The general removed the cigar from his mouth and looked at his visitor with astonishment. "I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. Why should I have any desire to injure the countess? Quite apart from the fact that she is a delightful woman, my interest now is in preserving life, not destroying it."
"Fine words, General," Rafe said bitterly. "After you tell me what you have done to Margot, perhaps you can explain how you rationalize assassination as preserving life."
Roussaye studied his visitor intently. "I am beginning to think that we are speaking at cross purposes. What exactly are you accusing me of, and why should your lady be involved?"
Rafe was beginning to loathe the calm he had admired. Fleetingly he wondered if his own imperturbable control had maddened others as much over the years.
Throwing discretion to the winds, he said, "The countess is a British agent and has been instrumental in uncovering your conspiracy. I assume that you realized what she was doing and decided to remove her, but it's too late. We already know about the attempt on Castlereagh's life, and that Wellington was your next target. After you tell me what you have done to her, I want to know what your future plans were. I shot your confederate Lemercier, and by God, I'll put a bullet in you if I have to!"
Roussaye gave a twisted smile. "This would be hilarious, except that I will probably end up just as dead as if I were really guilty of what you accuse me of." He took another pull on his cigar. "My villainy, of which it now appears you were ignorant, was an attempt to help some of my distinguished colleagues who are on King Louis' death list."
As Rafe stared at him, the general elaborated. "Come, Candover, surely you know about the death list—the names of many of the chief imperial military men are on it. It is only a matter of time until Marshal Ney and a score of others are executed. They are considered 'traitors.' It is the sheerest chance that I am not in prison with them."
He stared at the coal on the end of his cigar, his expression brooding. "Treason is so often a matter of dates. The condemned men were all honorable soldiers—their only crime lies in serving the losing side. I had hoped I might help a few of them escape. Even some of your countrymen agree that the king's reprisals are outrageous. Indeed, a Briton has been aiding me."
He exhaled a thin wreath of smoke. "I won't give you his name, so don't waste your time with threats. Though I suppose that your government would not execute a British national for participating in a foiled escape plot."
Mouth dry, Rafe asked, "Was it Robert Anderson?"
Roussaye paused, then said slowly, "You are well informed."
Stunned, Rafe rapidly rearranged everything he knew. If Roussaye was telling the truth, it removed a major piece of the evidence of Anderson's treachery. Many men, Rafe included, disagreed with the vindictiveness of the royalists. Anderson's money might be suspect, but as Margot had defensively suggested, her lover might have been selling the same information in several places without actually betraying his own country.
As for the general, his nickname of Le Serpent could be a coincidence; after all, the three-headed serpent crest found among Northwood's papers was still unexplained, and it might be the symbol of the true Serpent. The only other possible link was from Lemercier to Roussaye, and the fact that both were Bonapartist officers didn't mean that they were conspirators.
Rafe asked, "Was Henri Lemercier also working with you?"
The general wrinkled his nose as if a bad odor had forced its way through the cigar smoke. "You insult me. Lemercier is a jackal, the worst kind of officer. He would never lift a finger to help anyone unless he was well paid. If the price was right, he'd strangle his own grandmother and cook her in a fricassee."
Numbly Rafe uncocked the gun and thrust it beneath his coat. Perhaps Roussaye was simply a brilliant liar, but Margot had always doubted that he had the temperament of an assassin, even though she had suspected that he was involved in something secret. Her instincts were proving to be remarkably sound.
Rafe said woodenly, "I owe you an apology. I hope you will forgive my accusations."
"Wait." The general raised his hand. "Why did you think I would want to murder Castlereagh or Wellington? Without them, France would be forced to accept a much more punitive peace."
"Exactly. It seemed possible that a true revolutionary might want to see France humiliated, to the point where she would be willing to take up arms again. Now if you will excuse me, I must leave and start looking for Margot."
