Petals in the Storm

by Mary Jo Putney

  Maggie swore out loud as she reached them. Where the devil had the groom gone? The man had disappeared as soon as the horse went out of control. Pulling her ostrich plume headdress from her hair, she waved it at the maddened gelding in an attempt to drive it away from Rafe and Castlereagh.

  The horse neighed violently again, its eyes rolling wildly and flecks of foam around its mouth. Maggie stood her ground, the tall, fluttering headdress causing the bay to shy away from her. As it backed along the wall of the stables, frantic shouts came from the embassy.

  When the horse was clear of the humans, it whirled and thundered across the yard. A young redheaded groom ran out of the stables and tried to corner the frantic animal.

  Tossing aside her headdress, Maggie turned back to Rafe, who was kneeling by the foreign minister's side.

  "How is he?" she asked breathlessly as she dropped to her knees on the cobbles. Castlereagh was unconscious, a bleeding gash on the side of his head, but he was breathing.

  "I'm not sure," Rafe said grimly. "The first kick caught him full in the ribs, and another hoof grazed his head." As he spoke, he expertly checked the damage.

  People were pouring out of the embassy, including a white-faced Lady Castlereagh. Rafe automatically took command, ordering a litter and sending a footman for a physician.

  Maggie got to her feet and put an arm around Emily. "That was a nasty accident, but I'm sure he'll be all right."

  Though Lady Castlereagh nodded, her eyes were terrified. Two footmen returned with a hastily improvised litter and gently lifted the foreign minister onto it, then carried him into the embassy. His wife followed, and Maggie went with her to offer support while they waited for a physician.

  As the procession entered the embassy, Rafe turned and went into the stables. The young redheaded groom had caught the gelding and taken it inside to a box stall. The horse danced fretfully, still wearing its saddle and bridle, while the groom waited warily outside the stall.

  Rafe said, "I'm Candover. Has Lord Castlereagh's horse always been this wild?"

  The young groom gave him a worried glance. Like all of the embassy staff, he was British, and he answered in a broad West Country accent. "Nay, your grace. Samson is spirited, but a better-tempered beast you never saw. Is his lordship hurt bad?"

  "We won't know until the physician has examined him, but I think the chances are good that he'll recover."

  "Will... will they destroy Samson, your grace?"

  "I don't know." Rafe saw that there was blood in the foam around the gelding's mouth. Swinging open the door of the stall, he entered and quietly approached the beast. "I'll look at him more closely."

  Remembering all the Gypsy lore he had learned from his friend Nicholas, Rafe made himself utterly calm, from the inside out. As Samson jerked his head back and flattened his ears, Rafe murmured a string of nonsense words. The horse began to relax, and soon allowed its neck to be stroked.

  After several minutes of stroking, Rafe breathed into Samson's nostrils, another Gypsy trick. The horse's rough breathing slowed and it stood still. Rafe had brought a handful of oats into the stall, and soon Samson was literally eating out of his hand.

  After the horse finished the oats, Rafe cautiously removed the bridle. He found what he had suspected: the bridle had a cruel cutting bit, and the least pressure against Samson's tender mouth would have caused the horse considerable pain.

  The young groom looked at the bit, then at Rafe, his eyes wide with questions. "Why would anyone do that to a good-tempered horse, your grace? A cutting bit is a nasty thing to use even with a rogue."

  "I can guess, but I won't." Rafe studied the gelding again. "The bit explains why Samson reared in the first place, but something more must have been required to make him kick like that. Let's see what else we can find."

  Cautiously he uncinched the girth, then lifted off the saddle and cloth. Samson stirred fretfully, so Rafe ran one hand down the sweaty neck until the horse relaxed again.

  Rafe examined the area that had been under the saddlecloth, and was unsurprised to find a small metal object lodged in Samson's hide. The horse jerked when it was removed, and a line of blood trickled sluggishly down the brown flank.

