Looking down at the portrait, he said huskily, "You are a brave woman. Perhaps women have more courage than men. If a body is injured badly enough it dies, but with an injured heart one survives to suffer pain without end."
Gently he touched the face of the woman in the portrait, then looked up at Hélène, his face deeply sad. "You ask too much, Madame Sorel. My strength is not equal to the task."
She had failed. Blinking back her tears, she said sorrowfully, "It is not that women are braver, Colonel, but that we are more foolish."
Turning away, she fumbled in her reticule until she found a handkerchief. The mundane business of blotting her tears and blowing her nose gave her a chance to establish a fragile self-control. Then she crossed the drawing room to the vestibule.
His words followed her. "What will you tell your masters about me?"
"I will say that I think you are not involved in any way. You will be closely watched until the conference is over, so even if I am wrong, your opportunities for villainy will be reduced." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Farewell, Colonel von Fehrenbach. I don't think that we shall meet again."
To her surprise, he crossed the room and looked searchingly into her face, as if trying to memorize her appearance. "You are a very brave woman indeed." Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, not romantically, but with a kind of sad respect.
As the colonel held the door, Hélène managed to walk out with her head high, but after it closed she leaned against the paneled wall. She was so incredibly weary....
Finally she straightened and walked to the door at the end of the hall and opened it. Four soldiers were engaged in a friendly card game on the floor. They scrambled hastily to their feet as Hélène appeared. They seemed so very young. She smiled at them, and the gangling young lieutenant blushed and bobbed his head.
His dark face registering relief that she was safe, Rafe asked, "Did your meeting go well, Madame Sorel?"
Sighing, she said, "As well as can be expected."
* * *
Inside the austere apartment, Karl von Fehrenbach moved around restlessly, picking objects up and setting them down, pulling out a book by Fichte and replacing it unread, then opening a volume of Virgil at random. Looking down, he read, "Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori." Love conquers all: let us too surrender to Love.
He slammed the book shut and reshelved it so violently that he dented the leather binding.
Leaning his head against the books, he thought with anguish of Hélène Sorel standing where he stood now, small and sweetly feminine. Was she an angel come from heaven to redeem him, or a demon from hell sent to seduce him out of what was left of his immortal soul? Whatever else the woman might be, she had courage to expose herself to such rejection.
He went to the portrait of Elke and Erik and lifted it to study their beloved faces. His wife, who had had the gift of laughter, and his son, who had inherited his father's height and his mother's sunny nature. Elke had sent the picture three months before she and Erik were killed. The house had been burned around them. Von Fehrenbach prayed they had died of the smoke rather than the flames.
Unbearable grief welled up in him, dissolving all the defenses he had built to dam the pain. In desperation he flipped open his Bible and glanced in, hoping for guidance.
The verse that leaped out at him read, "'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she has loved much."'
If it was a message from God, it was one too painful to be borne. He sank onto his knees by the brocade-covered Louis Quinze armchair, burying his head in his arms and giving way to the gut-wrenching sobs of a man who had never learned to cry.
Chapter 18
This visit to Le Serpent was a short one. The Englishman no longer cared that his dread host was masked. He knew now whom he served, and at the right time he would reveal that knowledge.
Le Serpent said curtly, "The gunpowder is now secured in the closet?"
"Yes, I brought it in over several days, and it's unlikely anyone will discover it by chance. Even if someone looks in the closet, the powder is in boxes that should arouse no suspicion."
"Very good." The masked man nodded with satisfaction. "Thursday is the day."
"The day after tomorrow?" The Englishman was startled; all of a sudden, it seemed too close.
"Exactly. The gunpowder must go off as close to four o'clock as possible. The candle I gave you should burn for eight hours, so light it at eight in the morning. I trust that will present no problems."
The Englishman considered. "It could be difficult. I've been playing least-in-sight the last few days, and it might seem suspicious if I'm at the embassy, and so early."
