Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Rafe tried to repress his shudder at the prospect. Surely Varenne would not keep them for so long.

  Anderson said, "Professional curiosity dies hard. Did Varenne give you any idea what he's up to?"

  Rafe brought his companion up-to-date on the interviews with von Fehrenbach and Roussaye, mentioned the death of Lemercier without elaborating, then repeated what Varenne had said about his motives.

  After asking several probing questions, Anderson sighed and closed his eyes briefly, "Missed by a mile. I feel like a damned fool."

  "You have plenty of company in not deducing what was going on," Rafe said bleakly. "Everyone was wrong." Rafe most of all.

  After that, there was little to say. The two men sat in the gradually fading light without talking. Though there were many things Rafe would have liked to ask Anderson, none of them seemed appropriate.

  As the hours passed, Rafe concluded that the worst part of imprisonment must be boredom. The cell was too small to stretch one's legs, the stone walls were singularly unstimulating, and if he had to spend any length of time here, he'd soon be raving.

  He envied Anderson's tranquility. Worn down by pain, the other man slept for much of the time. But even awake, he had a philosophical relaxation Rafe doubted he could ever match. Of course, Anderson claimed prior experiences with incarceration; perhaps practice perfected one's skills.

  At dusk, dinner was delivered with the usual caution, one man setting a tray inside while another stood guard with a shotgun. The meal was a very decent beef stew with bread and fruit, accompanied by a sizable jug of red wine. Besides pewter bowls and mugs, the only utensils were soft, easily bent spoons that wouldn't make effective weapons. Though the tray, bowls and spoons were collected later, the prisoners were allowed to keep the wine and drinking vessels.

  There wasn't enough to make a man drunk, but it was sufficient to loosen tongues. The two men were talking in a desultory fashion about what Varenne might be planning when Rafe found himself asking, "Why is Margot the way she is?"

  After a long pause, Anderson said, "Why didn't you ask her?"

  Rafe laughed harshly. "I didn't think she would tell me."

  "If she won't, why do you think I will?"

  Rafe hesitated, trying to think of a compelling argument. Instead of a direct answer, he said, "I know I have no right to ask, but I want—rather badly—to understand her. I knew her very well once, or thought I did. Now she's a mystery to me."

  After an even longer pause, Anderson said, hostility in his voice, "Ever since Maggie heard you were coming to Paris, she's been different—moody and unhappy. I met her when she was nineteen and I know very little about her earlier life. However, I do know that someone started a job of wrecking her that the French bloody near finished. If you're the one who did that, I'll be damned if I'll tell you anything."

  The darkness was nearly total now, only a faint glow of moonlight illuminating the cell. Anderson's figure was barely visible, black against black to Rafe's right. In the dark, the pain of thirteen years ago was very close. Reaching out to find the jug by touch, Rafe poured them both more wine. "She never told you what happened?"

  "No."

  Anderson's voice was flat, but Rafe heard an undertone of unwilling curiosity. If the other man was in love with Margot, he must also be interested in her past.

  In the anonymity of the dark, it was easy to make a suggestion that never would have occurred to him by the light of day. "Each of us holds a key to part of Margot's past. Why don't we exchange information?" Anticipating objections, Rafe added, "I know it's ungentlemanly, but I swear I don't mean her any harm."

  Rafe could almost hear the factors weighing in Anderson's mind. Finally the other man said ruefully, "My father always said that I didn't have a gentlemanly bone in my body, and he was right. But I warn you, it's not a pretty story."

  Knowing that it was his place to begin, Rafe said, "Margot Ashton made her come-out during the 1802 Season. Her birth was no more than respectable, her fortune negligible, it was generally agreed that she was not a classic beauty—yet she could have had any eligible man in London."

  He stopped, remembering his first sight of Margot, when she was entering a ballroom. One look and Rafe had walked away from the group he was with and gone directly to her, cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

  Margot's chaperone recognized the heir to Candover and made an introduction, but Rafe was barely aware of that. Only Margot mattered. At first she had been gently amused by the expression on his face. Then her smoky eyes met his and changed as an echo of his own feelings flared in her. At least, that was what he had thought at the time. Only later did he question the fact that her response had come after she had learned who he was.

