Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney
Hélène's dark eyes studied her skeptically. "If you say so."
It was time to change the subject again. Maggie asked, "Do you know anything about Cynthia Northwood? Her husband Oliver is a member of the British delegation."
Waving her flat reticule like a fan to stir the heavy air, Hélène thought for a moment before replying. "She is one of life's heedless innocents. She is having an affair with a British officer, a Major Brewer of the Guards, and she doesn't care who knows it. Having met her husband, I can see why she has strayed, but she shows no discretion whatsoever. Why do you ask about her?"
"No reason, really, except that yesterday she was telling me a great many things one doesn't usually say to a complete stranger." Maggie frowned. "She's unpredictable, and because she is connected to the British delegation she might become involved in something she doesn't understand."
"Mrs. Northwood is just the sort to blurt out secrets unthinkingly. But if she and her husband are on bad terms, she would probably not have access to important information."
"True, but we can't afford to ignore any possibility. Can you find out something about her associates, besides her major?" After Hélène's nod, Maggie continued, "Also, do you know anything about Count de Varenne?"
Her friend gave her a worried glance. "Yes, and none of it is good. That one is dangerous. Is he involved with your plot?"
"Possibly. Do you know where I might casually meet him?"
"He is often at Lady Castlereagh's evening salons. Be careful, my friend, when you meet him. They say he writes his name in blood."
In spite of the afternoon's heat Maggie felt a shiver along her spine. Firmly she told herself that she was only reacting to Hélène's melodramatic phrasing.
If Castlereagh and Wellington were the targets, Varenne should be dropped from the list of likely candidates. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, she wanted to meet him. Rafe was taking her to the theater tonight. Afterward they could go to the salon at the British embassy and hope that the Ultra-Royalist count was there.
But if Varenne was uninvolved, why did thinking of him give her a nagging sense of danger?
* * *
When Rafe called to take Maggie to the theater, she entered the salon in a shimmering, silver gray dress that reflected hints of blue and green in its folds. She was so lovely that it hurt to look at her. He took a slow, deep breath. Patience was not going to come easily.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, your grace. Shall we be on our way?" The honeyed voice was friendly and intimate.
Rafe was impressed at how calm his reply sounded. "You're looking particularly lovely tonight, my dear. I shall be the envy of every man in Paris."
She gave a sorrowful shake of her head. "I'm disappointed, your grace. Surely a gentleman with your reputation for address can offer more imaginative flattery."
"I speak only the truth, Countess," Rafe replied as he escorted her through the door. "Flattery would be useless with a woman of your acuity."
She gave him a mischievous smile. "My apologies for underestimating you. Clearly you flatter on a higher level. A woman who is often complimented on her appearance much prefers to hear lies about her intelligence."
Grinning, he helped her into his carriage. It would take every ounce of wit and charm he possessed to seduce her; he hadn't felt so alive in years. Having more money and more women than he knew what to do with had become a bloody bore, and the harder she made him work, the sweeter the prize at the end.
As the carriage rattled down the Boulevard des Capucines, Maggie spoke, her teasing gone. "The plot is thickening. I have a reliable report of a threat against Lord Castlereagh within the next fortnight."
"The devil you say!" Lechery vanished as Rafe listened to the meager facts that Maggie had. Briefly he wondered who her informant had been—another patron of the gambling hell, over a pillow this afternoon?—but shoved the thought aside for more serious considerations. "Perhaps I can visit that club later this evening, after I leave you off."
"It's not likely to do much good. You can hardly ask the people who work there the names of the two men discussing assassination last night."
"True, but the fellows might be regular customers. If I make a few critical comments about Castlereagh or Wellington, one might strike up a conversation with me."
At her continuing silence, he added, "I'm not wholly incapable of subtlety, you know."
"I suppose not," she said, clearly not convinced. "I presume you know enough to go armed? There are French officers who make a point of insulting foreigners in the hopes of starting a duel. As an Englishman, you will be fair game. Not as good as a Prussian, but still appealing to a belligerent Frenchman."
"I am touched by your concern for my continued existence."
"Don't flatter yourself, your grace," she said tartly. "I merely dislike losing a chess partner in the middle of a game."
He couldn't tell whether it was sarcasm or humor that laced her voice.
She added, "If you do get forced into a duel, pistols would probably be a better choice. Most of the French officers are capital swordsmen, and it's a rare foreigner who can best them."
Rafe was about to ask why she had faith in his marksmanship when he remembered a long-ago afternoon when they had shot at wafers together in a friend's private pistol gallery. She must remember his skill. Margot had been equally good, the only woman he had ever met who could shoot as well as a man. It was one of many things her father had taught her, treating her as if she had been a son instead of a daughter. One of the many things that made her different from any other woman he had ever known.
The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Maggie attracted a great deal of attention from gawkers as Rafe helped her from the carriage. She played up to it, casting flirtatious smiles around her. No one watching would ever imagine that she was a coldblooded spy rather than a hot-blooded tart.
