Rafe swallowed, then said woodenly, "So you are actually husband and wife."
"No, she refused, saying that we shouldn't marry merely because of some unlucky circumstances. Instead, she offered to become my mistress if I wished."
So that was how it had begun. Rafe said, "I'm amazed that she could bear to let a man touch her."
"I was amazed, too, but she said that she wanted some happier memories to replace the bad ones," Andreville explained. "I had some doubts about the arrangement—remnants of a proper upbringing, no doubt—but I agreed. I was only twenty years old myself and didn't really want to be married, yet only an absolute fool would reject such an offer from a woman like her."
Though Andreville was glossing over what he had done, Rafe knew that it must have taken infinite kindness and patience to help Margot overcome such a shattering experience and become the passionate woman she was now. Rafe was profoundly grateful that she'd had such a man to help her. With equal intensity, he resented the fact that he himself had not been the one. When she had needed him most, he had not been there.
Needing to acknowledge what the other man had done, he said, "She was fortunate to have you."
"We were fortunate to have each other." Andreville turned his uninjured hand palm up. "We've worked together ever since. I would move around Europe as necessary, often for months at a time. I've traveled with armies, crossed the Channel with smugglers, and generally did a lot of other harebrained, uncomfortable things that seem like great adventures when one is young and foolish." He smiled wryly. "As a child I rebelled against staid English respectability, but I must say that rebellion has lost its appeal since I turned thirty.
"Anyhow, home was wherever Maggie was living. Usually that was Paris. She led a quiet life, not like now when she's playing the countess and moving in society. She developed her own network of informants, and turned out to have a really spectacular talent for gathering information. The rest you know."
Rafe sighed. "To think that I had decided that you must be the spy in the delegation."
"Oh?" Andreville's eyebrows arched.
Rafe explained how he set up his own watchers, and how he had discovered that Andreville visited Margot, Roussaye, and Lemercier. He also mentioned the inferences he had drawn from the amount of money that Margot had received from her partner in spying.
"Even though your conclusions were wrong, you do have talent for this work." Andreville observed. "In retrospect, it would have been better if you'd known about me from the beginning, but as I said, secrecy becomes a habit. You know why I was communicating with Roussaye. As for Lemercier, I was trying to find out what he was up to, since I was sure that he was involved with the conspiracy."
"What about the money? It was the strongest evidence against you."
"Maggie didn't know how much Whitehall paid for information, so she accepted whatever I gave her without questioning," Andreville explained. "I never told her that most of the money came from me because she might have become all prickly and independent if she knew I was supporting the household, even though it was my home, too. Also, since she wouldn't marry me, I wanted to insure that she had enough to live on comfortably if my luck ran out."
"You could have made her your heir even though you weren't married."
"I did, actually, but there was a good chance that I might simply disappear, with no one knowing how or when I died. In that case, my estate could have been tied up indefinitely. My English executor would never have been able to communicate with Maggie while the war was on." He gave Rafe a curious glance. "Did you ever mention your suspicions of me to Maggie?"
When Rafe nodded, Andreville asked, "How did she react when you tried to convince her that I was a traitor? She knows almost nothing about my background, and there was strong circumstantial evidence against me."
Rafe said ruefully, "She flatly refused to believe it, and threw me out of her house at gunpoint. And if you are thinking of pointing out that she could teach me a few lessons in loyalty, don't bother—I already know." He ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. "Thank you for telling me so much. I needed to know."
Rafe settled down on the straw and tried again to master the grief, guilt, and anger that threatened to overwhelm him. Now that he understood the strength of the bond between Andreville and Margot, he realized that he had never had a chance of winning her.
It was amazing—and humiliating—to remember how he had arrogantly assumed that he could use seduction to bend her to his will. The only reason she had turned to him for a night was because of the horrific memories aroused by the mob in the Place de Carrousel. Now that he thought about it, the unusually passionate embrace in the carriage after the theater riot must have had the same cause.
