She looked down at her hands, with their short-bitten nails. "This morning Oliver came into my room unexpectedly when I was dressing, and immediately saw that I was increasing. He knew the baby couldn't be his, and he was enraged. He made my maid leave and began to beat me, calling me horrible names and saying that he hoped I'd lose the filthy brat, and if he was lucky, I'd die, too. Then he locked me in my room."
She began weeping, but managed to say through her tears, "I can't go back there, he'll kill me! Please, Maggie, can I stay with you until Michael returns?"
"Of course you can," Maggie said warmly. "He'll never find you here. How did you escape from the locked room?"
Cynthia smiled with a touch of pride. "I was quite the tomboy when I was a girl. After he left for work, I tied the bedsheets together and climbed down, then came here in a cab."
"That was resourceful," Maggie said with genuine respect. "But now it's time for you to rest—you must be exhausted."
Maggie installed Cynthia in a guest room and sent for a physician to check the girl's injuries. Then she settled down with Hélène in the dining room to study the papers Cynthia had brought. Most consisted of cryptic phrases, the kind of jottings a person doodles while thinking, and which are almost impossible for another person to decipher. There was one list of gambling vowels, and another that detailed sums of money in francs, possibly from winnings or losses.
Though Maggie was disappointed, she supposed that even a dolt like Northwood was unlikely to leave anything too incriminating around—always assuming that the man was guilty of anything more than ordinary beastliness. Secret compartments were common in desks, and one of the first places that would be searched. Maggie's own desk had a secret drawer; she had filled it with scorching but synthetic love letters that would support her reputation as a brainless doxy if anyone discovered them. She and Robin had gotten helpless with laughter when they had composed them....
The memory made her ache, so she turned to the next page. A phrase scrawled in the middle jumped out at her: "Anderson—spy? Possible danger."
She and Hélène saw it at the same time. Voice tight, Maggie said, "This doesn't prove anything about Robin."
"No, it doesn't," Hélène agreed. "You still believe in his innocence, don't you, mon amie?"
"Yes," Maggie said bleakly. "I think that he disappeared because he got too close to the fire once too often." Eyes stinging, she laid out the last sheet of paper.
The drawing on it caught both women by surprise, for it was one of the crests that Maggie had traced at Madame Daudet's: the three-headed serpent of the d'Aguste family. Underneath was written, Le Serpent, and a triumphant Eureka!
After a long moment, Maggie said, "Obviously Northwood is involved in some secret work. The question is, for whom?"
"And what did this crest mean to him? If this is indeed the crest of Le Serpent, the puzzle is solved once we understand who it is connected to," Hélène said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps we are finally making some progress," Maggie replied. "But I feel more as if we are opening Chinese boxes, and that each contains another that is even more complicated."
At that moment, the butler entered to announce the arrival of the physician. Hélène rose to take her leave, promising to return that evening after her confrontation with Colonel von Fehrenbach.
Maggie prayed that her friend's initiative would bring them closer to their goal before another disaster struck.
Chapter 17
Hélène dressed carefully for her confrontation with Colonel von Fehrenbach, choosing a blue dress that was feminine but unprovocative. Though she had two reasons for visiting him, neither was seduction in the usual sense.
Candover took her to von Fehrenbach's in his own carriage. He had also arranged for four British soldiers to meet him at the colonel's building, where they would wait on the back stairs in case she needed assistance.
On the carriage ride, Rafe offered Hélène a pistol small enough to fit into her reticule. She rejected the offer with distaste. To appease him, she agreed to take a whistle whose shriek could penetrate several walls if necessary.
Her mind drifted to thoughts of Maggie and Rafe. She could feel the tension between them and wondered if it was because they desired each other and had done nothing about it, or because they had....
Thinking about them made a refreshing change from worrying about her own concerns, because in spite of her surface confidence, the prospect of this interview with the Prussian officer terrified her.
The carriage halted in front of a mansion in the Marais district, not far from Madame Daudet's. The building was divided into flats, and the colonel lived in one with only a manservant, who should have the evening off. Since von Fehrenbach avoided the temptations of Parisian nightlife, going out only when his duties required it, Hélène should find him alone.
Candover got out and went around to the back to meet his soldiers and enter the building from the rear. After touching a nervous hand to her hair, Hélène also stepped down from the carriage. Inside, the concierge directed her to the second floor, front apartment.
The mansion had been built in the early eighteenth century, and it retained much of its grandeur. As she stood in front of von Fehrenbach's door, Hélène glanced down the hall to the door which concealed her bodyguard. Then she knocked.
After a delay of some moments, the colonel answered the door himself, confirming that the servant was out. Though von Fehrenbach was not in uniform, his unyielding posture marked him as unmistakably a soldier. His pale blond hair shone silver in the lamplight; he was a very handsome man, in the fashion of an ice prince.
They regarded each other in silence while fierce, primal attraction thrummed between them. It had been that way since the first time they had met, though neither had ever acknowledged it.
His face reflecting shock, and a complex mixture of other emotions, he said coldly, "Madame Sorel. What an unlikely pleasure. What brings you here this evening?"