Roussaye shook his head. "Ingenious thinking, but I assure you, I would do nothing to prolong my country's suffering—France can afford no more Waterloos. If there is a conspiracy that threatens the peace, I am as interested in uncovering it as you are. If you will tell me what you know, perhaps I can help."
Rafe hesitated, then sat down, cursing himself for being so bewitched by Margot that he hadn't asked more questions when he had the chance. Now it was too late; with both Anderson and Margot out of the picture, he was crippled by his own ignorance. Without access to their information sources, he had no idea where to turn, so any assistance was welcome. Briefly he outlined what they knew or guessed, then listed all of the primary and secondary suspects they had been investigating.
The general listened attentively, his face darkening at the news of Robert Anderson's disappearance, but he interrupted only when Rafe mentioned that Count de Varenne had been a suspect. "Why Varenne? The Ultra-Royalists have the greatest stake in the status quo."
Rafe had to think back to remember. "At the beginning, there was some thought that the Ultra-Royalists might want to assassinate the king so that the Count d'Artois could succeed him. Once it became clear that the attack was aimed at the British leaders, we eliminated Varenne from our list."
Roussaye nodded. "I had never met him before our encounter at the Louvre, so I made a few inquiries. Varenne was heavily involved in royalist intelligence work during his exile, but his activities are now legitimate. Pray continue."
When Rafe was finished, the general pondered while the air became blue-gray with smoke. Eventually he said, "I am familiar with most of those men, and of them all, Lemercier was the most likely to be involved in a conspiracy. However, he wasn't intelligent or ambitious enough to be the mastermind. We need to know who he was working for."
After more thought, he said, "I might be able to discover that. If we know the identity of Lemercier's employer, you may have your Serpent. I'll begin inquiries this afternoon and notify you if I learn anything significant. What will you do—ask Wellington for men to search for the countess?"
"No, without some idea of where to look, we could set all of the Allied troops in France searching and not find her. Still, you have given me an idea. If Varenne was involved in royalist information gathering, he might still have some sources. Perhaps I can convince him to help me, for the countess's sake. He seemed to admire her."
"What man wouldn't?" Roussaye said with his first smile since the duke had made his accusations. Then seriousness returned, and his fingers tightened on his cigar stub. "Will you tell the royalist government about my interest in freeing prisoners?"
"I will not turn in a man for being loyal to his friends," Rafe said as he got to his feet. "But have a care, General, your wife deserves your loyalty, too."
"I know." Roussaye was silent for a long moment. "When you told me I was under arrest, I had a vision of my wife a widow, my unborn child an orphan. I will not subject them to that. Besides," he added with self-mockery, "I would be a liar if I did not admit that life is sweet to me, now more than ever."
Rafe offered his hand. "There is nothing wrong with enjoying life. God knows there is enough misery in the world."
After shaking hands, he left, wondering what on God's earth he could do next.
Chapter 19
Consciousness returned slowly to Maggie, accompanied by a feeling of nausea that she guessed was caused by the drug they had given her. She was lying on a bed, but her vision was so blurred and the light level s
o low that she saw only vague shapes when she opened her eyes. From the silence, she guessed that she was alone, so she lifted her right hand in a gingerly exploration of her surroundings.
The side of her hand brushed a round, hairy object, and a bolt to sheer panic blazed through her. She jerked upright, even as her mind said that the shape and texture were wrong for a man's head.
She turned to the right, which triggered more vertigo, and blinked her eyes clear. Then she blinked again as two reflective gold circles materialized in the blackness. As she teetered on the verge of hysteria, the gold circles were joined by a yawning pink mouth with small, gleaming fangs.
The relief was so great that she almost laughed. She was not sharing a bed with a rapist, but a cat. Curled in a ball on her pillow, it was very large, very fluffy, and very black. The foolish creature must have slipped in when Maggie was deposited here.
Cautiously pushing herself upright, she croaked, "If you're Varenne's cat, you keep low company, Rex. Or are you imprisoned for spying, too?"
