Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

by

  Mary Jo Putney

  The Duke of Candover had not been in Paris since 1803, and there had been many changes. Yet even in defeat, the capital of France was the center of Europe. Four major sovereigns and scores of minor monarchs had come to glean what they could from the wreckage of Napoleon's empire. The Prussians wanted revenge, the Russians wanted more territory, the Austrians hoped to roll the calendar back to 1789, and the French wanted to save themselves from massive reprisals after Napoleon's insane and bloody Hundred Days.

  The British, as usual, were trying to be fair-minded. It was like trying to mediate a discussion between pit bulls.

  In spite of the plethora of rulers, "the king" always meant Louis XVIII, the aging Bourbon whose unsteady hand held the French throne, while "the emperor" always meant Bonaparte. Even in his absence, the emperor cast a longer shadow than the physical presence of any other man.

  Rafe took rooms at a luxurious hotel whose name had changed three times in as many months, to reflect changing political currents. Now it was called the Hôtel de la Paix, since Peace was an acceptable sentiment to most factions.

  He had just time to bathe and change before going to an Austrian ball where Lucien had arranged for him to meet the mysterious Maggie. Rafe dressed carefully, mindful of his friend's suggestion that he charm the lady spy. Experience had taught him that he could generally get what he wanted from women with a debonair smile and some earnest attention. Frequently, the ladies offered a good deal more than he wanted to accept.

  Every inch The Duke, he went to the ball, which was a glittering assemblage of the great and notorious of Europe. Guests included not only all the important monarchs and diplomats, but hundreds of the lords, ladies, sluts, and scoundrels who were always drawn to power.

  Rafe wandered about, sipping champagne and greeting acquaintances. But under the surface gaiety, he sensed dangerous undercurrents swirling. Lucien's fears were well founded—Paris was a powder keg, and a spark here might set the continent ablaze once more.

  The evening was well advanced when he was approached by a young Englishman with fair hair and a slight, elegant figure. "Good evening, your grace. I'm Robert Anderson, with the British delegation. There's someone who wishes to meet you. If you'll come with me?"

  Anderson was shorter and younger than Rafe, with a face that seemed vaguely familiar. As they snaked their way through the crush, Rafe surreptitiously examined his guide, wondering if this man was the weak link in the delegation. Anderson was so good-looking as to be almost pretty, and gave an impression of amiable vacuity. If he was a cunning, dangerous spy, he concealed it well.

  They left the ballroom and went up a stairway to a door-lined corridor. Stopping outside the last door, Anderson said, "The countess is waiting for you, your grace."

  "Do you know the lady?"

  "I have met her."

  "What is she like?"

  Anderson hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll let you discover that for yourself." Opening the door, he said formally, "Your grace, may I present Magda, the Countess Janos." After a respectful bow, he left.

  A single branch of candles cast a soft glow over the small, richly furnished room. Rafe's gaze went immediately to the shadowed figure standing by the window. Even though her back was turned to him, he would have known that she was beautiful by the confidence in her graceful carriage.

  As he closed the door, she turned to face him with a slow, provocative movement that caused the candlelight to slide tantalizingly over the curves of her lush figure. A feathered fan concealed most of her face, and one wheat gold curl fell charmingly over her shoulder. She radiated sensuality, and Rafe understood why Lucien had said that she could cloud a man's judgment. As his body tightened in involuntary response, he had to admire how well she understood the power of suggestion.

  Less subtly, her décolletage was low enough to rivet the attention of any man not yet dead. If Rafe was required to sacrifice his honor in his attempts to persuade the lady, he would do so with great pleasure. "Countess Janos, I'm the Duke of Candover. A mutual friend asked me to speak with you on a matter of some importance."

  Her eyes watched mockingly above the fan. "Indeed?" she purred, her words spiced by a Magyar accent. "Perhaps it is of importance to you and Lord Strathmore, Monsieur le Duc, but not to me." Slowly she lowered the fan, revealing high cheekbones, then a small, straight nose. She had creamy rose-petal skin, a wide, sensual mouth....

  Rafe's inventory stopped, and his heart began hammering with stunned disbelief. It was said that everyone had a double somewhere in the world, and apparently he had just met Margot Ashton's.

  Struggling to control his shock, he tried to compare the countess to his memories. This woman appeared to be about twenty-five years old; Margot would be thirty-one, but she might look younger than her age.

  Surely the countess was taller than Margot, who had been only a little above average height? But Margot's bearing and vitality had made her appear taller than she actually was. It had been a surprise how far he had had to bend over the first time he kissed her....

  Sharply he retreated from his chaotic emotions and forced himself to continue his analysis. This woman's eyes seemed to be green, and she had an exotic, foreign look. But she was wearing a green gown, and Margot's eyes had been changeable, shifting from gray to green to hazel with her mood and costume.

  The resemblance was uncanny, and there were no differences that could not be ascribed to time or faulty memory. He had the wild thought that this might be Margot herself. Though she had been reported dead, perhaps a mistake had been made; news was often mangled as it traveled. If Margot had been living on the Continent all these years, she might no longer have the air of an Englishwoman.

