Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney
The general was lost in memory for a moment. "Bonaparte spent the night in the largest. The next morning when he was asked what he had seen, he said only that no one would believe him." With an undertone of sadness he added, "In the history of Egypt, the brief French occupation is less than the blink of an eye. In the history of France, Napoleon may be of no more importance than that."
Maggie said dryly, "A thousand years from now, people may be that detached. In our time, Napoleon appears as the greatest and wickedest man of our age."
Roussaye stiffened, and she wondered if she had gone too far. While she wanted to stimulate responses from him, it would be a mistake to alienate him entirely.
"You are not French, madame," he said coldly. "It is not to be expected that you would see him as we do."
Wanting to know what motivated him, she asked, "How do the French see Bonaparte? I am one of many who paid a high price for his ambition. Can you convince me there was any value to it?"
The general's dark eyes held hers. "You were right to say that he is the greatest man of our age. In his younger years, to be around him was to feel... to feel as if a strong wind was blowing. The emperor had more force and vitality than any man I have ever seen, more strength and more vision. We will never see his equal again."
"Thank God," she said, unable to repress her bitterness.
Leaning forward, he said intensely, "After the Revolution, the hands of every nation in Europe were raised against us. France should have been destroyed, but we weren't. Bonaparte gave us back our power and pride. We were everywhere victorious."
"And in his later years, your emperor lost whole armies. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, countless civilians, died for France's glory. He once said that the lives of a million men were nothing to him," Maggie retorted. "When Bonaparte came back from Elba, were you one of those who forgot his vows to Louis and followed your emperor?"
After a long silence, the general said quietly, "I was."
She took a deep breath, reminding herself that she must be controlled. "Do you think it was right to rally to him?"
He surprised her by saying, "No, I can't say that it was right, but that didn't matter. Napoleon was my emperor, and I would have followed him to hell itself."
"Then you got your wish. They say that Waterloo was a close approximation of hell."
"The emperor was not the man he once was, and fifty thousand soldiers paid the price. Perhaps I should have been one of them, but God had other plans for me." Roussaye's expression eased. "Though it is a salvation I do not deserve, I have learned that there is life beyond war."
An odd, mystical statement for a warrior. Maggie was saved from further comment when two people entered the room. Glancing up, she saw Rafe accompanied by a tiny, exquisite woman with raven black hair and the swelling figure of midpregnancy. Roussaye rose, a smile transforming his serious expression.
Rafe said, "Magda, my love, permit me to introduce you to Madame Roussaye. She has been showing me our host's paintings. We are cousins of some sort, for she is from Florence and her family is connected to that of my Italian grandmother."
The raven-haired woman greeted Maggie warmly. Judging by the way the Roussayes looked at each other, it was easy to guess that his wife was the salvation he had referred to; the bond between them was almost tangible, Was the general an ardent enough Bonapartist to risk his personal happiness in a treacherous plot?
Unfortunately, Maggie feared that he was.
The intensity of the earlier discussion disappeared in a general conversation. All four of them shared a serious interest in art, and before the couples parted they made an engagement to visit the Louvre together three days hence.
Back in the main ballroom, a waltz was playing. Rafe swept Maggie into it without asking her permission. As they whirled across the floor, she decided ruefully that conservative opinion was right. Even though he held her at a perfectly proper distance, the waltz was still altogether too erotic to be decent. With her awareness of him heightened by their encounter earlier in the evening, it was all too easy to notice how much the closeness and rhythms of the dance were like making love.
It was not entirely a relief to discover that his purpose was strictly business. He asked, "What is your judgment of General Roussaye?"
She hesitated for three complete circles before saying, "He is devoted to France and the emperor, and I think he is quite capable of participating in a plot to restore Bonaparte to the throne. He has the best motive of all our suspects, coupled with the intelligence and conviction to achieve his ends."
"But you have reservations," Rafe said, reading the undercurrents of her speech.
Maggie sighed. "Only that I liked the man. Starting with very little, he has achieved his rank on pure merit. Beyond his military skills, he has taste and sensitivity. I wish that Varenne was our villain, but Roussaye is more likely."
"If so, my newfound cousin may be a widow in short order," Rafe said, his eyes grave. "Since Roussaye has already broken his oath to Louis once, the slightest hint of evidence that he is involved in a plot will put him in a cell next to Marshal Ney, waiting for execution."
"Men are such fools!" Maggie said with exasperation. "He has a beautiful wife who adores him, he has earned enough legitimate wealth to live a comfortable life, yet he would throw that all away."
"I liked him, too. Are you sure that he is our man?"
She shook her head regretfully, her eyes unfocused. "I can't be sure, but I sense that all is not aboveboard with the general. Perhaps he isn't involved in our particular plot—but I fear that he is."
At times like this, she hated being a spy. If she was wrong, she might contribute to the ruin of an innocent man. All the important Bonapartists were on dangerously thin ice, and a hint of suspicion could ruin a man, perhaps even send him to the firing squad.
Grimly she reminded herself that the stakes were higher than one person's life; the successful assassination of an Allied leader could hurl Europe into another war. "We should pass our speculations on as soon as possible. Lord Strathmore may know something that will corroborate them."