  Aloud he said, "It appeared to be a perfect fairy tale, love at first sight and all that nonsense. Colonel Ashton wouldn't let us become formally betrothed until after the Season, but we had a firm understanding. I have never been so happy as I was that spring. Then ..." He halted, unable to continue.

  "Don't stop now, just when we're getting to the crux of the matter, Candover," Anderson prodded. "What happened to love's young dream?"

  Rafe swallowed hard. "It was simple enough. I was out with a group of friends one evening, and someone who had drunk enough to be indiscreet described how... how Margot had given herself to him a few days before. In a garden during a ball."

  He swallowed a mouthful of wine, needing it to lubricate his dry throat. "In retrospect, I can see how badly I overreacted. I was young and idealistic and completely unbalanced by love. Instead of accepting her actions as curiosity, or experiment or whatever, I acted as if she had committed the greatest crime since Judas when I confronted her the next morning. I would have been happy to accept any defense, or even a show of remorse, but she made no attempt to deny it. She simply threw my ring at me and walked out."

  After another swallow of wine, Rafe gave a heavy sigh. "I decided that the people who had told me she was a fortune hunter were right and she was only sorry to be balked of her quarry. But a few days later, she and her father left England to travel on the Continent. I don't think that would have happened if she weren't as miserable as I, so I suppose you could say we wrecked each other."

  With a rustle of straw, Anderson shifted position. "Let me see if I have this correctly. You asked if she had been carrying on with this friend of yours and she didn't deny it?"

  In the interests of accuracy, Rafe said, "I didn't ask her. I told her what I knew."

  Anderson clambered to his feet, uttering an impressive stream of profanity as he paced around the cell. "Given the stupidity of the British nobility, I can't understand why the whole lot hasn't died out. If you took a drunken sot's word without questioning it, you never knew the first thing about Maggie. You deserved what you got, though God knows she didn't."

  Rafe flushed, angry but not quite able to dismiss Anderson's words. "You obviously don't know much about the nobility, or you wouldn't make such a sweeping statement. No man of honor would ever lie about such a serious matter. Even dead drunk, it was surprising that anything was said. Probably even that wouldn't have happened if Northwood had known that I was betrothed to Margot."

  Anderson stopped in his tracks. "Northwood? Would that have been Oliver Northwood?"

  "Yes. That's right, I forgot that you work with him."

  A new burst of profanity put the former one to shame. "If you aren't stupid, you are too naive and honorable to live in this highly imperfect world," Anderson snapped. "I can't believe that you would accept the word of a man like Northwood against Maggie but maybe he was more believable in those days than he is now. Obviously he was no more honest."

  "Don't be absurd," Rafe said heatedly. "Why would Northwood slander an innocent girl?"

  "Use your imagination, Candover," Anderson said with exasperation. "Maybe he was jealous of you. It doesn't sound like it would have required a very discerning eye to observe that you and Maggie were thick as ink
le weavers. Or perhaps it was spitefulness because she had scorned him, or immature male boasting. Maybe you never had to invent exploits, but plenty of young men do. Hell, knowing Northwood, he might have lied from sheer bloodymindedness."

  Feeling compelled to offer some rebuttal, Rafe said, "Why are you so hard on Northwood? Granted, he's always been a boor, and he's treated his wife badly, but that still doesn't make him a liar. A gentleman is always assumed to be honest until proven otherwise."

  "What a wonderful standard. Why didn't you apply it to Maggie?" Anderson said caustically as he flopped down on the straw again. "This boor you are so anxious to defend has been selling information about his country for years to anyone who will buy it. From what I know of him, I doubt that he has an honest bone in his pudgy body."