"I am not interested in the complications that your personal life is causing you," Le Serpent said coldly. "I pay you for results. Once the candle is lit you can run as far as you wish, but the explosion must take place on Thursday. That's the only day the king himself will join the other ministers in Castlereagh's bedchamber. Castlereagh will be on his feet again soon, and there may never be another time when everyone is gathered in one accessible place."
"Don't worry, I'll manage." The Englishman was awed at the scope of the destruction that would be caused. Yes, he must certainly cast his lot in with Le Serpent. The conspirator's boldness of vision and strength of will could take him to the very top during the chaos that would follow the explosion, and those who had assisted would go with him.
It was an intoxicating prospect. But he wished to inquire about another subject, not vital in the long run, but of great personal interest. "About the British spies..."
Le Serpent looked up impatiently from his desk. "They are being dealt with. Do not concern yourself."
"I'm interested in the woman, Countess Janos."
The masked man leaned back and laced his fingers across his ribs. "Do you want her for yourself, mon petit Anglais?" he said with amusement. "She's a handsome wench, I admit."
"Yes, I want her—at least, for a while."
"Since you have done your job well, I will let you have her as a bonus. Now, leave me, there is much to be done."
The Englishman was seething with anticipation as he left. He had never forgiven Margot Ashton for scorning him. Now she would pay for that and every other humiliation a woman had ever given him. She would pay, and pay, and pay.
* * *
Hélène and Rafe returned to Maggie's house, and the three of them talked for hours. After discussing the Frenchwoman's meeting with the Prussian colonel, they tried to decide what needed to be done next. All of them felt that the situation was critical, and that they must behave more brashly than spies usually did.
During the course of the evening, Maggie sent a note to an informant, and received quick confirmation that Roussaye had been nicknamed Le Serpent. She bit her lip when she read the reply, for she had half hoped that von Fehrenbach had fabricated the story. If Robin had been paying surreptitious visits to Roussaye, it seemed likely that both men were conspirators. The general might be considered a patriot, albeit a misguided one, but it was hard to judge Robin's collaboration as anything other than treason. Maggie's emotions fought that conclusion, but her mind could not deny the mounting evidence against him.
Clearly the next order of business was to confront General Roussaye. In pursuit of that end, Rafe sent a note to the general asking permission to call at Roussaye's earliest convenience. Roussaye had returned a courteous reply suggesting eleven o'clock the next morning.
When the general's message arrived, Hélène rose wearily to go home. Rafe instantly got to his feet and said that he would escort her, but his expression made it clear to Maggie that he didn't want to be left alone in her contemptible company.
Sorrowfully she accepted that whatever warmth there had been between them was gone. She could only hope that the plot would be neutralized as soon as possible so they need never see each other again.
* * *
Maggie started her next day by visiting the British embassy. Though it was ostens
ibly a courtesy call on Lady Castlereagh, her real purpose was to deliver a report on her suspicions of Oliver Northwood. She explained her doubts to Emily, urging that the information be passed to her husband as soon as possible.
A worried Lady Castlereagh promised to do so immediately, then offered the information that Northwood hadn't been at work for the last two days. A note had been received saying that he had food poisoning and would be back as soon as possible.
Maggie thought hard during her ride home. Northwood's "food poisoning" had coincided with his attack on his wife. Fearful of what Cynthia might say about him, had he decided to run when he discovered that she had escaped her prison? Or was he seeking her himself, intent on forcing her to return to him? Thank heaven Cynthia had come to Maggie; as long as the girl stayed hidden, she would be safe.
The carriage dropped Maggie off in front of her house, then continued around to the mews in back. In less than half an hour, Rafe was due to pick her up for the visit to General Roussaye, and her thoughts were on the upcoming interview as she started up her marble steps.