He escorted her upstairs to their private box. The play was excellent, and for a time Rafe forgot serious thoughts in the humor of Molière's Tartuffe.
But as the performance progressed, he became increasingly aware of Maggie's closeness. After the second act began, he casually laid his arm across the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel warmth from her skin.
He was pleased to see her lean forward, as if absorbed in the play. It wasn't Moliere that put that flush on her high cheekbones; she was as aware of him as he was of her, and he guessed that she didn't trust herself to relax against him. Good. He let his fingertips drift across her bare shoulder.
She shivered, and her hand tightened on her folded fan. He wondered how far he could go before she called a halt. Not much further, he suspected. He rested his arm on the chair again. Gradually she relaxed and leaned against the padded chair back, her shoulders barely grazing his arm.
It was a pleasant game. He was considering massaging the nape of her neck when a growling sound emerged from the pit. Instantly alert, Rafe withdrew his arm and leaned forward to look over the railing of the box. The growl became a rumble, and he saw men shoving each other below.
The actors tried to shout their lines over the increasing noise, but cries of Vive le Roi! began warring with Vive l'Empereur! The next actor who spoke was pelted with pieces of fruit, and the whole cast bolted for the wings.
Some members of the audience raised white banners, signifying support for the king. When Bonapartists began brandishing violet flags, Rafe realized that a brawl was in the making. One of the most frightening experiences of his life had been when he was caught in a London street riot, and the mob below was heading in the same dangerous direction.
The royalists outnumbered the Bonapartists, and one by one the violet flags were ripped apart. One brawny fellow with an imperial eagle banner was dragged down, disappearing under brutal kicks and punches. A woman screamed, her voice abruptly cutting off. The cries of Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi! became a harsh, threatening chant that made the walls and ceiling vibrate.
&n
The shocking image gave Rafe a frantic urge to take Maggie away before violence engulfed the whole theater. He grabbed her arm and half lifted her from her chair. "Come on," he snapped. "We're getting out of here."
He swept her toward the back door of the box. The tumult drowned out the sound of his voice, and at first she resisted. Rafe was on the verge of swinging her off her feet and bodily carrying her through the corridor when she capitulated.
Other patrons were beginning to empty out of the boxes, but Rafe was quicker. He looped his arm around her waist and hustled her down the nearest staircase.
Halfway to the ground floor, their way was blocked by two ruffians who were racing upward. The men stopped, their eyes gleaming at the sight of Maggie.
Without waiting to see whether the men would attack, Rafe threw a savage fist into the belly of the nearer one. His victim made a hoarse, squawking sound as he tumbled against his fellow.
While the two men struggled to save themselves from falling down the steps, Rafe caught Maggie's hand and pulled her past them. No longer protesting, she lifted her skirts with her free hand and ran swiftly beside him, her fingers tight on his.
The stairs came out into a deserted passage. The sounds of the riot came from the right, so they turned and continued left until they reached a side exit.
Outside, they found that both aristocrats and common people were pouring from the theater. A man was running down the boulevard screaming for the Guards. Fortunately, Rafe's carriage was waiting nearby. He bundled her inside, and within a few moments they were heading away from the theater.
Maggie's skirts rustled as she settled herself in the corner of the carriage. Rafe's heart was still pounding. The threat to her safety had roused the most primitive of protective responses in him, and he still felt shaken on her behalf. On impulse he moved across the seat and put his arms around her, needing to reassure himself that she was all right.
She gave a kind of shiver, then turned her face up, her mouth seeking his. Their tongues touched, and suddenly they were kissing with frantic intensity. She slipped her hands under his coat and began kneading his back, her nails digging deep into the muscles.
Dimly he realized that the brush with danger had unleashed something in her, something dark and primal that roused him to equal madness. They sank into the deep, velvet-cushioned seat. Her exotic scent filled his nostrils, intoxicating him. He buried his face in the warm curve of her throat, kissing her beating pulse. The sound of her rough breathing filled the coach.
Remembering that she had always had exquisitely sensitive ears, he trailed kisses upward, along the line of her jaw, until he could tease her lobe with his teeth. She gasped and stiffened, her head arching back and her legs separating so that his knee slipped between hers. They twisted against each other as their bodies instinctively sought a closeness impossible in the cramped quarters.
Their mouths came together again and they shared the same heated, hungry breath. Her breasts crushed against his chest, soft and lush. He ran his open hands down her sides, over her slim waist to the delicious fullness of her hips.
The carriage shook as it hit a hole, almost throwing him to the floor. He lifted himself a little, bracing his shoulder against the side panel and one foot against the base of the opposite seat. She adjusted herself to his new position, her pelvis pressing against his.
Her thigh was firm and shapely, and as he stroked downward he discovered that her skirt had worked its way over her knee. He heard the whisper of silk as his fingers skimmed over her stocking-clad calf. If he had been reasoning, he would have moved more slowly, but he was beyond reason. He caressed upward, over the ribbon of her garter to the bare, warm flesh of her inner thigh.