"A matter of some urgency." Meeting his gaze required her to tilt her head rather far back. "If I promise not to compromise you, will you let me come in so that I may discuss it?"
A hint of color touched his cheeks, and he stood aside so she could enter. Inclining her head in thanks, she stepped into the drawing room and accepted an offered chair.
The rooms were well proportioned and impeccably neat, but apart from the well-filled bookcase, there was an unwelcoming austerity. It was as Hélène expected; a person's interior state was mirrored in his surroundings, and the colonel had winter in his soul.
Not bothering to offer refreshments, von Fehrenbach seated himself some distance away and said forbiddingly, "Yes, madame?"
Before answering, Hélène spent a moment studying his face, feeling the tension that lay beneath his impassive expression. In a stab of self-doubt, she wondered if she might be wrong about the nature of that tension. Perhaps he really did make dark and dangerous plans to injure others. She was suddenly glad of the whistle in her reticule.
Not bothering with social niceties, she said bluntly, "There is a conspiracy to disrupt the peace conference by assassination. The accident that sent Castlereagh to his bed was in fact an attempt on his life, and Wellington may be the next target."
Von Fehrenbach's pale brows rose marginally. "Paris is rife with plots. What has that to do with me?"
Her hands locked in her lap, for what she was about to do was outrageous. "There is some reason to believe that you might be behind the conspiracy."
"What?" His calm shattered, the colonel bounded furiously to his feet. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing! What perversion of logic could lead anyone to suspect me?" With a flash of blue fire in his eyes, he added in a low, menacing whisper, "And why do I hear it from you, of all people?"
Hélène remained still. "That is three questions, none of them simple to answer. If you will sit and listen for a few minutes, I will explain." As he hesitated, she added, "It is in your best interest to hear."
"Not at all, Colonel. What threat could I possibly pose to you? You are one of the victors, a man of wealth and position, while I am only a widow from a defeated nation. If you are threatened, it is not by me." As he stood uncertainly, she added impatiently, "Come, surely you do not fear me. It will cost you nothing to listen."
He took a chair closer to Hélène, saying so softly that she might have imagined the words, "In that you are wrong, Madame Sorel. I do fear you."
With dizzying relief she knew that she was right—that every exchange between them took place on more than one level. But before pursuing her own ends, she must attend to the business that had brought her here. "Considerable effort has gone into investigating this plot, and it was determined that you were one of a handful of possibilities who had the intelligence, skill, and motive to organize it."
"I am flattered by your assessment of my ability," he said dryly. "Now explain to me why I would do such a thing."
"You are known to hate France and everything French. Twice you have killed French officers in duels. You have also said repeatedly that the proposed settlement is too moderate. If Wellington or Castlereagh is killed, what will happen to the treaty that is so close to acceptance?"
The colonel's brows arched with surprise. "I begin to understand. If either of them is assassinated, the voices of moderation would be stilled and all Europe would demand reprisals. France would be dismembered and impoverished."
"Does that thought please you, Colonel von Fehrenbach?"
"It might please me, but I am a soldier, not an assassin," he said curtly. "In duels, I killed two predatory French officers who preyed on junior Allied officers. That is a long way from plotting against your country. My duty is to follow my sovereign's orders, not to make policy."
"I believe you, and that is one of the reasons I am here." She sat without flinching as he examined her with new thoroughness. He was beginning to really hear what she was saying, and that was what she had hoped for.
"Are there other reasons I am under suspicion?" he asked. "I am hardly the only Allied officer who hates France."
"There is another reason, circumstantial but strong. We have learned that the man behind the plot is called Le Serpent."
"Again, what has that to do with me?"
'"The cunning of a serpent, the courage of a lion,"' she quoted, watching his reaction closely.
He sucked in his breath. "Of course, my family motto. Interesting, but as you said, entirely circumstantial. Many family arms carry serpents. In fact," he added after a moment's thought, "it needn't refer to family arms. There is a French general who was nicknamed Le Serpent, and for all I know the Parisian king of thieves is called that as well."
Ignoring his later words, Hélène asked with sudden excitement, "What general is that?"
The colonel gave her a hard look. "Michel Roussaye. A friend of mine tried to capture him and a small force of French soldiers after the Battle of Leipzig. Roussaye slithered away time and again, very much like a serpent. He's a fine soldier."
"General Roussaye is another leading suspect."
"How would he benefit if France is crippled by the peace settlement?" von Fehrenbach said with exasperation. "You are guilty of massive illogic."
"A revolutionary might welcome a settlement that would anger France to the point where she would once more take arms."
The effect of Hélène's words on the colonel was immediate. His face closed and he seemed to forget that she was there. Eventually he returned his gaze to her. "Why have you come here to tell me this? If I am truly under suspicion, why didn't Wellington simply have me arrested?"
"There are political realities," she replied. "Marshal Blücher would be furious if a valued aide was arrested on such flimsy evidence. Indeed, there is no evidence to speak of, merely probabilities. That is one reason why this business is being handled with as much discretion as possible. If the story of the plot became well known, the effect would be almost as disruptive as an actual assassination."
"Perhaps," the colonel agreed. "But as you say, there is no real evidence—which is not surprising since I have done nothing. What makes you think that there is a plot at all?"
