Mary Putney: Petals in the Storm

Robin gave a soft whistle of surprise. "How did Candover accomplish that? If he has found some miraculous technique to persuade you, I should ask him what it is."

Maggie chuckled and patted his hand. "Don't bother, my dear. His method was not one that anyone else could use." Her brief amusement faded. "He happened to be in France when my father and Willis were killed, and he arranged to take the bodies back to England. They have been buried at my uncle's estate the last dozen years."

Robin looked at her narrowly. While it was good that she was staying, this new fact suggested a myriad of interesting questions. How well had Maggie known the duke, and were there implications here that might affect his own plans? Keeping those thoughts to himself, he asked, "Is it possible that he lied about that, to convince you to stay here?"

Maggie was startled by the question; it had never occurred to her to doubt Rafe's word. She did not pause to reconsider before shaking her head. "No, he's one of your proper English gentlemen, without enough imagination to lie."

Robin grinned, looking irresistibly boyish. "Haven't I convinced you yet that not all Englishmen are gentlemen?"

"You, Robin, are sui generis, absolutely one of a kind. The fact that you are English is a mere accident of birth." Maggie smiled at him affectionately. In spite of all his strenuous objections to the contrary, Robin was completely a gentleman, more so than Rafe Whitbourne had proved to be.

Over the years she had often wondered about Robin's background. She suspected that he was the illegitimate son of a noble house, raised and educated among gentlemen but forever an outsider in the ranks of polite society. That would explain why he showed no desire to return to his native land. But she had never asked for confirmation, and Robin had never volunteered. Though in many ways they were very close, some subjects were not discussed.

"Your suggestion to tantalize the duke with my irresistible body was a dead loss, by the way," she added wryly. "It wouldn't have mattered if I were as beautiful as Helen of Troy, or as ugly as Madame de Stael. The duke's noble mind is above such crass matters as lust, at least when he is engaged on His Britannic Majesty's business." His kiss, after all, had only been a way to confirm her identity.

"He merely has superhuman control. Seeing you in that gown tempts me to lock the door and overpower you with kisses myself."

Maggie glanced away, not wanting to deal with what lay beneath his teasing tone. "Before I return to England, I'm going to acquire an entire wardrobe of gowns that come up to my throat. It's tedious to have men always talking to one's chest rather than one's face."

Serious again, Robin said, "Why did Candover do something as extraordinary as returning your father's body to England? It must have been very difficult to arrange."

"I imagine it was." Maggie was reluctant to tell even Robin her history with the duke. Choosing part of the truth, she said, "He and my father were friends." Before Robin could inquire further, she went on, "For your sins, you can now learn about the urgent project Candover dropped onto our plates."

Succinctly she outlined what Rafe had said about a possible plot hidden in Parisian diplomatic circles. At the end, she produced the paper Lord Strathmore had sent, and she and Robin read it together.

"If Strathmore is right, this is deadly serious," Robin said soberly. "There have been other conspiracies, but always by insignificant people far from the centers of power. This plot looks different."

"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I can already think of several names to put behind this conspiracy."

"So can I, all men who will be impossible to accuse without rock-solid proof, even if we were sure ourselves."

"After you and I have both checked with our informants, it may reduce the number of possibilities."

"Or it may increase them. All we can do is get to work and hope for the best." He glanced at the letter again. "You're disobeying orders-according to this, you should have nothing to do with anyone in the delegation save Castlereagh and Wellington. What if I'm Strathmore's weak link?"

"Nonsense," she retorted. "He means the regular delegation, not you. You've worked with Strathmore longer than I have."

As Robin got to his feet, he shook his head with mock sorrow. "I see that all my lessons have been wasted. How many times have I told you not to trust anyone, even me?"

"If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Yourself, of course. I'll leave first. Shall I come by tomorrow night so we can discuss our findings?"

She nodded and watched him don his low-level diplomat's face. Every delegation was cursed with junior officers who had better family connections than wits, and Robin looked like one of those: ineffectual and too handsome to have a brain. In reality, of course, he had a mind like Saracen steel, highly polished and razor sharp. It was he who had taught her how to gather and analyze facts that might be of value, as well as how to cover her own tracks and avoid suspicion.

But he was wrong on one count, she thought as she prepared to return to the ball. At the moment, she was not at all sure she could trust herself. Her life was no longer entirely under her own control, and she didn't like it one bit.

Downstairs, the ball churned on exactly as Rafe had left it, with too many costumes, scents, and languages struggling for notice. Seeing nothing that encouraged him to stay, he started working his way across the room toward the exit.

Because of the crowd, he had no warning before coming face-to-face with Oliver Northwood. Rafe was hard-pressed to conceal his shock. Bloody hell, it only needed this!

The other man did not share his feelings. "Candover!" Northwood said jovially. "Splendid to see you. I had no idea you were in Paris, but of course, half the ton has come over. Too many years trapped on our island, don't you know."

He laughed heartily at his own wit and offered his hand, which Rafe accepted without enthusiasm.

Northwood was a beefy blond man of medium height, a younger son of Lord Northwood and almost a caricature of the hearty country squire. The first year that Rafe had been on the town, when his closest friends were still at Oxford, he had moved in the same circles as Northwood. Though not close, they had been on amiable terms, until Northwood's disastrous role in ending Rafe's engagement. Rafe knew it was irrational to blame the other man for what had happened, but he had done his best to avoid him ever since.

Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid him now. "Good evening, Northwood," Rafe said with what patience he could muster. "Have you been in Paris long?"

"I'm with the British delegation, been here since July. M'father thought I should get some diplomatic experience." Northwood shook his head mournfully. "Wants me to settle down and take a seat in Parliament, make myself useful, y'know."

Parisian diplomatic circles were small, so they would be running into each other often. Rafe resigned himself to being civil. "Is your wife here with you?"

He was unprepared for the ugly glint that came into Northwood's eyes as he looked across the room. "Oh, Cynthia's here. A sociable female like her wouldn't miss the opportunity to… make so many new acquaintances."

Following the direction of the glance, Rafe saw Cynthia Northwood at the edge of the ballroom, in earnest conversation with a dark, handsome British infantry major. Even at this distance Rafe could see how absorbed they were in each other, as if they were alone instead of in the midst of a crowd.

Knowing better than to comment, Rafe returned his gaze to Oliver Northwood and decided to start gathering information. "How are the negotiations going?"