Petals in the Storm fa-2

by Mary Jo Putney

  Rafe stopped at his hotel only long enough to change to riding clothes and to ask the concierge for directions to Chanteuil. Then he set off on the bay gelding he had bought the first week in Paris. Not only would riding be faster than his carriage, but he desperately needed the physical release of being on horseback.

  His route led west past the imperial palace of Malmaison, which Josephine Bonaparte had bought as a quiet country retreat. Josephine had retired and died there after the emperor divorced her for failing to produce an heir. It was said that Malmaison was where Bonaparte had spent his last free hours on French soil, for he had wanted to be near the spirit of the woman he had never stopped loving.

  It was a romantic story, and as Rafe passed the estate he felt a twinge of sympathy for the Butcher of Corsica, who had continued to love where it was neither wise nor expedient. It was perhaps the only thing they had in common.

  It took Rafe less than an hour to reach Chanteuil. The iron gates were rusted but solid enough, as was the gray stone wall that protected the estate. An ancient gatekeeper examined Rafe with deep suspicion before allowing him entrance.

  Once inside the grounds, Rafe saw that the castle was as dramatic as Varenne had claimed. The original fortress had been on a rocky upthrust that towered above the surrounding countryside. Since it lay within a bend of the Seine, there was water on three sides. Over the centuries, new buildings and wide formal gardens had spread below the turreted keep, but the overall effect was still menacingly medieval.

  As he cantered up the long gravel drive, Rafe had the fleeting thought that Chanteuil looked like a setting for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's lurid melodramas. The estate showed the effects of years of neglect. The gardens were jungles of unkempt vegetation, and most of the outbuildings were in a poor state of repair. Though attempts were being made to return Chanteuil to its former grandeur, it would take Varenne several years and a substantial fortune to finish the task.

  When Rafe reined in before the main entrance and dismounted, a servant appeared to take his horse. Impatient with the sense of valuable time slipping away, Rafe took the steps two at a time and wielded the massive knocker vigorously while he prayed that the visit would produce something of value.

  After subjecting Rafe to another scrutiny, the elderly butler who admitted him consented to take a card to the master. At least, thank God, Varenne was at home. It was about time something went right.

  The Count de Varenne was working in his library amidst the musty odor of ancient books when the card was presented to him. The sight made him smile with deep satisfaction. Surely the gods were on his side. Who would have dreamed that the next fly would walk right into the web and offer the spider a card? And this fly was solid gold. He asked the butler, "Is the duke alone?"

  "Yes, milord."

  Varenne glanced at the wizened clerk who was his companion in the library. "Grimod, go up to the gun room in the west turret and bring down another shotgun and ammunition." Turning back to the butler, he said, "Fetch Lavisse, then wait ten minutes and bring up Candover."

  The vast hall where Rafe waited was cold and drafty even in the last days of summer. As he watched a mouse scamper across the uneven flagstones, he wondered what it would be like in winter, with cold wind and river damp. Damned uncomfortable was his guess. Varenne would have his hands full making this dank medieval fortress habitable.

  Eventually the old butler shuffled back and gestured for the visitor to follow. After a long, slow journey through uneven stone passages and up narrow stairs, the butler opened a door and waved Rafe through. "The library, milord," he wheezed.

  As soon as Rafe stepped into the room, hard metallic objects were jammed into his sides. "Put your hands up in the air, Candover," an amiable voice said. "Those are fowling pieces. At point blank range, the shot will rip you to shreds."

  Rafe saw that two men had been waiting by the door with shotguns. Knowing that it would be suicidal to reach for his pistol, he slowly raised his hands. What a damned fool he had been; what a bloody damned fool.

  He stood still while a servant searched him, removing the pistol. When the servant was finished, Rafe said dryly, "I assume that one could say that I've found Countess Janos, in a manner of speaking."

  "So you have," Varenne replied, "and I assure you that she is quite well. Adjusting to her captivity with remarkable speed, in fact." The count gestured for Rafe to take one of the chairs in front of the desk. The guards remained near the door, their shotguns trained on the duke.