  The object Rafe pulled from the wound had four spikes joined in the center, rather like a miniature version of the caltrops that were used to cripple horses in warfare. He showed it to the groom, who had gone beyond surprise to anger.

  "Someone wanted to hurt his lordship." The boy's mouth was hard. The lad was no fool, and he must know something of the tense political situation in Paris.

  "Who usually handles Lord Castlereagh's horse?"

  "The head groom, Mr. Anthony, but he's not here now. He had to go to Saint Denis this morning."

  "Do you know who would have saddled Samson today?"

  The groom thought, then shook his head again. "Not exactly, sir. I was cleaning tack and didn't see who it was. Didn't know nothing was wrong until I heard Samson screaming."

  "Could you make a guess? Has there been anyone suspicious about the stables?"

  "I can't swear it was him for sure, but there's been a Frenchy groom working here 'cause we're short-handed," the boy replied. "One of the regular grooms had to go back to England 'cause his father died, and another was beat up in a street fight and can't work for a few days. Probably it was the Frenchy that saddled up Samson and took him out."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Medium height, dark, a scar on his face." The lad thought again. "Brown eyes, I think. He kept to hisself, and I never really talked to him. His name was Jean Blanc."

  The description fit Captain Henri Lemercier. Rafe looked hard at the young groom to impress him with his seriousness. "Don't be surprised if you don't see Jean Blanc again. Also, don't tell anybody what we have found. I'll talk to Lord Castlereagh myself. Is that clear?"

  The boy nodded, and Rafe left the stables and joined Maggie and Lady Castlereagh.

  It took an hour to get the physician's verdict on the foreign minister, but the news was good. Though Castlereagh had several cracked ribs and a mild concussion, he was conscious, and already planning to hold meetings in his bedchamber, to his wife's exasperation.

  Lady Castlereagh gave Maggie and Rafe her heartfelt thanks for their part in preventing the accident from being more serious. Then Rafe took his dusty and bedraggled ladybird back to his carriage.

  Maggie didn't speak at first; she simply lay back against the cushioned seat with her eyes closed. They were halfway home before she opened her eyes and said, "He could have been killed right in front of us."

  "I know," Rafe said bleakly. "It speaks poorly for our abilities as spies and bodyguards."

  "What did you discover in the stables?"

  Rafe described the cutting bit, the spike in Samson's side, and the mysterious French groom, Jean Blanc.

  "I suppose Blanc jerked on the bridle, cutting Samson's mouth," Maggie said. "When the horse reared, Blanc slammed his hand onto the saddlecloth, driving the spike in. Then he ran away."

  "He might have run because we were there and things weren't going according to plan," Rafe said. "If Castlereagh had been trampled, he could have been killed outright. There would have been such an uproar that Blanc could have stayed around long enough to remove the cutting bit and the spike, and the death would have seemed like an accident."

  "I thought something looked wrong about that groom." Maggie tried to remember her brief glimpse of the man. "He didn't have the look of a servant. He carried himself like a soldier, though that may not mean much since so many Frenchmen served in the emperor's army."

  "I didn't see him myself, but from the description I was given, he could be one of your secondary suspects, Captain Henri Lemercier. I met Lemercier the night I went to the Cafè Mazarin."

  Maggie said icily, "And you didn't mention that to me, even though we had a report of an assassination being discussed there?"

  Rafe hadn't mentioned the meeting because Lemercier had
ended the evening with Robert Anderson, but that was a topic he wanted to avoid. Unless Rafe had undisputable evidence of Anderson's guilt, there was no point in confronting Maggie about the man. He said mildly, "I didn't tell you because Lemercier was drunk and said nothing of interest."

  Maggie was regarding him suspiciously, but she did not pursue the point. Rafe wished he knew what thoughts were passing behind those wide, smoky gray eyes. Her golden hair was tangled after the incident in the stable yard, and her low-cut gown caressed the sensual body that was so incredibly good at distorting a man's judgment. If she were really his mistress, he would take her right here in the carriage.