When a carriage pulled up behind her she turned, thinking Rafe had come early, but the luxurious dark blue berlin was unfamiliar. However, she recognized the man who climbed out. "Good morning, Count de Varenne," she said with her brightest smile. "If you are calling on me, I fear that I must disappoint you—I will be going out again almost immediately."
Varenne's broad figure was garbed with his usual discreet elegance, but the coldness of his eyes caused Maggie to take an involuntary step back. He said, "When I saw you here, on impulse I decided to take you to see my estate at Chantueil. The gardens will not be at their best much longer."
"I'm sorry, my lord, but..."
The count interrupted her to say jovially, "Really, my dear, I will accept no excuses. It is scarcely an hour's drive from here, and I can guarantee you an interesting visit." He laid a casual hand on her waist, as if to help her to his carriage.
Maggie froze. Varenne had a knife in his hand, and he held it against her with such force that the point penetrated her green muslin dress and stabbed into her flesh.
Softly he said, "I really must insist."
If she tried to call her servants, the knife would be between her ribs before the first sound escaped. Stony-faced, Maggie climbed into the carriage, where a wizened man dressed like a clerk sat with his back to the horses.
Still holding the knife to her side, the count took the seat next to her as the door was closed and the carriage began moving again. The whole episode was over in less than a minute.
Even the woman watching from the window above noticed nothing amiss.
The count withdrew the knife once the carriage was under way. "You're a prudent woman, Countess Janos—it would have done you no good to attempt a scene." He gave her a menacing smile. "Or should I call you Miss Ashton?"
"Call me whatever you like." Maggie said, furious at having been so easily taken. "I see that my instincts were correct. It was obvious from the first that you were despicable, but I was unable to imagine any possible reason for an Ultra-Royalist to plot against the British leadership."
"Lack of imagination is a dangerous failing, as you are about to find out." Varenne nodded to the clerk, who poured a few drops of sickly sweet liquid from a bottle onto a scarf. "Pray forgive my rudeness, Miss Ashton, but I have a great respect for your abilities and don't wish you to be damaged prematurely. You acquitted yourself well in the Place du Carrousel, though your efforts would have done no good if your muscle-bound lover hadn't been on the scene."
The clerk leaned forward and pressed the rag over Maggie's nose and mouth, his other hand clamped behind her head so that she couldn't turn away. When she struggled, Varenne held her down with terrifying force.
As her consciousness faded, she heard the count say, "Candover cost me the services of Lemercier, which I cannot easily forgive. Still, I am a flexible man. Since you survived that little altercation, I have found a good use for you. I will give you to an associate of mine. He admires that lovely flesh, and doesn't care whether it is willing or not."
His last words produced a wave of horror in Maggie, but her muscles were no longer responding to her will. Accompanied by terror, she fell into blackness.
* * *
Rafe was on edge when he arrived at the Boulevard des Capucines town house, uncertain whether he was more upset at the thought of confronting General Roussaye, or at having to spend time with Margot. He could no longer think of her as Maggie; that name belonged to the elusive, maddening countess. During their intimacy she had become fully Margot Ashton to him again, and he refused to let go of that.
Already the memory of the night they had spent together seemed incredibly distant, as if it had happened years earlier rather than a scant day ago. He wondered if there was any chance that Margot might come to want him if Anderson was permanently out of her life. It might take a long time, but he was prepared to wait. God knew, he'd waited thirteen years already.
Frowning at the butler's statement that the countess had not yet returned, Rafe waited for fifteen restless minutes before summoning Cynthia Northwood. Though Margot had told him why the girl was staying there, Rafe was still shocked by the extent of her injuries. "How do you feel, Cynthia?"
"Better than I have in a long, long time, Rafe," she said ruefully. "I only wish I had dared leave sooner."
"It must have taken a great deal of courage to leave at all," Rafe said, glad that her state of mind seemed healthy. Though their affair had been over for years, he was still fond of Cynthia and her sometimes reckless spirit. She would need all her courage in the scandal to come; he hoped that Major Brewer would prove equally strong. He continued, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wondered if the countess said whether she was going anywhere besides the embassy. We have an urgent appointment, and it surprises me that she is not here."