  Varenne continued, "Your fraudulent countess is quite the little survivor. Did you know that she is as English as you are, without an aristocratic bone in her delightful body?"

  Taking Rafe's stony face for shock, the count gave a malicious chuckle. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Candover, I didn't guess either. But that's enough about that little doxy-I'm more interested in you. Does anyone know that you're here?"

  Rafe considered lying and saying yes, but he hesitated too long. Varenne seized on the pause and interpreted it correctly. "Good, you didn't tell anyone you were coming. This close to the critical hour, I would not like to waste my men's time in hunting down whomever you told."

  So the plot was on the verge of execution, and Rafe and Margot couldn't do a blasted thing about it. "Satisfy my curiosity, Varenne. What are you up to? If I'm going to die, I'd like to know why."

  The count looked shocked. "Going to die? Whatever made you think that I would unnecessarily eliminate a man of your wealth? That would be profligate, and I did not get where I am by wasting my opportunities. That brings me to another question. You are said to be worth about eighty thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?"

  Rafe shrugged. "Near enough. It varies some depending on how different business interests are doing."

  "Splendid!" The count positively beamed, his dark eyes sparkling like agates. "Since I have a few minutes to spare, I will satisfy your curiosity, or at least part of it. Care to join me in a glass of burgundy? This is a rather fine vintage."

  Rafe felt as if he had wandered into Bedlam, but he nodded his agreement; he could use a drink. A few minutes were spent in ordering glasses and pouring the wine. Rafe took a sip, and conceded that the vintage was excellent.

  After a sip of his own wine, the count said pensively, "You wondered what I am about. It is quite simple-France needs strong leadership, and she will not get it from the decadent dregs of the House of Bourbon. After my plan is executed, there will be chaos, and I am prepared to step in to sort it out. I have royal blood in my veins-some of it even legitimate. The royalists will greet me with open arms. After all, I have served my time in exile, I am one of them."

  "Given the quality of the Bourbons, it should be possible to convince the royalists," Rafe admitted with reluctant interest, "but what about the Bonapartists? They will never accept a member of the old order who wants to turn back the clock."

  "But I do not wish to turn back the clock, my dear duke, that is what makes me unique," Varenne said complacently. "I am a flexible man, I can prate of the rights of man, of 'liberty, equality, fraternity,' as well as any revolutionary. I already have Bonapartists working for me. Remember, Napoleon spoke of liberty and created the greatest tyranny Europe has ever known. If one tells a great lie boldly, one can do almost anything."

  "That's very clever, Count." Rafe lifted the bottle of wine and topped up both of their glasses. He didn't know whether Varenne was insane or a genius, or if there was a difference between the two. "But I would think it will be difficult to get the factions to agree on anything."

  The count shook his head. "Under Napoleon, France became the greatest power since Rome. No true Frenchman wants to give that up, and that includes the royalists."

  "So you will rally the nation together 'pour la gloire' one more time," Rafe said. "But there is one group that you have forgotten. What of those people who are tired of fighting, who want to live in peace?"

  "The wolf will eat the lamb every time, Candover."

&n
bsp; There was no doubt that Varenne believed his own words. Yet when Rafe thought of Margot and her army of women, of Helene Sorel, of the tough pragmatism of Michel Roussaye, who had seen enough of war, he was not sure that he agreed. Enough brave lambs might overwhelm even the most ruthless of wolves.

  However, this was not the time for a philosophical discussion. He asked, "If you aren't going to kill me, what do you intend?"

  "You are insurance, Candover. Though my plan is excellent, it is possible that I might fail. Chaos is inherently hard to control, even when one is expecting it. If someone else rises to the top, I will need a great deal of money."

  "Aren't you already a wealthy man?"

  "I try to convey that impression. However, you see the condition of my estate, and conspiracies are expensive. At the moment I am almost penniless. If my coup d'etat succeeds, I will have all the wealth I need, and you will be returned to England unharmed. If I fail"-he shrugged-"I assume that you would be willing to pay a substantial price for your life and freedom."