  Instead, he forced himself to reevaluate what he knew. The near-disaster had shaken Rafe badly, and brought home to him the dangers of this business as nothing else had.

  It was time to question his assumptions about Maggie's professional loyalties, for her association with Anderson was damning evidence against her. The blond, bland Anderson, who looked like a choirboy or Lucifer fallen, was almost certainly an agent of Britain's enemies. Had Anderson been arranging Castlereagh's "accident" that night he met Lemercier at the Cafè Mazarin? And what had he and General Roussaye discussed when they met in the Salon des Ètrangers?

  Most important of all, was Maggie Anderson's dupe, or his accomplice? Though she had helped save Castlereagh this afternoon, that didn't mean she wasn't selling information or plotting against her country. There were too many hidden years lying between Margot Ashton and Magda Janos to take her on trust any longer. She might be a mercenary, working for whomever would pay her, or Anderson may have persuaded her to work against Britain's interests.

  Yet in one sense, it didn't matter. Rafe wanted her, no matter what she was or what she was doing. If he exposed the conspiracy and Maggie proved to be a traitor, she might have to choose between accepting him or going to the gallows. He would prefer that she came to him willingly, but if necessary, he would take her by any means short of violence.

  It was not a thought he was proud of.

  * * *

  The Englishman was becoming accustomed to these trips to Le Serpent and no longer worried as he had the first time. Still, on entering the darkened room where his master waited, he reflected that his blond hair would make him a clear target even in this dimness. Had he known the shadowy paths he would be treading, he would have had the foresight to be born dark.

  The failure of Le Serpent's attempt on Lord Castlereagh had made the masked man seem less fearsome. The Englishman couldn't help thinking that there were surer ways of killing a man than with a horse. He made the mistake of saying that to his dark host.

  "You presume to criticize me? You, who have no idea who I am or what my objectives are? You're a fool." The sibilant voice hissed like wind over ice. With a ghost of cool humor, he continued, "You should be pleased, mon Anglais, to learn that the next plan will have less element of chance.

  "As of tomorrow, the important diplomatic sessions will be held in Castlereagh's bedchamber because of his injury. I will need complete floor plans of that part of the embassy. Every room, every corridor, every closet, with accurate measurements of each. Plus, information on the staff and their movements."

  "Is that all?" the Englishman asked with veiled sarcasm.

  Taking the question at face value, Le Serpent said, "I also need to know who will be attending each session. I must know that, without fail, no later than the evening before." He stood, a looming figure in the half-light. "And you will tell me, mon petit Anglais. Every evening, without fail."

  The Englishman nodded reluctantly. He was already in too deeply to withdraw. But he needed time, time to trace the crest he had seen on Le Serpent's hand, and to allay any suspicions of himself. He decided to offer a piece of information that he had been keeping in reserve.

  "You heard about Countess Janos, who drove the horse away from Lord Castlereagh before the job was finished?"

  "I heard. A pity that she and her lover were there, but one cannot plan for everything." Le Serpent gave a slight, worldly shrug, implying that minor impediments might delay but never defeat him. "Quite a beautiful woman. There is no one like a Hungarian in bed."

  The Englishman said, "She isn't a Hungarian. She's an Englishwoman named Margot Ashton, an impostor, a whore, and a spy."

  "Indeed?" The breathy voice held menace, but not directed against his visitor. "You interest me, mon Anglais. Tell me what you know about the woman. If she is working for the British, it may be necessary to... deal with her."

  Succinctly the Englishman told everything he knew about Magda, Countess Janos, who had once been known as Margot Ashton. It would be a great pity if such a ravishing female must be sacrificed, but one's own interests must come first.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Maggie and Hélène Sorel went to the home of Madame Daudet, who had compiled a list of all the French family crests that included serpents. After an obligatory half hour over the teacups, the guests were presented with the listing, written in script as fragile as the old lady herself. Then they were given the freedom of the library.