"I'll send a courier to Lucien tonight, but I think the time has come to talk to Lord Castlereagh."
Used to working indirectly, Maggie was momentarily startled. However, the foreign minister knew of her work and had reason to trust her speculations. If she and Rafe talked to him in person, they might be able to impress on him the seriousness of the situation. "We would have to meet with him in a way that would not arouse comment."
"Easily done," Rafe replied. "Lord and Lady Castlereagh often entertain distinguished British visitors, which, in all modesty, I can claim to be. As my companion, a woman already known to them, you would be equally welcome. I will contact him and ask that a private breakfast or lunch be arranged."
"You'd better make it as soon as possible," she said darkly. "I feel in my bones that something will happen soon."
The music stopped and they moved toward the edge of the ballroom. She was about to suggest they leave when the orchestra struck up another waltz and Robin approached them. He greeted Rafe amiably, then bowed before Maggie.
"Countess Janos, would you honor me with this dance?"
In spite of the steely glint in Rafe's eyes, it never occurred to Maggie to refuse. Publicly she and Robin were only the most casual of acquaintances, and he would not ask her to dance if there wasn't something he needed to discuss with her. She smiled and extended one hand. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Anderson."
She blew a kiss to Rafe as Robin took her in his arms and carried her away in the rapid turns of the waltz.
For all the years they had known each other, and as intimate as they had been, they had never waltzed together. She was not surprised to discover that he was an excellent dancer, nor that they knew each other so well that there was no need to concentrate on footwork. A carefree smile on her face, she asked, "Is something wrong, Robin?"
"I heard something that I wanted to pass
"Le Serpent?" Her brow wrinkled in concentration. "It's unfamiliar to me."
"And to me. There is no one in the Parisian underworld by that name. My informant couldn't even say if the man is French or a foreigner. Apparently Le Serpent has been recruiting criminals to carry out a plot against some of the Allied leaders."
She thought about what he had said, but the information rang no bells. "I'll ask if any of my women have heard of such a man. Were there any other clues?"
"Not as such. But I have wondered..." Robin's voice trailed off as he deftly removed them from the path of a drunken Russian officer whose enthusiasm for waltzing exceeded his skill.
When they were safely clear, Robin continued, "Is it possible that the name might come from a family crest or some such? The man we are after is certainly someone of power and position, and would likely have a family coat of arms."
She felt a tingle at the words. In his own way, Robin was as intuitive as Maggie herself, and it would not be the first time that a small fact triggered a mental leap to something quite different. When inspiration struck, he was usually right.
"That's very plausible," she agreed. "I'll ask around to discover whose arms involve any kind of snake. There can't be many. It will be good to have something concrete to investigate after so many days of frustration."
During the latter part of the dance, she described her meeting with General Roussaye and her suspicions of him.
Robin listened intently. When she had finished, he said, "I'll see if I can find any snakes in his background. I think we're on the edge of a breakthrough. But for God's sake, Maggie, be careful. My informant seemed to think Le Serpent is a direct representative of Satan. Whoever he is, the man is dangerous."
The music ended. Robin had maneuvered so that the last bars brought them to the Duke of Candover. Gracefully handing Maggie back to Rafe's keeping, he bid them good night, then disappeared.
Maggie's worried gaze followed him. Robin must be as tired as she was, but if she knew him, he would spend half of the remaining night in Parisian stews and gaming hells looking for further traces of Le Serpent. And he told her to be careful!
Intent on her friend, she didn't see the black look on Rafe's face as he observed her preoccupation.
Chapter 10
The first thing the next morning, Maggie began her inquiries about snakes and related heraldic creatures by calling on a fragile old lady in Faubourg St. Germain. Madame Daudet had lost all her male descendants in Napoleon's wars, and she longed for peace. She also knew the history, marriages, and arms of every important family in France. After listening to Maggie's request, she promised that within forty-eight hours she would have a detailed list of possibilities among both the old and the new French aristocracy. With luck, it would provide some clues.
Around noon, a note was delivered from Rafe saying they would join the Castlereaghs for luncheon the next day. Maggie nodded with satisfaction, then prepared to call on a gossipy woman who was an expert on the upper levels of Bonapartist society. Perhaps she would also be well informed about serpents.
Maggie's departure was delayed when the butler brought in the card of an unexpected visitor. Mrs. Oliver Northwood.
Curious what Cynthia Northwood might have to say, she ordered her butler to admit the visitor. The young woman was tense when she entered, her pretty face pale against the dark curls.
"I'm glad to find you at home, Countess," she said in labored French. "I wish to discuss something with you."
Responding in English, Maggie said, "But of course, my dear. Would you care for some coffee?"
At her visitor's nod, Maggie gave orders to the butler, then seated herself, gesturing Cynthia to a sofa near the window where it would be easy to read her expression. Maggie made general remarks and received monosyllabic replies until coffee and delicate pastries were served. When they were alone, she said, "If you have something to ask me, perhaps you should simply come out with it."