  "What...?" Rafe stammered, feeling as if he had been poleaxed. Though he had never been close to Northwood, he had known the man for more than twenty years. They had gone to the same schools, been raised by the same rules. He had never had a reason to doubt Northwood's honesty.

  And yet, it explained so much. Margot's white face when Rafe had accused her of infidelity swam before him. How would he have felt if the person who should have most trusted him had accepted slander without question?

  He would have felt exactly as she had: furious, and hurt beyond words. What had she said then, something about how fortunate it was that they had discovered each other's true characters before it was too late?

  At the time, he had taken her words as an admission of guilt, and that admission had confirmed his belief in Northwood's accusations. Now her answer took on a whole new meaning.

  Burying his face in his hands, Rafe groaned, "Bloody, bloody hell..." His rasping breath filled the cell, and only the other man's presence kept him from a total, shattering breakdown.

  Even when Rafe had felt the most desperate pain at her imagined betrayal, he had been soothed by his belief that he was the injured party. Now that comfort was gone, and he saw his actions as Margot must have seen them.

  Whatever she had become could be traced back to his betrayal of her, to his jealousy and lack of trust. The dim hope he had of regaining her love crumbled among the ruins of his pride.

  How could she ever trust him again when he had utterly failed her? By his own actions Rafe had lost what was most important to him, and there were no words strong enough for the bitterness of his guilt.

  As Robin's anger faded, he felt reluctant sympathy for the other man. The poor devil—it must hurt like hell to be knocked off the moral high ground by the realization that he had caused his own suffering, and Maggie's as well. A man like Candover, who was obviously honest to the backbone, had been easy prey for Northwood's sly malice.

  In spite of Candover's accusation, Robin was very familiar with the world of aristocratic Englishmen, with their infernal games and clubs and gentleman's codes. It would have been natural to believe a companion, and Northwood would have seemed bluff and honest.

  On the other hand, a young woman would have been a mysterious, almost magical creature to a romantic young man. It took maturity to learn that the similarities between men and women were greater than the differences.

  Given the passion and possessiveness of first love, it was easy to understand how Candover had blundered, his emotions swamping his judgment. Who wasn't a fool when he was young? Robin certainly had been, though his foolishness had taken a different form from that of Candover.

  Robin also knew Maggie well enough to be sure that her temper had contributed to the problem. If she had had the sense to burst into tears and deny the accusation, the breach could have been patched up in half an hour, and the two of them might have been happily married these last dozen years. In that case Robin would never have met Maggie, which would have been his loss but her gain.

  Robin located Rafe's mug and pressed it into the other man's hand. "It's a little late to be suicidal, if that is the direction your guilt is taking you," he said dryly.

  Still shaking, Rafe straightened up enough to drink, wishing that he had something stronger. Over the years he had prided himself on his civilized attitude, thinking that he should have accepted Margot's infidelities in return for her charm and companionship. He had even felt regret that she had been more in tune with the morals of their order than he, and had attributed his violent emotional reaction to immaturity.

  Instead, he had been closer to the truth with his youthful idealism than with all the fashionable cynicism he had cultivated over the years. Margot Ashton had been as true and loving as he had believed her. It was Rafael Whitbourne, heir to the dukedom of Candover, universally respected scion of the aristocracy, who had been unworthy of such love.

  Anderson said acerbically, "No wonder Maggie didn't want to have anything to do with you when you came to Paris. If she had told me about your past relationship, I would never have suggested that she get within seven leagues of you."

  He fumbled one-handed with the heavy wine jug. Rafe helped him pour another mugful. The jug was much lighter than it had been; the last of the wine emptied into Anderson's mug. They must have put away the equivalent of two or three bottles each. Rafe wished there was more, though there wasn't enough alcohol in France to drown the way he felt.

  "I gather that you are still in love with Maggie," Anderson remarked, as if the matter were of only minor importance.

  "I'm as unbalanced about her now as I was when I was twenty-one." Rafe drew a shuddering breath. "I had always rather prided myself on my balance." He finished the last of his wine with a gulp. "She's too good for me."

  "I wouldn't argue the point."