He had wreaked havoc in her life, and he could think of only one small thing that he could do to atone: make damned sure that Andreville never learned of the night Margot had spent in Rafe's bed. Even the most tolerant of men would not be happy to learn that his mistress had lain with another man, and Rafe did not want to be a source of discord between Margot and the man of her choice. He had already hurt her too much.
Though the restraint had half killed him at the time, he was profoundly glad that he had done what he could to prevent her from conceiving. Now that the wars were over she might want to start a family, but a dark haired baby would have been hard for her to explain to Andreville.
Rafe closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. It was bitterly ironic that in helping Margot forget, he had found a magic and a memory that would always torment him. If she had ever wanted vengeance, she had achieved it. Wearily he said, "If we all get out of this alive, are you going to marry her, Lord Robert?"
After a long pause, Andreville said, "I certainly intend to ask her again. Incidentally, I'd rather you didn't call me Lord Robert. That name belongs to another life, just as the woman who is Margot to you will always be Maggie to me."
"What do you prefer to be called?"
"My friends call me Robin."
Were they friends? Rafe wasn't quite sure, but there was certainly a bond between them composed of respect, shared danger, and love for the same incomparable woman.
"I'm usually called Rafe." He smiled a little. "The actual name is Rafael, but as Margot said when I met her, naming me after an archangel was singularly inappropriate."
His cellmate laughed, and the silence that followed was a comfortable one.
Chapter 22
"The Count de Varenne will want to see me," Oliver Northwood assured the decrepit Chantueil butler.
The servant looked doubtful, but turned and hobbled into the depths of the castle. Not wanting to give the count time for too much thought, Northwood quietly followed. When the butler entered the library to inform his master of the visitor, the Englishman stepped inside also.
The count was seated at a desk covered with stacks of papers full of figures. He narrowed his eyes at Northwood's entrance. "Do we know each other, monsieur?"
"Of course we do, Comte le Serpent. Or shouldn't I call you that in front of your servants?" Northwood said boldly. He intended to be accepted as a valuable associate, not the lowly pair of hired hands that he had been in the past.
The coldness of Varenne's dark gaze confirmed his identity. Yet after a moment, he gave a slow smile and dismissed the butler. "No need to worry about the servants. Every man on the estate, from the cook to my little army, is personally loyal to me, and all look forward to a better day for France." He waved toward a chair. "Pray take a seat, monsieur. I see that I underestimated you. How did you discover my identity?"
"Your signet ring. I traced the crest." Deciding that he should put his insurance policy into effect, Northwood added, "Incidentally, a sealed envelope with what I know is with someone who will take it to the authorities if I should disappear."
"There is no such need for such precautions, just as there will be no need for secrecy soon." His gaze sharpened. "You have done as we had discussed at yo
ur embassy, I assume?"
"Everything went according to plan. In about four hours, half the diplomats in Paris will be only a memory."
"You've done well, mon petit Anglais, very well." He glanced at his watch. "I regret that I have no time to socialize, but this is a most busy day. My soldiers must be prepared for whatever comes, I am considering matters that must be attended to after the explosion... a thousand things." He tucked the watch away. "Have you come for your bonus?"
"Partly that, partly to make sure that I am not forgotten in your rise to power." Northwood relaxed. Though there had been a menacing flash in Varenne's eyes when Northwood had first arrived, this affable aristocrat was turning out to be much less threatening than the masked Le Serpent had been.
"I promise that you will not be forgotten." The count smiled smoothly. "But as I said, I am very busy just now. Perhaps you would like to spend the next few hours amusing yourself with Countess Janos?"
Northwood ran an eager tongue over his lower lip. "I was hoping you had her. I can see her now?"
"If you wish. As I said, you have done well, so it is right that you enjoy a reward for your labors. Follow me."
Varenne led his guest up the stairs and along a dusty corridor to a door with worn gilding. He pulled a key from an inside pocket and handed it to Northwood. "Be sure to keep the door locked. She's a tricksome wench, and I don't want her loose in the castle."
Northwood's fingers tightened greedily on the key. He had waited a long time for this. "I'll keep her too busy to cause trouble."
"Enjoy yourself, but don't damage her too badly, Monsieur Northwood. I want to try her myself when I'm not so busy."
