Mary Putney - Petals in the Storm

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 Blucher 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."

Immune to the setdown, Northwood glanced toward a side door in time to see Maggie return to the ball, her golden hair shimmering above the provocative green gown. She looked every inch the highborn trollop. Northwood stared, his jaw slack. "Say, would you look at that blond doxy! Must have been upstairs with some lucky devil. Think I'd have any success if I asked her for an encore?"

It took Rafe a moment to register that Northwood was referring to Maggie. He had never thought of her as blond, a word that conjured up thoughts of pale anemic maidens. Maggie's glowing cream-and-gold vitality was too vivid for such an insipid description. When he did realize who Northwood meant, Rafe felt a powerful urge to use his fists to wipe the smirk off his companion's face.

He held his breath until the impulse faded, then said, "I doubt it. I met the lady earlier, and she struck me as particular in her tastes."

The implied insult also bounced off Northwood's impenetrable skin. "Tell me about her." He frowned as Maggie disappeared into a clump of Austrian officers. "You know, she looks familiar, but I can't quite remember…" He snapped his fingers. "That's it! She reminds me of an English girl I knew years ago. Margaret, no, Margot, something."

Rafe's stomach turned. "Do you mean Miss Margot Ashton?"

"Yes, she's the one. You were after her yourself, weren't you? Was she as good as she looked?" The coarse laugh left no doubt about the kind of relationship that Northwood assumed Rafe had had with Margot.

Rafe took another deep breath. Had Northwood always been this vulgar, or had he gotten worse with the years? Icily he said, "I wouldn't know. I barely remember Miss Ashton. Didn't she die a year or so after her come-out?" He made a pretense of studying Maggie. "I suppose there is some resemblance between them, but the lady you are admiring is Hungarian- Magda, the Countess Janos."

"Hungarian, eh? I've never had a Hungarian. Will you introduce me?"

Deciding that if he didn't leave in the next ten seconds, he would do Northwood serious bodily harm, Rafe said, "Unfortunately I have a pressing engagement, but I'm sure you can find some other mutual acquaintance. If you will excuse me…?" He was on the point of escaping when someone latched on to his right arm. With a sense of tired inevitability, he looked down into Cynthia Northwood's wide brown eyes.

"Rafe!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you here. Will you be staying in Paris for a while?"

Cynthia was an attractive young woman with dark curls, a heart-shaped face, and an expression of misleading innocence. Her firm grip prevented Rafe's escape. Besides, she had been his mistress for a time and they had parted amiably, so he could hardly repulse ler.

"Yes, I've taken apartments and intend to stay through the autumn, perhaps longer." Gently he disengaged his arm. "Pray have a thought for my valet. He is so protective of my coats that I'm surprised he actually lets me wear them."

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "It comes from being in Paris, you know. People are so much more demonstrative here. I'm afraid it is contagious."

"Is that your excuse?" her husband asked nastily.

Rafe felt the tension as the two glared at each other. Knowing that he absolutely must escape before they started a public scene of the sort he most detested, he made the barest of farewells, then slid away into the crowd. This time he made sure that no one could catch his eye.

Outside in the warm night air, he gave a sigh of relief. Since it was still early, he decided to dismiss his carriage and walk back to his hotel. It would be interesting to see what Napoleon had done to the city. More important, he needed time to get his disordered thoughts under control.

First Margot-it was still hard to think of her as Maggie-whose very presence was a disruption and a reminder of things best forgotten. And as if that wasn't enough, the Northwoods. The evening might have been designed by the devil in a farcical mood.

But it was hard to be amused by a farce that made him feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. As he walked unseeing toward the Tuileries, events came back to him with the clarity of yesterday rather than thirteen years before.

He had loved Margot Ashton with uncritical adoration, awed and humble that a girl who could have her choice of London's most eligible men had chosen him. They had behaved discreetly in public since their engagement had been unannounced, but he had spent every possible moment with her. She had seemed as happy in his company as he was in hers.

Then had come that fatal bachelor party in June. He could remember the name of every young man in the group that night, could recall with excruciating accuracy how Oliver Northwood had drunkenly described relieving a girl of her unwanted virginity in the garden during a ball some days earlier. Rafe had scarcely paid attention, until the end, when Northwood had let slip the girl's name: Margot Ashton.

Most of the young men were admirers of Margot, and after a stunned moment, one of them had shushed Northwood, saying that it was ungentlemanly to speak so of a young lady. But the damage had already been done.

No one present knew of the engagement, so they thought nothing of it when Rafe excused himself a few minutes later. The green tinge of his face was attributed to the quantity of claret he had drunk, and he was forgotten as soon as he left the room.

Outside, Rafe had made it no farther than the street when he fell to his knees and began retching. Feeling as if his very guts would spew out, he thought of Margot's body under that drunken sot, her full lips kissing his, her long legs entwined…

The vision had burned on his brain with nauseating clarity. He had no idea how long it was before someone said, "You all right, lad? I'll call a chair for you." The Samaritan helped him to his feet, but Rafe had refused further aid, heading blindly down the street as if he could outrun his imagination.

He had spent the rest of the night walking the streets of London, heedless of his direction. More than once lurkers in the shadows considered the richness of his attire, balanced it against the expression on his face, and decided to let him continue unmolested on his journey. The young gentleman might be worth a pretty penny, but his dead gray eyes threatened disaster to any thief foolish enough to try to collect it.