  Yet the countess's behavior implied that they were strangers. If she was Margot, she must surely recognize him, for he looked much the same. If so, he couldn't believe that she wouldn't acknowledge him, if only with a curse.

  Instead, she stood with a faint, amused smile during Rafe's lengthy inspection. The silence had gone on too long, and as the supplicant, it was up to him to make the next move.

  He fell back on The Duke, who was never at a loss for words. With a deep bow, he said, "My apologies, Countess. I was told that you were the most beautiful spy in Europe, but even so, the description did you less than justice."

  She gave a rich, intimate laugh. Margot's laugh. "You speak very prettily, your grace. I have heard of you also."

  "Nothing to my discredit, I hope." Rafe decided that it was time to use his vaunted charm. Stepping toward the countess, he smiled and said, "You know why I am here, and it is a serious business. Let us not stand on formality. I would prefer that you use my given name."

  "Which is?"

  If she was Margot and this was an act, she was performing it superbly well. His smile showing signs of strain, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "Rafael Whitbourne. My friends usually call me Rafe."

  She snatched her hand back as if he had bitten it. "Surely a rake should not have been named for an archangel."

  At her words, Rafe's doubt vanished. "My God, it is you, Margot," he said in a wondering voice. "You are the only one who ever dared mention my lack of similarity to archangels. It was a good quip; I've used it myself many times. But how the devil did you come to be here?"

  She gave a languid flutter of her fan. "Who is this Margot, your grace? Some vapid little English girl who resembles me?"

  Her denial triggered a surge of the greatest anger Rafe had known in years. He could think of only one sure way to determine the identity of the woman in front of him. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, drew her hard against him, and kissed her mocking mouth.

  It was Margot; he knew it in his bones. Not only because of the way her body curved into his, or the familiar softness of her lips, but because of a unique, elusive essence that was unmistakably hers.

  Even without that recognition he would have known, because he had never met another woman
whose touch produced such a blaze of desire. As passion burned through him, he forgot why he was in Paris, forgot the reason for this embrace, forgot everything but the miracle in his arms.

  Petals in the Storm

  Fallen Angels Series

  Book Three

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

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  Petals in the Storm

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  ANGEL ROGUE

  Book 4

  Fallen Angels Series

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  Excerpt from

  Angel Rogue

  Fallen Angels Series

  Book Four

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  Maxie enjoyed the coolness of the forest road after the heat of the midday sun. The farmer who had given her a wagon ride in the morning had done well to recommend this route. She had been avoiding the main highways in favor of quieter roads where a lone boy would attract little attention. This track was so quiet that she hadn't seen a person or dwelling for hours.

  The only drawback was that she had run out of food the day before and her stomach was complaining. From what the farmer had said, she wouldn't find a place to procure food until late in the day. In America she could have lived off the land, but England's ferocious game and property laws made her wary of doing the same here. Though if she got hungry enough, that would change.

  The sound of hoofbeats and wheels made Maxie stop and cock her head. A heavy vehicle was coming along the track behind her, and she would rather not meet anyone in such a remote spot.

  She scrambled up the bank into the underbrush, then swung away from the track into the forest. Skirting tollgates in order to save money had given her plenty of practice at such detours. In three days of travel, she had experienced no difficulties at all. Indeed, except for rides with two taciturn farmers, she had not so much as spoken with another person.

  Harness jangled and hooves clumped as a wagon rumbled by. She was about to return to the track when a bird trilled a liquid hu-eet, hu-eet.

  She paused, a smile spreading across her face. Discovering new creatures and plants was one of the pleasures of traveling. This birdsong sounded like one of Britain's famous nightingales. She thought she had heard one the month before, but her cousins had been unable to confirm it. The only birds they recognized were roasted and served in sauce.

  Silently she made her way through the underbrush. Her search was rewarded by a brief glimpse of brown feathers in a thicket ahead. She pressed forward through the shrubbery, her gaze on the leafy canopy above.

  Her carelessness caught up with her when she tripped over an unexpected obstacle. Swearing, she tried to regain her footing, but the weight of her pack wrecked her balance.

  She crashed with humiliating clumsiness, falling sideways so that her shoulder struck first. In the next instant, she realized that instead of hitting the cool forest floor, she was sprawled full-length on a warmer, more yielding object.

  Warm, yielding, and clothed.

  As she gasped for breath, she realized that she was lying on top of a man. Apparently he had been dozing, but he awoke with a start, his hands reflexively jerking upward, skimming her body before locking on her upper arms.

  The two of them were chest to chest and eye to eye. Startled alertness showed in the vividly blue depths, followed an instant later by amusement. For a long moment they stayed pressed together, strangers as close as lovers.

  The fellow's mouth curved into a smile. "I apologize for getting in your way."

  "Sorry," Maxie said gruffly. She broke away, giving thanks that her hat was still in place, shadowing her face. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

  She scrambled to her feet, ready to vanish into the forest. Then, like Lot's wife, she made the mistake of looking back.

