Petals in the Storm (42 page)

The coldness of Varenne's dark gaze confirmed his identity. Yet after a moment, he gave a slow smile and dismissed the butler. "No need to worry about the servants. Every man on the estate, from the cook to my little army, is personally loyal to me, and all look forward to a better day for France." He waved toward a chair. "Pray take a seat, monsieur. I see that I underestimated you. How did you discover my identity?"

"Your signet ring. I traced the crest." Deciding that he should put his insurance policy into effect,Northwood added, "Incidentally, a sealed envelope with what I know is with someone who will take it to the authorities if I should disappear."

"There is no such need for such precautions, just as there will be no need for secrecy soon." His gaze sharpened. "You
have
done as we had discussed at your embassy, I assume?"

"Everything went according to plan. In about four hours, half the diplomats in Paris will be only a memory."

"You've done well,
mon petit Anglais
, very well." He glanced at his watch. "I regret that I have no time to socialize, but this is a most busy day. My soldiers must be prepared for whatever comes, I am considering matters that must be attended to after the explosion ... a thousand things." He tucked the watch away. "Have you come for your bonus?"

"Partly that, partly to make sure that I am not forgotten in your rise to power." Northwood relaxed. Though there had been a menacing flash in Varenne's eyes when Northwood had first arrived, this affable aristocrat was turning out to be much less threatening than the masked Le Serpent had been.

"I promise that you will not be forgotten." The count smiled smoothly. "But as I said, I am very busy just now. Perhaps you would like to spend the next few hours amusing yourself with Countess Janos?"

Northwood ran an eager tongue over his lower lip. "I was hoping you had her. I can see her now?"

"If you wish. As I said, you have done well, so it is right that you enjoy a reward for your labors. Follow me."

Varenne led his guest up the stairs and along a dusty corridor to a door with worn gilding. He pulled a key from an inside pocket and handed it to Northwood. "Be sure to keep the door locked. She's a tricksome wench, and I don't want her loose in the castle."

Northwood's fingers tightened greedily on the key. He had waited a long time for this. "I'll keep her too busy to cause trouble."

"Enjoy yourself, but don't damage her too badly, Monsieur Northwood. I want to try her myself when I'm not so busy."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Northwood put the key in the lock and turned it.

It had been maddening to wait two hours at Madame Daudet's for the old lady to wake up, but the maid had been adamant about not disturbing her mistress. Helene had scarcely been able to contain her impatience. Apart from finding the book that contained the three-headed serpent crest of the d'Aguste family, she had nothing to do but worry. A pity that they hadn't asked about the crest earlier, but at the time, it had merely been one of many possibilities.

In time, Madame Daudet emerged to greet her visitor. The old lady seemed scarcely more than black lace and delicate bones, but there was still strength and the ghost of beauty in her face. "What can I do for you today, child? Is your pretty blond friend here, too?"

"No, madame, I am here because I am worried about her," Helene replied. "Countess Janos and some other friends have disappeared, and the only clue I have is that a d'Aguste might be involved. Can you tell me anything about the family?"

The old lady pursed her lips. "There is little to say, because the direct line is extinct. There have been no noble d'Agustes for the last fifty years or so."

Helene's disappointment was so bitter she could taste it. Grasping at straws, she asked, "What happened fifty years ago?"

"Let's see ...," Madame Daudet murmured as she cast her mind back over the years. "The last of the d'Agustes was an only daughter named Pauline. She married the Count de Varenne and the d'Aguste name died out. Pauline was the mother of the present count. A strange girl. There's bad blood in the d'Agustes."

"Varenne!" Helene exclaimed. After thanking Madame Daudet, she flew out of the apartment and down to the street. She still didn't know what to do about it, but at least she now knew who Le Serpent was.

Michel Roussaye frowned over the notes he had made after visiting a dozen clubs and cafes where Bonapartist officers gathered to drink and gamble and reminisce about the glorious days of the empire. Mention of Captain Henri Lemercier had produced blank looks, expressions of distaste, or occasionally a hard stare followed by a curt disclaimer of any knowledge of the man.

The lack of information was not surprising, since discretion was wise these days, but Roussaye had noticed something else that was disquieting. In every cafe", there had been fragmentary rumors of change in the wind. Several times he had heard whispers about Le Serpent, a man who would lead France once more to the glory she deserved. Two or three men who remembered Roussaye's army nickname had even asked obliquely if the general was the coming leader.

Roussaye had vehemently disclaimed any such role, but the hints were worrisome. Though most officers were like him, tired and willing to give peace a chance, there were still a few hotheads whose truest happiness had been in the days of the great victories. Such men refused to see what a high price their country had paid for a fleeting taste of
la gloire
.

Even more alarming was the news his servant received when he tried to deliver a message to the Duke of Candover: the duke had gone out the previous afternoon and had not returned. Roussaye swore to himself.

First Robert Anderson, then Countess Janos, and now Candover; the crisis must be near.

Impatiently he got his feet and decided to go to Silves's, another popular Bonapartist cafe.More and more, it was necessary to learn who had employed Henri Lemercier.

While Maggie sat in a shabby wing chair attempting to read a lurid French novel, Rex sprawled on the floor beside her. He lay on his back, curled sideways like a comma, his massive furry feet in the air. She gave him an affectionate smile. If he wasn't snoring she would have wondered if he was alive. A pity that she couldn't relax so thoroughly.

In the past twenty-four hours she had made what plans she could, and now there was nothing to do but wait. With a sigh, she laid the novel on the table next to her and leaned over to scratch Rex's neck.

