Mary Putney: Petals in the Storm

"Who is the assassin, and who is the target?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need to be talking to you tow," Lucien said gloomily. "I've only heard hints, gleaned from half a dozen sources. There are too many hostile factions, and too many possible targets. That's why information is so critical."

Nicholas said, "I heard that there was an assassination attempt on Wellington in Paris last winter. Could he be the target this time?"

"That's one of my worst fears," Lucien said. "After his victory at Waterloo, he is the most honored man in Europe. If he were to be assassinated, God only knows what would happen."

Somberly Rafe considered his friend's words. "Which is why you want me to convince your lady spy to keep sending you information until the plot is uncovered, or the conference ends."

"Precisely."

"Tell me about her. Is she French?"

Lucien made a face. "The plot thickens. I met Maggie through someone else and I know almost nothing about her background, but I've always thought she was British. Certainly she speaks and looks like an Englishwoman. I never probed further, because what mattered was that she hated Napoleon and looked on her work as a personal crusade. Her information was always good, and she never gave me a reason to distrust her."

Hearing the unspoken reservation, Rafe said, "But something has happened that makes you question her reliability."

"I still have trouble believing that Maggie would betray us, but I don't know if I can trust my own judgment. She can convince a man of anything, which is one reason she is so effective." Lucien frowned. "The situation is too grave to take anything for granted, including her loyalty. Now that Napoleon is on his way to St. Helena, she may be feathering her nest by selling British secrets to the other Allies. Perhaps she's in a hurry to leave Paris because she's earned a fortune through double- or triple-dealing and wants to escape before she is caught."

"Is there any evidence that she's disloyal?"

"As I said, I always assumed Maggie was an Englishwoman." Lucien glanced at Nicholas. "You knew Maggie as Maria Bergen. Recently you wrote me a letter, and rather than mention her by name, you discreetly referred to her as 'the Austrian woman you had worked with in Paris.'"

Nicholas straightened in his chair, expression startled. "You mean that Maria is actually English? I find that hard to believe. Not only was her German flawless, but her gestures, her mannerisms, were Austrian."

"It gets worse," Lucien said with reluctant amusement. "I became curious, and made inquiries of other men who had known her at earlier stages of her career. The French royalist knows that she is French, the Prussian says that she is a Berliner, and the Italian is willing to swear on his sainted mother's grave that she is from Florence."

Rafe couldn't help laughing. "So you are no longer sure where the lady's loyalties lie, if indeed she can be called a lady."

"She's a lady, no doubt about that," Lucien snapped. "But whose lady is she?"

Rafe was surprised by the vehement reaction, for Lucien was not sentimental where his work was concerned. Mildly Rafe said, "What should I do if I find that she has been betraying the British-assassinate her?"

Lucien gave Rafe a hard glance, not sure if the remark had been a jest. "As I said earlier, it's not a killing matter. If she's untrustworthy, simply inform foreign Minister Castlereagh so that he won't rely on what she says. He may want to use her to feed false information to her other masters."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Rafe said. "You want me to seek the lady out and persuade her to use her skills to uncover any assassination plots that might be afoot. In addition, I must ascertain where her loyalties lie, and if there are grounds for suspicion, I warn the head of the British delegation not to rely on her work. Correct?"

"Precisely. But you'll have to move quickly. The negotiations won't last much longer, so any conspirators will have to strike soon." Lucien glanced at Nicholas, who had been listening in silence. "Based on your dealings with Maggie in her Maria Bergen disguise, do you have anything to suggest?"

"Well, she's undoubtedly the most beautiful spy in Europe." Nicholas went on to contribute his evaluation of the woman, but the ensuing discussion resolved nothing.

Finally Rafe said, "The information we have is nothing if not contradictory. Obviously your Maggie is a superb actress. I'll have to play the situation by ear and hope that she proves susceptible to my famous charm."

As they all got to their feet, Lucien asked Rafe, "How soon will you be able to leave?"

"Day after tomorrow. The most beautiful spy in Europe? The prospect sounds quite stimulating." There was a gleam in Rafe's eye as he stubbed out his cigar. "I promise that I shall do my utmost for king and country."

They all returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. After he had done enough socializing to seem normal, Rafe was impatient to get away, but it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask what the so-beautiful Maggie looked like. Since Lucien had disappeared, Rafe went in search of Nicholas.

Seeing his friend step into a curtained alcove, Rafe followed. Yet when he pushed aside the curtain, he halted, one hand clenching the edge of the drapery.

In the shadowy alcove, Nicholas and his wife Clare were in each other's arms. Not kissing; if that had been the case, Rafe would have smiled and left without a second thought. But the sight that met his eyes was simpler, yet more disturbing.

Clare and Nicholas were resting against each other, eyes closed, his arms circling her waist, her forehead against his cheek. It was a tableau of perfect trust and understanding, and far more intimate than the most passionate embrace.

Since his presence had not been noticed, Rafe silently withdrew, his face tight.

It wasn't good to be too envious of one's friends.

After a day of frenzied preparation, the Duke of Candover was ready to leave England. He would be traveling fast, taking only one carriage, his valet, and a wardrobe that would do justice to his rank in the most fashionable capital in Europe.

As the clock struck midnight, he sat down in his study with a glass of brandy and leafed through the day's correspondence to see if there was anything urgent. Near the bottom of the pile was a note from Lady Jocelyn Kendal. Or rather, Lady Presteyne; since she was now very married, he must stop using her maiden name. In the note she thanked Rafe for his good advice in sending her back to her husband, extolled the joys of a happy marriage, and urged him to try it himself.

He smiled a little, glad to hear that matters had worked out. Underneath her beauty, famous name, and extravagant fortune, Jocelyn was also a very nice girl.If she and Lord Presteyne were both raving romantics,perhaps they would stay happy indefinitely, though Rafe had his doubts. He raised his glass in a solitary toast to her and her fortunate husband and drained the brandy, then smashed the glass into the fireplace.

The toast came from the heart, yet his smile went wry as he contemplated the shattered results of his uncharacteristic gesture. A man known for savoir faire would have been wiser to refrain. All he had to show for the moment was one less crystal goblet and a nagging sense of loss.

He poured another glass of brandy, then settled back in the wing chair and surveyed his library with a jaundiced eye. It was a beautifully proportioned room, a symphony of Italianate richness. In all of Rafe's vast holdings, there was no spot he enjoyed as much. That being the case, why the devil did he feel so depressed?

Wearily he recognized that the only way to cure his morbid mood was by giving in to it. Jocelyn wasn't the issue; if he had wanted the girl that much, he could have married her.