  The two women looked up the names in massive, gilt-stamped volumes that contained hand-colored plates of heraldic devices and family arms. They traced the most promising crests on sheets of translucent parchment that Maggie had brought. Though they rejected dragons and medieval creatures of dubious ancestry, they examined anything that was clearly snakelike, including three-headed Hydras like that featured in the d'Aguste crest.

  It took four hours to complete the search, and by then they were tired and a little sleepy from the library's stuffiness. However, as they prepared to leave, Hélène noticed a book on the Prussian aristocracy.

  Turning to "von Fehrenbach," the Frenchwoman became so still that Maggie came to look over her shoulder. What she saw brought her instantly alert. The von Fehrenbach crest was a lion holding a spear with a snake twined along the shaft.

  Unemotionally Hélène translated the Latin motto. "The cunning of a serpent, the courage of a lion."

  Maggie was shaken. "Of all our prospects, I thought Colonel von Fehrenbach the least probable."

  "This proves nothing," Hélène said, an edge in her voice. "We copied a dozen other crests as likely."

  "But none of them belonged to suspects." Maggie paused, then said, "Hélène, I asked this before, and I will ask again. Is there something between you and Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

  Hélène slipped back into one of the leather-upholstered chairs, her eyes not meeting Maggie's. "There is nothing except... an attraction. We have met several times, always in public, and have said nothing that anyone might not hear."

  Maggie sat also, brushing her hair back with fingers dusty from old books. Like herself, Hélène acted on instinct, usually a more reliable guide than logic. "Do you think the colonel could be involved in a plot against France?"

  "No," Hélène said flatly. She raised her gaze to Maggie's. "I will investigate him more closely for you."

  Maggie sat forward in her chair with misgivings. "Hélène, what do you have in mind? If the colonel is really Le Serpent, he is a dangerous man. In fact, he probably is anyhow."

  Hélène smiled faintly. "I will do nothing that will endanger either myself or your investigation." Seeing the mutinous expression on her friend's face, she added, "You can't stop me, you know. I am not your employee, but a free agent who works with you because we share the same goals."

  Maggie sighed, eyeing Hélène's soft features and gentle face. Though her friend looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, Hélène was both tough and intelligent. If she was determined to approach von Fehrenbach, Maggie could only wait and hope that something worthwhile would come of it.

  * * *

  Summoned by Maggie, Robin came late that night to her house. The moon was only half full, but bright enough so that the man watching from a window across the alley had no trouble making an identification. Blond and handsome as Lucifer, just as the duke had described him.
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  The watcher settled back in his chair philosophically, glad that his post was comfortable. It wasn't likely that a midnight visitor to the delectable countess would be in a hurry to leave.

  He had no idea that another pair of hidden eyes was also watching the same house.

  * * *

  Maggie slept badly after Robin left. He had found the sketches of crests promising, and intended to show them to members of the Parisian underworld in the hopes that tongues might be loosened.

  Robin had little to say in return, which made Maggie nervous since she guessed that he was withholding something. There could be any number of good reasons for that, but most likely he was trying to protect her, which reinforced the idea that this was a dangerous business. Fervently she wished that the treaty was settled so she could return to England—to peace and quiet and safety.

  Her eyes opened and she stared unseeing into the darkness. The idea of a little cottage in England was less appealing than it had been a few weeks before. While she would welcome the peace, the days stretched empty and uneventful. She could walk and read, make friends and pay morning calls on them—day after day, month after month, year after year....

  The prospect was not an exciting one. She would be very much alone in that life of blameless respectability that she had yearned for. There would be no men like Rafe to verbally fence with her, or make disgraceful proposals.

  At that thought, she laughed softly. Based on history, there would be no shortage of men to proposition her. There just wouldn't be any that she would want to accept. And that, finally, was the core of her restlessness.

  Rafe Whitbourne was still the most fascinating man she had ever met, intelligent, more than a little arrogant, alternately tender and enigmatic. And damnably, maddeningly attractive. He had been charming women since he was in leading strings, so it was hardly surprising that she was among his legions of admirers.