The cat was much better entertainment than the book, since the servant who had filled her requests seemed to think that females enjoyed reading the most appalling tripe. Besides having characters too absurd to believe, the novel had a spy subplot that was pure idiocy. The author had no idea what an unglamorous business spying was.

At the moment, Maggie would have been delighted to embrace the most boring spy work in existence. Being kidnapped might be exciting in a book, but it was a combination of terrifying and tedious in real life. After making what meager preparations she could, there was nothing left to do but wait.

A key grated in the lock. Since lunch had already been served, a visitor must mean either Varenne or, much worse, the associate he had promised her to. She straightened in her chair and dried her damp palms on her skirt while Rex scuttled under the bed.

When Oliver Northwood came through the door, she was almost relieved. The man was a coarse brute, a wife abuser, and a traitor to his country, but at least he was a known quantity, with neither the intelligence nor the calculated wickedness of Varenne. Against him, she would have a chance.

As he relocked the door, she ordered herself to forget the horror of rape; forget the open window that promised an end to panic and pain; forget everything but the role she had decided on. If she didn't play it well, her nightmares would become brutal reality.

Northwood turned to face her, his broad, fleshy face openly gloating. He would expect her to be frightened. In fact, he was probably looking forward to it, and would be on her in an instant if she cowered or begged.

There was a good chance, however, that being treated with the social amenities would make him respond in kind. Rising to her feet, she offered her most gracious smile. "Mr. Northwood, what a pleasure! I did so hope it would be you, but the count wouldn't tell me, naughty man. Do sit down." She gestured to the brocade chair that she had set by the table. "Would you care for some wine?"

Taken aback, Northwood took the seat indicated.

With the air of a hostess in her own drawing room, Maggie poured part of her lunchtime carafe of wine into her glass, then handed it to her visitor. "Here you are. I'm sorry that it's only vin ordinaire, but I have nothing better to offer you."

Expression baffled, he accepted the glass. "You're glad to see me?"

"But of course! I've always fancied you, you know."

"You picked a damned funny way of showing it, Margot Ashton," he said belligerently. "You always treated me like dirt."

She took the chair opposite him, soft folds of green muslin settling in a way that exposed a hint of ankle.

That morning she had spent considerable time combing her hair into a loose style designed for the boudoir, and she had also made some adjustments to her neckline. Judging by Northwood's expression, her appearance was having the desired effect.

With a delicate sigh, she said, "Oh, dear, I had always hoped that you would understand. We are kindred spirits, you know—I have always sensed that."

Obviously enjoying her flirtatious manner, Northwood leaned back in his chair. Nonetheless, he would not let himself be appeased too easily. "If we're such bloody kindred spirits, why were you always so rude to me, both when you made your come-out and these last weeks? You never treated Candover like that."

"Of course not." She put a hint of exasperation in her voice. "The man's insanely jealous, and it wouldn't be safe to flirt with anyone else when he's around. You're much cleverer than he is, though. He mentioned that I looked like a girl he had known once, but even though we had been engaged, he has never recognized me! The gullible fool actually believes that I'm a Hungarian countess."

Gulping a third of the wine, Northwood said, "Oh, I'm clever all right, though I never let that lot at the embassy know. They all think they're so bloody superior." He brooded for a moment. "So why did Candover get the royal treatment, not me?"

"Because he's rich, of course," Maggie said, making her eyes wide and innocent. "Surely you don't think women would waste time on the man for any other reason?"

"You're talking nonsense," Northwood said viciously. 'The bastard has always had any woman he wanted—including my wife."

"Well, he's always been very, very rich, hasn't he?" Maggie said reasonably. "Oh, he's not bad-looking, but he's also a bore, both in and out of bed." She gave a bawdy chuckle, then asked silent forgiveness for the enormous lie she was about to utter. "Really, Oliver—do you mind if I call you Oliver? I always think of you that way—if Candover had to rely on his physical attributes to keep a mistress, no woman would go back for a second round."

It was what Northwood wanted to hear. Leaning forward greedily, he asked, "How much of a man is he, then?"

"Well, a lady really shouldn't talk of such things. Let's just say that where she would hope to find the most, she would have to be content with the least." She giggled and undulated in her chair a little, her posture signaling availability. "He's also a thirty-second wonder with absolutely no imagination. Why, he won't even ..."

She listed several exotic variations on the common theme, and had the satisfaction of seeing Northwood's eyes nearly bulge from their sockets with fascinated lust.

Tilting her head to one side, she said reflectively, "In spite of losing all that lovely money, I was rather relieved that I didn't marry him. Besides being tedious and madly jealous, he's dreadfully stuffy. But when I was eighteen, I was so proud to have attached the heir to a dukedom that I didn't care what he was like."

"You have me to thank for his breaking the engagement."

Maggie felt a cold chill on the back of her neck, but she managed to purr, "How did that happen?"

"It was easy. You're right, Candover isn't very clever. Anyone could see that he was head over heels for you even without an announcement."

"He did follow me around like a stag in rut," she agreed.

Northwood sipped more wine, his expression dark.

"I always despised him. We were in school together, my birth is as good as his—and a damned sight better than that Gypsy friend of his—but Candover was always too high in the instep to associate with the likes of me. Just because he had a fortune and was heir to a grand title, he acted as if that made him better than me. But I watch people, you know, I know what their weaknesses are."

Cutting off the flow of self-congratulation, Maggie coaxed him back to the original topic. "What was his weakness?"

"Why, his weakness was you, of course. He thought you were so pure and perfect. I decided to let him find out that you weren't." Northwood looked at her challengingly. "Even though you had him flummoxed, I knew you were too good to be true. It was obvious that you were a hot-tailed wench."

She had to swallow before she could say admiringly, "That was very perceptive of you, Oliver. What did you do about it?"