She scratched the silky black head, and was rewarded with a purr so vibrant that she felt it through the mattress. "Your name is Rex, isn't it?"
Since the cat didn't disagree, she considered the matter settled. Swinging her legs over the edge, she cautiously stood and took inventory. Aside from lightheadedness and a dry mouth, she felt reasonably well. Though her green muslin dress was rumpled, she hadn't been ravished while she was unconscious, and that had been her greatest fear.
Holding the corner post of the bed for support, she surveyed the sparsely furnished bedchamber. Once, a very long time ago, it must have been attractive, but now the wallcoverings were dingy and the gold bedhangings threadbare.
The darkness was caused by equally shabby draperies that had been drawn across the window, so she crossed the room and pulled them apart. Blessed, blessed sunshine poured in, completing the job of clearing her mind. From the position of the sun, she guessed it was early afternoon, so she had been unconscious for two or three hours.
The window overlooked a sheer hundred foot drop to a river, and looking down brought back her vertigo. There would be no escape that way. Apparently Varenne had brought her to Chantueil, his estate on the Seine.
Maggie spent some time exploring her surroundings. As expected, the heavy door was locked, and there was nothing in the room that could be used as a weapon. With a sigh, she settled on the bed again.
Rex immediately flopped across her lap, his furry weight threatening to cut off her circulation as he purred thunderously. She scratched his head, thinking that it was foolish to take comfort from the cat's presence. Nonetheless, she did. She had always liked cats, and Rex was a splendid example of his kind.
Leaning back against the headboard, she evaluated the situation. Though his motives were obscure, obviously Varenne was Le Serpent. She cursed herself for letting logic overrule instinct. Varenne's lack of apparent motive was less important than her distrust of the man, and she should have been more suspicious of him.
Still, there was one silver lining; if Varenne had kidnapped her, he might have done the same to Robin. In fact, Robin might be under this same roof, alive and not a traitor. The possibility made her feel better.
Since she and Rafe had been engaged to visit Roussaye, her absence would already have been discovered. However, that would do her no good since it was unlikely that Varenne would be suspected of kidnapping her. She had better prepare herself for a long stay.
The only excitement that occurred in the next hour was when Rex jerked his head up, then hurled himself across the room with a speed surprising in a creature so somnolent. A squeal, sharply cut off, made it clear that he had caught lunch. Maggie shuddered as he settled down with the limp little body and proceeded to eat. While she couldn't blame the cat for being a predator, she identified more with the mouse.
The rays of the sun had shifted to midafternoon when a grating in the lock announced the appearance of Count de Varenne. He was accompanied by a ruffian carrying a shotgun and an elderly manservant who placed a tray of covered dishes on the single table, then left the room.
At least they weren't planning to starve her, she thought wryly. In another few hours Rex's mouse might have started to look good. At the count's entrance, Rex himself immediately jumped to the floor and slithered under the bed, thereby proving that he had good sense.
While the guard trained his shotgun on Maggie, Varenne stopped a dozen feet away. His half-open eyes had a reptilian look; perhaps that was the origin of his nickname. "I hope you won't feel offended if I keep my distance, Miss Ashton," he said, as polite as if they were meeting for tea. "You see what respect I have for you."
Maggie arched her brows. "I can't imagine why—I certainly haven't shown any great brilliance on this case. I don't even understand why you are behind this particular plot."
"The usual reasons, Miss Ashton: power and wealth." His chilly gaze went over her. "I must confess that you had me convinced that you were only a Hungarian doxy looking for a rich protector. It was a surprise to discover who and what you are."
"I pride myself on being full of surprises," she said dryly.
Ignoring her comment, he went on, "However, my information about you is incomplete. Is Miss Ashton still the correct designation or have you acquired some husbands over the years?"
"Not legal ones," she said tartly.