"Maggie returned from the embassy about half an hour ago, but left again without coming into the house," Cynthia replied. "I happened to be looking out the window, and I saw a man pull up in a carriage. They talked a bit, then went off together."
Rafe felt sick to his stomach. "You know Robert Anderson from the delegation. Was he the man?"
"No, it was a dark fellow not much taller than Maggie," she said without hesitation. "A Frenchman, I think."
Rafe forced himself to quell his rising jealousy and think clearly. It was conceivable that Margot might have gone off with Anderson like that, but it seemed unlikely that anyone else could persuade her to break the engagement to visit Roussaye. Therefore, she might not have gone willingly. "Tell me exactly what you saw, Cynthia—every detail you can remember."
She could add little beyond the color of the coach, for the sheer window curtains had obscured details. Her description of the man would have fit half the men in France.
First Anderson had disappeared, and now Margot.
Rafe felt the beginnings of fear, and the best antidote for that was action. It was more important than ever that he talk to Roussaye. If the general turned out to have kidnapped Margot...
He stood and said crisply, "I must keep our appointment by myself. Send a note to Madame Sorel and ask her to meet me here. I should be back in an hour or so, and it is urgent that we talk."
Then he left, leaving a worried Cynthia Northwood.
On the drive to Roussaye's house, Rafe decided that the best strategy was to shock the general with accusations and hope the man would give something away if he was guilty. In his present mood, it would be very easy for Rafe to sound accusing.
Roussaye received him affably from behind the desk in his study, standing and offering his hand. "Good day, your grace. Kind of you to call, though I am sorry Countess Janos isn't with you. My wife was hoping to visit with her."
"This isn't a social call, Roussaye," Rafe said harshly. "I have been conducting a secret investigation for the British government, and I am here to tell you that the game is up. Even Le Serpent cannot escape this ti
me."
The general's face paled and he sank back into his chair. After a stunned moment, he reached toward a drawer.
Swiftly Rafe produced a loaded pistol from under his coat. His hand rock-steady, he snapped, "Don't do it, Roussaye. You're under arrest. I have British soldiers waiting outside. Even if you could shoot me, you'd never escape."
"Such fierceness," the general said with a hint of bitter amusement. "I was reaching for a cigar. If I am under arrest, this may be my last opportunity to partake of civilized pleasures. Care to join me?"
Moving with exaggerated care, he produced an inlaid walnut humidor and placed it on the desk, then took out a cigar. He clipped the end and lit it with leisurely grace, as if he had all the time in the world. It was an impressive display of savoir faire for a man facing the wreckage of his plans and the likely loss of his life.
Refusing the offered cigar, Rafe took a seat in front of the desk, the pistol still trained on Roussaye. There would be time enough to call the soldiers later. Before that happened, the general had some questions to answer.
Roussaye drew in a mouthful of smoke, then released it with a sigh. "There is one thing I would ask of you, Candover, as one gentlemen to another. I swear my wife knows nothing of this. Please do what you can to see that she does not suffer for my sins." Scanning his visitor's hard face, the general added, "Filomena is your kinswoman. That should mean something, even if someone of your distinguished lineage cannot accept a man of my birth as a gentleman."
Rafe's lips thinned at the gibe. "I will use what influence I have. Unlike you, I do not make war on women."
"That was uncalled for, Candover," Roussaye said, an edge to his voice. "While no officer can always restrain his troops, I did my best to minimize the atrocities that occur too often in war."
"I'm not talking about war, I'm talking about today, and Countess Janos." Rafe stood and leaned over the desk, his tall frame taut with menace. "She's disappeared, probably kidnapped. If anything happens to her and you are behind it, I swear you will not live long enough for the firing squad."
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