Mary Putney: Petals in the Storm

For a moment, the issue waved in the balance. Then she shrugged and took her seat again. "I doubt it, but go ahead. And kindly remember that I am not Margot. I am Maggie."

"What is the difference between the two?"

Her eyes narrowed again. "None of your bloody business, your grace. Please say your piece so that I may leave."

Though it was hard to continue in the face of such hostility, he had to try. "Why must you leave Paris at this particular moment? The new treaty will be negotiated and signed before the end of the year. It may be only a few more weeks."

She made a dismissive gesture. "That argument was used on me at Boney's first abdication. The Congress of Vienna was supposed to be over in six or eight weeks, and lasted nine months instead. Before it was finished, Napoleon had returned and once more my services were indispensable."

She lifted her wineglass and sipped. "I am tired of postponing my life," she said with a trace of weariness. "Bonaparte is on his way to St. Helena to preach his destiny to the sea gulls, and it is time for me to take care of some long overdue business."

Sensing that her mood had changed, he risked asking another personal question. "What kind of business?"

She stared down at her glass, swirling the wine. "I will go first to Gascony."

Rafe felt a prickle at the base of his neck as he guessed what she had in mind. "Why?"

She looked up at him, her face expressionless. "To find my father's body and take it back to England. It has been twelve years. It will take time to find where they buried him."

Though he had guessed correctly, he took no pleasure in it. The wine tasted bitter on his tongue, for he must speak of something he would have preferred to keep private. "There is no need to go to Gascony. You won't find your father there."

Her brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"I happened to be in Paris when news of your deaths arrived, so I went to the village in Gascony where the murders had taken place. I was told that two fresh graves belonged to ' les deux Anglais ,' and assumed that you and your father were buried there. I arranged to have the bodies returned to England. They are in the family plot on your uncle's estate."

The worldly veneer dissolved and she bent over, burying her face in her hands. Rafe wished he could comfort her, but knew that there was nothing she would accept from him.

He had envied the friendly, loving relationship between Margot and her father, so different from the distant politeness between Rafe and his own sire. Colonel Ashton had been an affable, direct soldier, less interested in seeing his daughter a duchess than in seeing her happy. His death at the hands of a mob would have devastated her.

After a long silence, Maggie raised her head. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, but her face was composed. "The second coffin must have been Willis, my father's orderly. He was a small man, about my height. The two of them… gave a good account of themselves when we were attacked."

She stood and crossed to the window, pushing the heavy brocade drapery aside to gaze down into the boulevard. Her haunted image was reflected in the dark glass. "Uncle Willy was almost a member of the family. He taught me how to shoot dice and cheat at cards. My father would have been appalled if he had known."

A faint smile crossed her face, then vanished. "I'm glad that Willis is in England-he would have loathed the thought of his bones spending eternity in France. I was going to take his body back as well, but you have made that unnecessary."

She turned to face Rafe, no longer hostile. "Why did you do it? It couldn't have been easy."

Indeed it hadn't been, even for a young man of wealth and determination. Rafe had come to France with the secret hope of finding Margot. Even when war threatened to break out again, he had postponed his departure.

Then, just as the Peace of Amiens ended, news of their deaths at the hands of a mob had reached Paris. A sensible man would have instantly returned to London to avoid being interned for the duration of the war. Rafe, who had not been sensible where Margot was concerned, had instead sent his servants home and made his way across France alone, using his excellent French to pass as a native.

It had taken weeks to locate the graves. Because of the danger, he had taken the lead-encased coffins over the Pyrenees into Spain rather than risk crossing France again.

The two coffins had been reinterred at the Ashton family estate in Leicestershire. With his own hands Rafe had planted daffodils on the smaller grave, because he had met Margot in the spring and daffodils always reminded him of her. He would not speak of that. The action was not only maudlin and sentimental, but vaguely laughable since hindsight now showed that he had acted under a misapprehension.

He wondered where Margot had been when he was in Gascony. Injured perhaps, or a prisoner in the local jail? If he had searched, could he have found her and brought her home? But that also was no longer relevant, so he said merely, "There was nothing else I could do for you. It was too late for apologies."

After a long pause, she asked, "Why did you feel it was necessary to apologize?"

"Because I behaved very badly, of course." He shrugged. "The more time passed, the worse my behavior looked."

Maggie took a deep, slow breath. She should have known this interview would not go according to plan. Rafe Whitbourne had always been able to find the vulnerable spots in her. That sensitivity had been welcome when they were young and in love, but it was intolerable now that love was gone. She hated losing her control in front of him.

When she was sure her voice would be even, she looked directly at him and said, "I am obligated to you." Cynically she wondered if he would try to use her sense of duty to persuade her to stay in Paris.

Instead, he said, "There is no obligation. I suppose I did it for myself as much as for you."

His quiet disclaimer bound her as nothing else could have. Resigned, she said, "You can tell Lord Strathmore that I will stay and continue working until the conference is over and the treaty is resolved. Is that satisfactory?"

He wisely refrained from any show of triumph when he answered. "Very good, especially since there is more at stake here than routine information gathering. Lord Strathmore has a special task for you."

"Oh?" Maggie returned to her chair. "What does Strathmore want me to do?"

"He has heard hints of a plot to assassinate one of the major figures here at the peace conference. He would like you to investigate as quickly and thoroughly as you can."

Maggie frowned, personal considerations forgotten. "Just three weeks ago a plot to assassinate the king, the tsar, and Wellington was exposed. Could that be the source of the rumors?"

"No, Lucien was aware of that affair, and this seems to be separate. What makes this new conspiracy so dangerous are indications that it originates in the highest diplomatic circles of the conference. Not only will it be harder to detect, but it means the conspirators have better access to their targets." Rafe reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded and sealed sheet of paper. "Lucien sent this to explain what he knows."

Maggie accepted the note and made it disappear. "Did you read what he wrote?"

His brows arched. "Of course not. It was sent to you."

"You'd never make a spy."

Rafe's voice was silky, but for the first time emotion showed through. "Quite true. I could never match your talent for deceit and betrayal."

Maggie whipped herself upright in the chair, her kid-skin slippers slapping to the floor as the room pulsed with the unspoken past. For a moment her fury threatened to spill out, but years of hard training stood her in good stead and she managed to master herself. "No, I'm sure you couldn't," she said acidly. "When your fairy godmother waved her wand over the ducal crib, the special gifts she bestowed were stubbornness and self-righteousness."