The count smiled knowingly. "I'm sure there have been many of the left-hand kind, like your blond friend."
Maggie's pulse quickened. "I suppose you mean Robert Anderson. Do you have him, too?"
To her intense relief, the count nodded. "Yes, though his quarters are less comfortable than yours. He is almost directly below you, five levels down. Castles have certain drawbacks as living quarters, but they do have excellent dungeons."
"What are you going to do with us?"
Varenne gave a faint, chilling smile. "One of my associates yearns to further his acquaintance with you, so I shall give him the opportunity to do so. After that, it depends on how cooperative you are. You could be quite an asset, my dear."
Nausea returned, and it was all Maggie could do to keep her revulsion from her face. "What about Robin?"
"I had hoped that he might prove useful, but he's a remarkably stubborn young man. There isn't much point in keeping him around indefinitely." The count shook his head with spurious regret. "But I fear I bore you by thinking out loud. If there is anything you would like to make your visit more comfortable..."
Though she doubted that he expected her to take his ironic comment seriously, she said, "A hairbrush, comb, and mirror would be nice. Also a washbasin, soap, water, and something to read."
He smiled with genuine amusement. "You are a most adaptable woman, Miss Ashton. Do you wish to make yourself presentable for your new paramour?"
She wanted to spit at him. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Of course. One must make the best of circumstances."
Varenne glanced at the guard. "See that she gets what she asked for." Then the two men left.
As soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, Maggie doubled over on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Her stomach heaved, and she struggled to prevent herself from being violently sick. Dear God, she had tried so hard not to be a victim, and for a dozen years she had been successful.
But now she was caught in events that showed how powerless she really was. She was merely fodder for a mob, or a helpless prize for a conspirator. And this time there was no Rafe or Robin to save her.
The first small victory was controlling her nausea. When she had managed that, she got shakily to her feet and walked to the window, where she inhaled deeply of the cool air. Far below, rocks were visible at the base of the cliff. With a sense of relief, she realized that she could always jump.
Her mouth firmed. That was a coward's way out, and she had not survived as much as she had to die without a fight. Still, it was a comfort to know that the cliff was available as a last resort.
Turning from the window, she went to the tray and found a bowl of savory stew, a small bottle of wine, half a loaf of bread, and several pieces of fruit. Determinedly she sat down to eat, for she would need all her strength.
A soft "Mroowp" by her chair announced that Rex had come to join her, clearly desirous of sharing her meal. She smiled a little as she watched his enormous tail switch back and forth hopefully. Then she spooned several lumps of meat onto the floor. He was the only ally she was likely to find here.
* * *
Hélène Sorel was waiting when Rafe returned from seeing Roussaye. As he had feared, there was still no word from Maggie. Hélène had questioned Cynthia exhaustively about what she had seen, but without learning anything more about Maggie's kidnapper. Her face taut with anxiety, Hélène asked, "Is Roussaye our man?"
Unable to sit, Rafe prowled about the room. "No, he convinced me that his desire for peace is as great as ours. He is going to try to discover who Lemercier was working for."
"I pray that he is successful," Hélène said grimly. "We have no other leads, do we?"
Succumbing to morbid curiosity about how Margot did her work, Rafe asked, "Not unless you can utilize the same sources that Maggie did. Is that possible?"
"Not really. She knows hundreds of women throughout the city—laundresses, maids, street peddlers. All across Europe, actually. I was merely one of them, except that we became friends. We each needed a friend."
Rafe stopped and stared in astonishment. "She got all her information from women?"
Hélène clicked her tongue in disgust. "You're as bad as Colonel von Fehrenbach. Why do men always assume that the only way a female spy can work is on her back? Think about it, your grace. Women are everywhere, yet they are often treated as if they are invisible. Men speak of secret plans in front of maids, throw vital papers in the trash, boast of their achievements to prostitutes. Maggie's genius was in collecting so many pieces of information, then making sense of them."
Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 23