  Her first impressions of the man had been fragmentary. Compelling eyes, fair coloring, a well-shaped, mobile mouth. It wasn't until she stepped away that she realized he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. His longish hair shimmered with every blond shade from gilt to dark gold, and the bone structure of his face would make angels weep with envy.

  A fairy ring in the center of the circle gave her the wild thought that she had stumbled over Oberon, legendary King of Faerie. No, he was too young, and surely a fairy would not be wearing such mundane clothing.

  The blond man sat up and leaned back against the tree trunk. "Females have thrown themselves into my arms a time or two before, but not usually quite so hard," he said, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling humorously. "However, I'm sure we can work something out if you make a polite request."

  Maxie tensed. Lowering her naturally low voice still further, she said brusquely, "You haven't woken up yet. My name is Jack, and I'm not a female, much less one interested in hurling myself into your arms."

  He raised his brows. "You can pass as a lad at a distance, but you landed with considerable force, and I was awake enough to know what hit me." A sapient gaze surveyed her from head to toe. "A word of advice—if you want to be convincing, make sure your coat and vest stay in place, or else find looser trousers. I've never seen a boy shaped quite like you."

  Maxie colored and tugged her rucked coat downward. She was on the verge of bolting when he raised a disarming hand.

  "No need to run off. I'm a harmless fellow. Remember, you assaulted me, not vice versa." He reached toward a lumpy bag that lay a few feet away. "It's time for a midday meal, and I have far more food than one person needs. Care to join me?"

  She really should put some distance between herself and this too-handsome fellow. But he was friendly and unmenacing, and some conversation would be pleasant.

  Her decision was made when he pulled out one of the odd-shaped meat pies called Cornish pasties. A fresh, delectable scent wafted toward her.

  Her stomach would never forgive her if she refused. "If you are sure you have enough, I would be pleased to join you." She lowered her knapsack to the ground, then settled on crossed legs beyond pouncing distance, in case young Apollo proved more dangerous than he appeared.

  The blond man handed over the pasty. Then he rummaged in his bag again, producing another pasty, cold roast chicken, several rolls, and a small jug. Uncorking the jug, he set it midway between them. "We'll have to share the ale."

  "I do not drink ale." She did, however, eat pasties. It was an effort not to wolf hers down. The crumbly crust and well-flavored shreds of beef and vegetables were delicious.

  He chewed and swallowed a bite of his own pasty before saying pensively, "In most circles, it is considered rude to eat with one's hat on."

  Maxie was reluctant to expose herself to the other's gaze, but she could not ignore the appeal to manners. The acceptance of hospitality imposed obligations. Raising her hand, she removed the shapeless hat, keeping a wary eye on her companion.

  For a moment he stared, face tightening. She had seen such reactions before, and her hand shifted so that she could reach her knife quickly if necessary.

  Luckily, he refrained from foolish or vulgar comments. After swallowing hard, he asked, "Care for some chicken?"

  Maxie relaxed and accepted a drumstick. "Yes, please."

  He took a piece for himself. "How do you come to be trespassing in the Marquess of Wolverton's forest?"

  "I was walking along a track when I heard someone coming. I decided that being unobserved was the better part of wisdom, then got distracted by a nightingale. What is your excuse—poaching?"

  He gave her a wounded look. "Do I look like a poacher?"

  "No. Or at least, not a successful one." She finished the chicken leg and daintily licked her fingers. "On the other hand, you don't l
ook like the Marquess of Whatever, either."

  "Would you believe me if I said that I was he?"

  "No." She cast a disrespectful eye over his garments, which were well tailored but far from new.

  "A young woman of excellent judgment," he said with approval. "As it happens, you are right. I am not the Marquess of Wolverton any more than you are British."

  "What makes you say that?" she asked, thinking her host was altogether too perceptive.

  "Accents are something of a specialty of mine. Yours is almost that of the English gentry, but not quite." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "My guess is that you are American, probably from New England."

  He was good. "A reasonable guess," she said noncommittally.

  "Is your name still Jack?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."

  "Asking is the easiest method I know for satisfying curiosity," he said with perfect logic. "And it often works."

  "An irrefutable point." She hesitated a moment longer, but could see no reason not to tell him. "I'm usually called Maxie, but my name is actually Maxima."

  "You looked more like a Minima to me," he said promptly, examining her scant inches.

  She laughed. "You're not precisely Hercules yourself."

  "Yes, but I'm not named Hercules, so I'm not trying to deceive anyone."

  "My father was named Maximus and I was called after him. No one thought to wonder if I would grow up to fit the name until it was too late." She finished eating her roll. "If your name isn't Hercules, what is it?"

  "It isn't a lot of things." He took a swig of ale as he weighed what to say. He was obviously a wayfaring rogue who had had so many names and identities that he didn't remember himself what he had been christened.

  Eventually he said, "Lately I've been using Lord Robert Andreville."

  Startled, she asked, "Are you really a nobleman?" Despite his old clothing, he did have an air about him. Then she frowned. "You're hoaxing me, aren't you? My father explained titles to me once. A real peer does not use Lord with his Christian name. I reckon that Lord Robert is a pretend title that you invented to impress people."