Hélène shrugged. "Rumors and small inconsistencies that would never stand up in a court of law. The only truly solid evidence is the attack on Lord Castlereagh, which was designed to look like an accident. Also, a British agent may have been murdered because he was getting too close to Le Serpent."
"Or perhaps because he got into a fight over a woman. I've never heard that spies were a very honorable lot." Von Fehrenbach's gaze bored into her. "Which brings us to you, Madame Sorel. You have answered my other questions, but not why you, of all the men and women in France, have come to accuse me."
Now the conversation was going to become really difficult. Palms damp, Hélène said, "I have an unofficial connection with British intelligence, and have been involved in the investigation."
"So the lady is a spy," he said with disgust. "Or is that a contradiction in terms? Spying is just another form of whoring, and I understand that female spies sell themselves in many ways."
She had known that something like this would be said, but it still stung. "I have never sold myself in any way, Colonel, and I accept no money for what I do," she said sharply. "Someone else could have come to question you, but I wanted to."
"Why?" He leaned forward in his chair, his face hostile. "Once again, why you?"
"You know why, Colonel." She gazed at him with all the warmth and honesty she possessed.
Though his eyes might be the cold blue of northern ice, in their depths she saw raw, blazing pain. Muttering a German curse, he wrenched his gaze away from her and stood, turning toward his bookcase. She could see some of the titles from where she sat. Philosophy and history, mostly, with a number of Latin and Greek texts. The colonel was a man of broad interests.
Not looking at her, he said, "You speak in riddles, Madame Sorel."
"I am speaking very clearly, though it might not be a language you wish to acknowledge." She rose and crossed the room, stopping several feet away from him. "Even if you will not admit it, there has been something between us since the first time we met."
He spun around and faced her, anger melting his calm. "Very well, I admit it. You arouse me, like a mare in heat inflames a stallion. You feel it, too, or you would not be flaunting yourself here. Have so many Frenchmen died that you must seek farther afield for a stud? Shall I take you here on the carpet, do to you what I want the Allies to do to France?"
Hélène's face whitened. She had expected him to fight her, and recognized that his cruelty was a measure of how much she affected him. Even so, his words cut too close to the bone to ignore. "If casual fornication was all I wanted, I could find it easily enough without coming to a man who insults me."
"Then why are you here, madame?" His words were bleak, yet not so bleak as his haunted eyes.
Steel in her soft voice, Hélène said, "I want you to look at me, just once, without remembering that I am French and you are Prussian."
The colonel looked down at her for a long moment, a blood vessel throbbing visibly under his fair Nordic skin. Then he spun away from her. "That, madame, is quite impossible."
When there was a safe distance between them, he turned to hurl bitter words at her. "I look at you and see my burned home, my murdered wife and son and sister. Murdered by the French, madame, by your people, perhaps by your brother or husband. I can never forget that we are enemies."
"I am not your enemy," she said softly.
He stared at her, his face working. "Yes, you are. The only worse enemy I have is myself, for being attracted to a woman of a race I hate and despise. You have given me many sleepless nights, madame. Does it please you to know how much you have made me despise myself?"
Hélène made no attempt to close the distance between them. Standing before the bookcase, she was a small, gently
rounded figure. Soft, yet unyielding. "I can never be pleased at another's pain. I became involved in spying to make what small contribution I could to peace. I did have brothers, Colonel. One died in the retreat from Moscow, the other under torture by Spanish partisans. I was told it took him two days to die. That was my younger brother, Pierre, who wished to be a painter.
"And I had a husband, too, killed at Wagram two months before my younger daughter was born. You fought at Wagram, Colonel. It might have been your troops that killed him."
"Splendid, Madame Sorel, we have both suffered." His voice was a lash of bitterness. "You have my permission to hate the Prussians as much as I hate the French. Will that satisfy you?"
"No!" she cried, her pain finally overcoming the hard-won serenity she had learned in a lifetime of loss. "I want to see an end to hating. If Prussia had been the aggressor rather than France, would my husband be any less dead? I want my daughters to live in a world where their husbands will grow old with them, where boys like my brother can paint flowers and pretty girls and write silly love poetry, instead of dying screaming."
She looked at him pleadingly, wondering how to melt the ice around his heart. "As a Christian, I have been taught to hate the sin but love the sinner. I hate war and the unspeakable evil it brings—and if we cannot learn to love one another, we are doomed to fight and die again and again."
"And you think that if I could love you, that would put an end to war?" Though his voice held scorn, there was also a thread of yearning to believe.
"I don't know if we can love one another, perhaps there is nothing between us but physical attraction," Hélène said, tears flowing down her face. Though she saw that her words affected him, she feared that it was not enough. He had lived in his agony for too long to risk life again. Voice breaking, she continued, "If two individuals cannot even try, there is no hope for mankind. We will be condemned to suffer our mistakes forever."
Von Fehrenbach began pacing about the room, his broad shoulders rigid. He stopped by a table where a miniature portrait in a silver frame stood next to a closed Bible. The painting was of a lovely blond woman holding a child in her arms.
Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 21