maggie stepped into a dark side passage for a moment to regroup her forces. Leaning against the wall and closing her eyes, she mentally went through the profanity that she knew fluently in five languages.
Damn Robin for talking her into meeting the Duke of Candover, damn Rafe Whitbourne both for his impenetrable coolness, and for that shattering kiss that proved that Margot was not as dead as Maggie had thought. Most of all, she damned herself for the faint, irrepressible anticipation she felt at the thought of se
eing him again.
She reminded herself furiously that a kiss meant nothing to him. He must have participated in hundreds over the years. Probably not hundreds but thousands.
Which was why he was so very good at kissing...
The thought revived her fury. She was all the way down to Slovakian curses before she could laugh at herself and resume her journey. Her destination was another assignation room, a near-twin of the one she had just left.
She entered without knocking and found Robin sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand for all the world like a lover eagerly awaiting his lady. Which was, after all, more or less the truth.
He started to rise, but she waved him back. "No need to get up." She moved his feet from the sofa so she could sit down next to him, wanting the comfort of his familiar presence.
As he interpreted her expression, the look of fatuous vacuity he cultivated changed to amused intelligence. "Dare I ask how your confrontation with the duke came out?"
She sighed. "You and he win. I'll be staying through the end of the peace conference, no matter how long it takes."
Robin gave a soft whistle of surprise. "How did Candover accomplish that? If he has found some miraculous technique to persuade you, I should ask him what it is."
Maggie chuckled and patted his hand. "Don't bother, my dear. His method was not one that anyone else could use." Her brief amusement faded. "He happened to be in France when my father and Willis were killed, and he arranged to take the bodies back to England. They have been buried at my uncle's estate the last dozen years."
Robin looked at her narrowly. While it was good that she was staying, this new fact suggested a myriad of interesting questions. How well had Maggie known the duke, and were there implications here that might affect his own plans? Keeping those thoughts to himself, he asked, "Is it possible that he lied about that, to convince you to stay here?"
Maggie was startled by the question; it had never occurred to her to doubt Rafe's word. She did not pause to reconsider before shaking her head. "No, he's one of your proper English gentlemen, without enough imagination to lie."
Robin grinned, looking irresistibly boyish. "Haven't I convinced you yet that not all Englishmen are gentlemen?"
"You, Robin, are sui generis, absolutely one of a kind. The fact that you are English is a mere accident of birth." Maggie smiled at him affectionately. In spite of all his strenuous objections to the contrary, Robin was completely a gentleman, more so than Rafe Whitbourne had proved to be.
Over the years she had often wondered about Robin's background. She suspected that he was the illegitimate son of a noble house, raised and educated among gentlemen but forever an outsider in the ranks of polite society. That would explain why he showed no desire to return to his native land. But she had never asked for confirmation, and Robin had never volunteered. Though in many ways they were very close, some subjects were not discussed.
"Your suggestion to tantalize the duke with my irresistible body was a dead loss, by the way," she added wryly. "It wouldn't have mattered if I were as beautiful as Helen of Troy, or as ugly as Madame de Staël. The duke's noble mind is above such crass matters as lust, at least when he is engaged on His Britannic Majesty's business." His kiss, after all, had only been a way to confirm her identity.
"He merely has superhuman control. Seeing you in that gown tempts me to lock the door and overpower you with kisses myself."
Maggie glanced away, not wanting to deal with what lay beneath his teasing tone. "Before I return to England, I'm going to acquire an entire wardrobe of gowns that come up to my throat. It's tedious to have men always talking to one's chest rather than one's face."
Serious again, Robin said, "Why did Candover do something as extraordinary as returning your father's body to England? It must have been very difficult to arrange."
"I imagine it was." Maggie was reluctant to tell even Robin her history with the duke. Choosing part of the truth, she said, "He and my father were friends." Before Robin could inquire further, she went on, "For your sins, you can now learn about the urgent project Candover dropped onto our plates."
Succinctly she outlined what Rafe had said about a possible plot hidden in Parisian diplomatic circles. At the end, she produced the paper Lord Strathmore had sent, and she and Robin read it together.
"If Strathmore is right, this is deadly serious," Robin said soberly. "There have been other conspiracies, but always by insignificant people far from the centers of power. This plot looks different."
"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I can already think of several names to put behind this conspiracy."
"So can I, all men who will be impossible to accuse without rock-solid proof, even if we were sure ourselves."
"After you and I have both checked with our informants, it may reduce the number of possibilities."