Cynthia's wide brown eyes slid away. "It's harder to say than I thought it would be. You scarcely know me, and have no reason to listen to my troubles. But... but I needed another woman to talk to."
"And you chose me because of our mutual relationship with Candover?"
Cynthia looked startled, then smiled faintly. "Perhaps that is it. Since we have a... mutual friend, and you listened kindly once, I thought I could talk to you." She drew herself up with visible effort. "When we spoke before, I told you that I was unhappy in my marriage."
"When I met your husband later that evening, I understood why," Maggie said encouragingly. "Why did you marry him?"
Cynthia spread her hands in a despairing gesture. "I fancied myself in love, of course. Oliver was handsome and dashing and lived such an exciting life compared to mine in Lincolnshire, where I grew up. The aunt who presented me was impressed that he was the son of a lord, and told me what a splendid conquest I had made. I didn't look beyond his lineage and tailoring.
"He was handsome seven years ago, before his indulgences caught up with him. I was only eighteen, dazzled that such a man of the world should court me. It never occurred to me to consider his character." She shrugged. "I got what I deserved. It's incredible that we choose our life's companions after a handful of meetings, usually under the most artificial of circumstances. Since Oliver came from a noble family, my father saw no reason to deny his suit. I was so pleased by my good fortune that I never asked what he saw in me."
"You are too hard on yourself. You are a very attractive woman, one any man might fall in love with."
"Perhaps," Cynthia said, unmollified. "But it was more to the point that I had a fine dowry. As a younger son, Oliver would have needed to marry well in any case, but his gambling debts made the situation urgent." She sighed. "It took very little time for me to realize what a poor bargain I had made. I come from simple country folk who believe in old-fashioned things like fidelity. I won't bore you with how I discovered about his women, but it shattered all my illusions. When I confronted him, he mocked me for being a provincial little fool."
Cynthia's voice broke, and she stopped speaking. Ever practical, Maggie poured her more coffee. The girl choked when she sipped it, then continued her depressing tale.
"I decided to pay him back in his own coin." She flushed and stared into the depths of her cup. "It was foolish. Women are not the same as men, and it was a poor form of revenge. Except for Rafe, I have few good memories of that time. He was always kind, and he told me to put a higher price on myself."
She glanced up again. "I didn't know what he meant at first, but I did eventually. I started behaving in a way that would not shame my father if he knew of it, and I found it much easier to live with myself."
"Yet something has gone wrong to bring you here."
"I fell in love, and was happier than I had ever been, and now everything is much, much worse." Cynthia's eyes were bleakly unhappy. "Michael Brewer is everything I should have sought in a husband, but was too foolish to appreciate. He is kind, reliable, and honorable. Most of all, he loves me, in spite of all the mistakes I have made."
Maggie looked at her with compassion. No wonder the poor girl looked so miserable. She was in a situation where there was little prospect of a happy resolution.
Cynthia put her cup down and toyed nervously with her wedding ring. "I want to marry and settle down somewhere in the country with Michael and raise lots of babies and get plump and warm my feet on his back in the winter. That is what he wants, too. He hates the dishonesty of what we are doing."
"But as long as you and your husband live, that is impossible. In England divorces are virtually unobtainable. Even if you had the money and influence to get a bill of divorcement through Parliament, you would be a
"There is no time for that," Cynthia said grimly. "I am with child."
Maggie inhaled sharply. "And it is not your husband's?"
"We have not been man and wife for years. Unfortunately, while he doesn't want me for himself, he doesn't want anyone else to have me, either." Cynthia shuddered. "I am frightened about what he will do when he learns I am increasing."
"And it is not the sort of thing one can conceal very long," Maggie observed. "What does your major think?"
Cynthia started twisting her hands together. "I haven't told him yet. When I do, I know he will insist that I leave Oliver and live with him."
"It will be a scandal, but hardly unique. Perhaps that would be the best solution."
For the first time, Cynthia's voice became uneven. "You don't know my husband. Oliver is horribly vindictive, and he would sue Michael for criminal conversation. Michael is not a rich man—he would be ruined. His military career would be over, and both our families would be disgraced."
In a whisper, she finished, "And it would break my father's heart." She buried her face in her hands as sobs overcame her. Between gulps for breath, she managed to say, "Worst of all, I fear that Michael would come to hate me for ruining his life."
Maggie crossed quickly to sit next to her guest on the sofa, putting one arm around her to give what comfort she could. Fiercely she cursed the inflexible marriage laws that kept husband and wife tied together no matter how wretched they were.
When Cynthia's sobs abated, Maggie handed over a fresh handkerchief and said, "Your choices are limited. You can stay with your husband or leave. If you leave, you can return to your father, live with your major, or perhaps set up an independent establishment."
Cynthia straightened, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. "It sounds simple when you put it that way. I do want to leave, but it will be very difficult. Oliver would be injured in his purse as well as his pride, for my father's money supports us. My dowry is long gone, of course, but Papa sends an allowance that I use for household expenses. That would stop if I left. With the amount that Oliver loses gambling, he might be unable to maintain an establishment if I wasn't there." She lifted a nervous hand to brush back a loose strand of hair. "Though perhaps he could manage. He always seems to have money."