She sucked her breath in, then drew her head away from his. "Enough!"
As he looked into her stark eyes, Rafe became very still. The glow of a streetlight showed that there was still desire in her face, but her wildness had faded.
The same was true of him. Though passion burned through his veins—ye gods, how it burned!—the madness had subsided. He was profoundly unnerved to realize how thoroughly he had lost control of himself.
Instinctively he retreated. Though his body ached to complete what they had begun, he made no attempt to persuade her to continue. Very carefully he lifted himself away and sat on the facing seat. His muscles vibrated with tension.
Maggie pushed herself upright and tugged her skirt down over her bare legs. "What was that about?" Her unsteady tone belied the banality of her words.
"A brush with danger often provokes a passionate desire to celebrate life," Rafe observed, trying to sound detached, as if they hadn't just been on the verge of ripping each other's clothing off. He was grateful that the darkness concealed his embarrassingly obvious state of arousal.
"The danger wasn't that great." Satisfied that her gown was straight, she began checking her hair. "Such scenes are not uncommon. The royalists are trying to intimidate the rest of France now that they have the upper hand. It's called the White Terror. If we had stayed in our box and waved white handkerchiefs, we would have been quite safe."
"While I admire your aplomb, no one is ever entirely safe during a riot," he said dryly. The horrific image of Maggie under attack flashed through his mind again, and he shuddered. If she had been alone, a white handkerchief would have been a poor defense against men like those on the stairs. "Since you seem to have more courage than sense, I feel responsible for keeping you intact, at least until you find our assassin."
She pulled out a hairpin and reattached a loose lock. "A pity to miss the rest of such a fine play. Luckily I've seen Tartuffe before, and leaving early means we will reach Lady Castlereagh's evening salon in good time."
He wanted to laugh at the absurd way they were both ignoring that spectacular outburst of passion. "What, no maidenly vapors?"
"They would be singularly inappropriate since I am not a maiden," she said sharply. She drew a deep breath before continuing. "I've heard that Count de Varenne often attends Lady Castlereagh's evenings. While it's unlikely that an Ultra-Royalist would be behind our plot, I would still like to meet him." After a moment's thought, she added, "I was warned that he is a thoroughly dangerous man."
"I'll bear that in mind. Is he likely to challenge me to a duel, too?"
"No, I believe he is more the knife-in-the-back type."
"Sounds like a charming fellow. Remind me to keep my back to a wall if we encounter him." The uneasiness Rafe had felt at losing control began to fade, leaving him pleased with the progress he had made. Maggie was coming closer and closer to yielding; he didn't doubt that very soon she would be willing to accept him. And soon after that, he would make sure that she got rid of her other lovers.
Satisfied with his conclusions, he stretched his long legs as far as possible in the limited space. "Lead on. I hope that Lady Castlereagh has a good supper planned. There's nothing like a riot to put an edge on a man's appetite."
Chapter 8
As the carriage rumbled down the boulevard toward the British embassy, Maggie's hands were locked so tightly in her lap that her fingers must be white inside her gloves. She wondered if her voice had betrayed her near-panic at the theater riot.
The episode had brought back all her worst nightmares in hideous detail, and she had been so paralyzed by fear that she could hardly move when Rafe had dragged her from the theater. There had probably been little real danger—she routinely carried both a white and a violet handkerchief in her reticule, just in case—but panic was immune to reason.
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It had been profoundly comforting to have his strong arm around her, and pure pleasure to watch him dispatch those two ruffians so deftly. All in a day's work for the Duke of Candover, of course. He hadn't even wrinkled his perfectly tailored coat, and he had betrayed no more concern at the riot than if a mule cart had blocked his carriage.
She admired his imperturbability. Most of the time she could match it, but not when a mob brought back the horrifying scene that had killed her father and Willis, and changed her life forever.
She tried not to think of their impassioned embrace, even though her body throbbed with frustration. The attraction she had always felt for Rafe had reacted explosively with her fear to produce a shattering degree of need. Though he had responded fiercely, he had stared at her as if she were a stranger when they had separated. Dear God, what must he think of her?
The thought produced a wintry smile. His opinion of her was already so low that her acting like a wanton probably made no difference. A good thing they had been in a cramped carriage, or heaven only knew where it would have ended.
Disaster, that's where it would have ended.
Her hands had almost stopped trembling by the time they reached the British embassy on the Rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, she smiled and said with her most ravishing Hungarian accent, "Lady Castlereagh's evenings are very splendid, with some of the best conversation in Paris. One may see anyone here."
Inside, Lady Castlereagh herself greeted them. Emily Stewart was not renowned for beauty or wit, but she was a kind woman, and she and her brilliant husband were devoted to each other. "Good evening, Candover, how charming to see you." She extended her hand. "I trust that Magda has been making you feel welcome in Paris?"