"Or it may increase them. All we can do is get to work and hope for the best." He glanced at the letter again. "You're disobeying orders—according to this, you should have nothing to do with anyone in the delegation save Castlereagh and Wellington. What if I'm Strathmore's weak link?"
"Nonsense," she retorted. "He means the regular delegation, not you. You've worked with Strathmore longer than I have."
As Robin got to his feet, he shook his head with mock sorrow. "I see that all my lessons have been wasted. How many times have I told you not to trust anyone, even me?"
"If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"
He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Yourself, of course. I'll leave first. Shall I come by tomorrow night so we can discuss our findings?"
She nodded and watched him don his low-level diplomat's face. Every delegation was cursed with junior officers who had better family connections than wits, and Robin looked like one of those: ineffectual and too handsome to have a brain. In reality, of course, he had a mind like Saracen steel, highly polished and razor sharp. It was he who had taught her how to gather and analyze facts that might be of value, as well as how to cover her racks and avoid suspicion.
But he was wrong on one count, she thought as she prepared to return to the ball. At the moment, she was not at all sure she could trust herself. Her life was no longer entirely under her own control, and she didn't like it one bit.
* * *
Downstairs, the ball churned on exactly as Rafe had left it, with too many costumes, scents, and languages struggling for notice. Seeing nothing that encouraged him to stay, he started working his way across the room toward the exit.
Because of the crowd, he had no warning before coming face-to-face with Oliver Northwood. Rafe was hard-pressed to conceal his shock. Bloody hell, it only needed this!
The other man did not share his feelings. "Candover!" Northwood said jovially. "Splendid to see you. I had no idea you were in Paris, but of course, half the ton has come over. Too many years trapped on our island, don't you know."
He laughed heartily at his own wit and offered his hand, which Rafe accepted without enthusiasm.
Northwood was a beefy blond man of medium height, a younger son of Lord Northwood and almost a caricature of the hearty country squire. The first year that Rafe had been on the town, when his closest friends were still at Oxford, he had moved in the same circles as Northwood. Though not close, they had been on amiable terms, until Northwood's disastrous role in ending Rafe's engagement. Rafe knew it was irrational to blame the other man for what had happened, but he had done his best to avoid him ever since.
Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid him now. "Good evening, Northwood," Rafe said with what patience he could muster. "Have you been in Paris long?"
"I'm with the British delegation, been here since July. M'father thought I should get some diplomatic experience." Northwood shook his head mournfully. "Wants me to settle down and take a seat in Parliament, make myself useful, y'know."
Parisian diplomatic circles were small, so they would be running into each other often. Rafe resigned himself to being civil. "Is your wif
e here with you?"
He was unprepared for the ugly glint that came into Northwood's eyes as he looked across the room. "Oh, Cynthia's here. A sociable female like her wouldn't miss the opportunity to... make so many new acquaintances."
Following the direction of the glance, Rafe saw Cynthia Northwood at the edge of the ballroom, in earnest conversation with a dark, handsome British infantry major. Even at this distance Rafe could see how absorbed they were in each other, as if they were alone instead of in the midst of a crowd.
Knowing better than to comment, Rafe returned his gaze to Oliver Northwood and decided to start gathering information. "How are the negotiations going?"
Northwood shrugged. "Hard to say. Castlereagh plays everything very close to his chest, y'know, don't let us underlings do much except copy documents. But I'm sure you've heard that the first problem—what to do with Napoleon—has been taken care of. They were thinking of exiling him to Scotland, but decided it was too close to Europe."
"St. Helena should be far enough away to reduce the opportunities for mischief. But one can't help thinking that it would have been simpler if Marshal Blücher had been able to capture Bonaparte and shoot him out of hand, as he wanted to."
Northwood laughed. "It certainly would have, but once the emperor surrendered to the British, we were stuck with preserving his wretched hide."
"One has to admire the man's effrontery, not to mention his cunning," Rafe agreed. "After calling Britain the most powerful, steadfast, and generous of his enemies, there was no way the Prince Regent could throw him to the wolves, even though most of the British people would cheerfully see Boney in hell."
"Instead, he retires at British expense to an island that is supposed to have one of the best climates in the world. Still, if he'd stayed on Elba I wouldn't be here in Paris now." Northwood gave a man-to-man chuckle. "It certainly is true what they say about the Parisian ladies, isn't it, Candover?"
Rafe gave one of his coldest stares. "I've only just arrived and have no opinion on the subject."
Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 4