  "For mine, and the countess's as well."

  "You are so fond of the little trollop?" Varenne said with surprise. "I really should find out what she does that is so special. She's only a woman, after all."

  Rafe discovered that the expression "to see red" was not a metaphor. His blood roared, and if a small fragment of common sense hadn't reminded him of the armed men at the door, he would have tried to take Varenne apart with his bare hands.

  Some of that must have showed in his face, because the count said, "If you feel that strongly, I'm sure something can be arranged. Of course I would not free you without your word as an English gentleman not to retaliate in any way. It is one of the delightfully amusing things about Englishmen-they take such promises seriously."

  A knock sounded at the door, and a courier entered with a message. Varenne looked at it and frowned. "Sorry, Candover, I can't chat any longer. Matters require my attention. I apologize for the quality of the accommodations, but if you became too comfortable, you would be in no hurry to pay your ransom and leave." He glanced at the guards. "Please escort our guest to the dungeon."

  Rafe's thoughts were racing as the gunmen herded him out of the library and down the corridor. Varenne might be mad, but there was no denying that his scheme was diabolically clever. Given die precarious political state of France, a well-chosen blow might indeed take the count to ultimate power. Louis' throne stood on sand, and a strong leader who could unite the factions would be welcome.

  It was also likely that once the deed was done, the rest of Europe would accept any French leader who had a fig leaf of respectability. Yes, Varenne's plan might very well work, and France would find herself in the hands of a new Napoleon. It was a terrifying prospect.

  After descending several flights of winding stone stairs, they reached the lowest level of the castle. Though the upper section was dank and unpleasant, the cellars were far worse, stinking of death and ancient evil.

  Eventually they reached a dismal antechamber containing a massive iron-bound door. Lavisse took a key ring from a hook on the wall and inserted the single heavy key into the old lock. As his companion kept Rafe covered with the shotgun, Lavisse struggled with the ancient mechanism until it turned.

  Swinging the door out just enough to admit a man, the guard said with heavy sarcasm, "Enjoy your visit, your bloody grace." Then he gave Rafe a shove in the middle of the back that propelled him headfirst into the cell.

  Even before he hit the stone floor, Rafe knew that he was not alone.

  Chapter 20

  Rafe automatically stayed down in a wary crouch while he scanned his surroundings. The cell was roughly cubical, about a dozen feet in each dimension, with walls of coarse stonework. The only furnishings were a slop bucket in one corner and a pile of straw with a couple of blankets.

  Light came from a narrow, barred window high in the wall. Though the cell was dim, it was bright enough for Rafe to identify the blond man sprawled on the straw.

  Bloody hell, it only needed this. Rafe took a deep breath before getting to his feet. Though he supposed he should be glad that Robert Anderson was alive and apparently no friend to Count de Varenne, Margot's lover was the last man on earth Rafe would have chosen as a cellmate.

  Not bothering to rise, Anderson said, "I'm sorry that they got you, too, Candover. What has been happening?"

  "Riots, kidnappings, conspiracy-the usual sort of thing." Rafe brushed the dirt from his breeches, then straightened and said soberly, "Varenne has the countess."

  A black expression on his face, Anderson sat up, wincing at the sudden movement. "Damnation, I was afraid of that. Do you know if she's all right?"

  "For what it's worth, Varenne says so." As his eyes adjusted to the light, Rafe realized that his companion looked considerably worse for wear, with his left arm cradled awkwardly in his lap and his face badly bruised. Forgetting his jealousy, he exclaimed, "Good God, man, what did they do to you?"

  Anderson smiled humorlessly. "In a tribute to my legendary ferocity, Varenne sent four ruffians to invite me here. I attempted to decline, but they insisted."

  Something clicked in Rafe's memory. "The morning after you disappeared, the bodies of two unidentified Frenchmen were found near your lodgings. Did you have anything do with that?"

  Anderson's smile became more genuine. "I was very reluctant to accept their hospitality."

  Surveying the slight build and almost feminine good looks of his companion, Rafe realized that he had been guilty of still another misjudgment. With a half smile, he said, "Remind me not to get into any arguments with you."