  "What has happened in the years since then, and how did Margot come to be a spy? You said that you'd explain." Now that Rafe saw how her journey had begun, he could better understand the wary, slightly brittle woman she had become, with her toughness and suspicion, her flashes of humor and vulnerability. But there was still much that he wanted—needed—to know.

  "There's been enough raging emotion in this cell for one night," Anderson said as he rolled up in one of the blankets. "I'll tell you the rest of the story in the morning, by which time I may have slept off my desire to kick you in the teeth."

  As he burrowed into the straw, he added, "If you're going to spend the night flagellating yourself, kindly be quiet about it."

  Anderson was right, enough had been said for one night. Rafe wrapped himself in the other blanket against the increasing chill, then settled in the straw.

  Unlike his companion, he doubted that he would sleep.

  Chapter 21

  Considering how much wine he had drunk the night before, Rafe felt fairly well the next morning. He had even slept a little. By the time Anderson stirred, Rafe had come to terms with his new knowledge. There was no chance Margot would ever forgive him, but he hoped he would have a chance to apologize for his vile misjudgment.

  It seemed very important that he do so.

  Breakfast proved to be fresh bread, sweet butter, strawberry preserves, and a large quantity of excellent hot coffee. As Rafe spread preserves on the bread, he said, "I have eaten a good deal worse at respectable English country inns."

  "A pity Varenne's ambitions aren't aimed at the restaurant trade rather than at dictatorship," Anderson commented.

  Rafe studied his companion. Though Anderson claimed that his arm was feeling better, he was probably lying; his face was flushed and he seemed feverish. Again Rafe was struck with a fleeting sense of recognition. The more he saw of Anderson, the more familiar the man seemed, yet the memory still eluded him.

  They were just finishing breakfast when the door creaked open. Rafe expected that it would be a servant to remove the tray, but Varenne himself entered, the usual shotgun-carrying guards behind him.

  Not bothering with amenities, he said tersely to Anderson, "I suppose Candover has explained what I am about?"

  Anderson drained his coffee mug before answering. "He did. I was curious where I went wrong."

  "Good
." Reaching under his black coat, Varenne drew out a pistol. Aiming it at the precise center of Anderson's forehead, he said, "I would be reluctant to kill a man who doesn't know why he is dying. Though I regret the necessity of this, I have been unable to imagine any circumstances where you might be useful to me, and as long as you are alive you are a danger. A pity you could not be brought over to my side, but even if you pretended to do so now, I would not trust your promises."

  As Rafe watched with frozen horror, Varenne added, "Do you have any last prayers or messages, Anderson? If so, be quick about it. This will be a busy day for me."

  His face pale, Anderson glanced at Rafe. "Please... give Maggie my love."

  In the silence that followed his words, the sound of the hammer being cocked rang like the anvil of doom.

  * * *

  Though the hour was very early, the British embassy buzzed with activity and Oliver Northwood was greeted with relief by several of his colleagues who had worked all night. Even bedridden, Lord Castlereagh generated enough letters, proposals, memos, and draft treaties to keep a dozen men fully occupied, and being short-handed was taking its toll on the staff.

  He heard several men express concern about Robert Anderson, who had been missing for several days. No surprises there; Northwood had a very good idea what had happened to him. Served the supercilious puppy right.

  Shortly before eight o'clock, Northwood excused himself and made his way to the passage that ran beneath Castlereagh's bedroom. After nervously checking that the corridor was deserted, he unlocked the closet door and entered, closing it behind him. He hadn't considered how he would feel carrying a candle into an enclosure filled with gunpowder, and his hands were sweaty as he made the necessary preparations.

  First he used his regular candle to create a pool of melted wax on the floor. Then he set the special candle of dense beeswax firmly into the puddle. When the wax had cooled and the candle was secure, he used his penknife to gouge open the corner of a box of gunpowder. Finally he took a small bag of gunpowder from his pocket and laid a careful trail from the box to the candle, ending with a mound of powder around the base.