  "I doubt I'd be a danger to a husky sparrow at the moment."

  Anderson's pallor was extreme even for someone of such fair coloring, so Rafe crossed the cell and knelt by him in the straw. "Better let me take a look at that arm."

  He whistled softly at the sight of the ugly swelling that had completely engulfed Anderson's left hand and wrist. As he began a careful examination of the injured area, he said, "Did you hit someone too hard?"

  "No, I was fairly intact when I arrived here. However, Varenne was interested in chatting and I wasn't."

  The sheen of sweat on Anderson's face showed how much his studied casualness was costing him. Rafe's reluctant admiration for his rival increased. "It looks like one of the bones in the wrist is broken, and three fingers," he said. "Luckily, the fractures look clean.

  Let me help you take your coat off so I can bandage the area. That should help some."

  Rafe took off his waistcoat and tore it into strips, then undertook the basic medical work learned in the hunting field. As he did, he was struck by a gut-wrenching image of that same elegant hand caressing Margot. He froze, fighting sick jealousy, while he told himself furiously that it was neither the time nor the place for such self-indulgence. After a long moment, he managed to resume his ministrations.

  For his own self-respect, he took special care to make his efforts as painless as possible. Even so, the procedure nearly broke the younger man's stoicism. By the time Rafe had finished the bandaging and rigged a sling for the arm, Anderson was lying full-length in the straw, sweat matting the edge of his hair. Rafe guessed that he must be half unconscious from pain.

  After his ragged breathing had steadied, Anderson said, "Since Varenne ended up capturing Maggie anyhow, maybe I should have just written the damned note."

  In answer to Rafe's questioning glance, the blond man explained, "The count wanted me to write Maggie and lure her out here. Said he'd break bones until I agreed. I didn't mention that I was left-handed until he'd already neatly fractured three fingers, and by then he'd wrecked any chance of my handwriting being normal. He should have been working on the right hand."

  As he settled down on the straw at Anderson's feet, Rafe found himself chuckling at the dark humor of it. "I'd like to have seen Varenne's face when you told him that."

  "You wouldn't have enjoyed it-he broke my wrist from sheer irritation," Anderson s
aid dryly. "Still, I've been in worse prisons. The straw is fresh, the blankets clean, and since this is France, they serve quite a tolerable wine with the meals. At this season, the temperature is reasonable, though I'd rather not winter here."

  Rafe tried to repress his shudder at the prospect. Surely Varenne would not keep them for so long.

  Anderson said, "Professional curiosity dies hard. Did Varenne give you any idea what he's up to?"

  Rafe brought his companion up-to-date on the interviews with von Fehrenbach and Roussaye, mentioned the death of Lemercier without elaborating, then repeated what Varenne had said about his motives.

  After asking several probing questions, Anderson sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "Missed by a mile. I feel like a damned fool."

  "You have plenty of company in not deducing what was going on," Rafe said bleakly. "Everyone was wrong." Rafe most of all.

  After that, there was little to say. The two men sat in the gradually fading light without talking. Though there were many things Rafe would have liked to ask Anderson, none of them seemed appropriate.

  As the hours passed, Rafe concluded that the worst part of imprisonment must be boredom. The cell was too small to stretch one's legs, the stone walls were singularly unstimulating, and if he had to spend any length of time here, he'd soon be raving.

  He envied Anderson's tranquility. Worn down by pain, the other man slept for much of the time. But even awake, he had a philosophical relaxation Rafe doubted he could ever match. Of course, Anderson claimed prior experiences with incarceration; perhaps practice perfected one's skills.

  At dusk, dinner was delivered with the usual caution, one man setting a tray inside while another stood guard with a shotgun. The meal was a very decent beef stew with bread and fruit, accompanied by a jug that held about a gallon of red wine. Besides pewter bowls and mugs, the only utensils were soft, easily bent spoons that wouldn't make effective weapons. Though the tray, bowls and spoons were collected later, the prisoners were allowed to keep the wine and drinking vessels.