Nodding in acknowledgment, Northwood put the key in the lock and turned it.
* * *
It had been maddening to wait two hours at Madame Daudet's for the old lady to wake up, but the maid had been adamant about not disturbing her mistress. Hélène had scarcely been able to contain her impatience. Apart from finding the book that contained the three-headed serpent crest of the d'Aguste family, she had nothing to do but worry. A pity that they hadn't asked about the crest earlier, but at the time, it had merely been one of many possibilities.
In time, Madame Daudet emerged to greet her visitor. The old lady seemed scarcely more than black lace and delicate bones, but there was still strength and the ghost of beauty in her face. "What can I do for you today, child? Is your pretty blond friend here, too?"
"No, madame, I am here because I am worried about her," Hélène replied. "Countess Janos and some other friends have disappeared, and the only clue I have is that a d'Aguste might be involved. Can you tell me anything about the family?"
The old lady pursed her lips. "There is little to say, because the direct line is extinct. There have been no noble d'Agustes for the last fifty years or so."
Hélène's disappointment was so bitter she could taste it. Grasping at straws, she asked, "What happened fifty years ago?"
"Let's see...," Madame Daudet murmured as she cast her mind back over the years. "The last of the d'Agustes was an only daughter named Pauline. She married the Count de Varenne and the d'Aguste name died out. Pauline was the mother of the present count. A strange girl. There's bad blood in the d'Agustes."
"Varenne!" Hélène exclaimed. After thanking Madame Daudet, she flew out of the apartment and down to the street. She still didn't know what to do about it, but at least she now knew who Le Serpent was.
* * *
Michel Roussaye frowned over the notes he had made after visiting a dozen clubs and cafès where Bonapartist officers gathered to drink and gamble and reminisce about the glorious days of the empire. Mention of Captain Henri Lemercier had produced blank looks, expressions of distaste, or occasionally a hard stare followed by a curt disclaimer of any knowledge of the man.
The lack of information was not surprising, since discretion was wise these days, but Roussaye had noticed something else that was disquieting. In every cafè, there had been fragmentary rumors of change in the wind. Several times he had heard whispers about Le Serpent, a man who would lead France once more to the glory she deserved. Two or three men who remembered Roussaye's army nickname had even asked obliquely if the general was the coming leader.
Roussaye had vehemently disclaimed any such role, but the hints were worrisome. Though most officers were like him, tired and willing to give peace a chance, there were still a few hotheads whose truest happiness had been in the days of the great victories. Such men refused to see what a high price their country had paid for a fleeting taste of la gloire.
Even more alarming was the news his servant received when he tried to deliver a message to the Duke of Candover: the duke had gone out the previous afternoon and had not returned. Roussaye swore to himself.
First Robert Anderson, then Countess Janos, and now Candover. The crisis must be near.
Impatiently he got to his feet and decided to go to Silves', another popular Bonapartist cafè. More and more, it was necessary to learn who had employed Henri Lemercier.
* * *
While Maggie sat in a shabby wing chair attempting to read a lurid French novel, Rex sprawled on the floor beside her. He lay on his back, curled sideways like a comma, his massive furry feet in the air. She gave him an affectionate smile. If he wasn't snoring she would have wondered if he was alive. A pity that she couldn't relax so thoroughly.
In the past twenty-four hours she had made what plans she could, and now there was nothing to do but wait. With a sigh, she laid the novel on the table next to her and leaned over to scratch Rex's neck.
The cat was much better entertainment than the book, since the servant who had filled her requests seemed to think that females enjoyed reading the most appalling tripe. Besides having characters too absurd to believe, the novel had a spy subplot that was pure idiocy. The author had no idea what an unglamorous business spying was.
At the moment, Maggie would have been delighted to embrace the most boring spy work in existence. Being kidnapped might be exciting in a book, but it was a combination of terrifying and tedious in real life. After making what meager preparations she could, there was nothing left to do but wait.
A key grated in the lock. Since lunch had already been served, a visitor must mean either Varenne or, much worse, the associate he had promised her to. She straightened in her chair and dried her damp palms on her skirt while Rex scuttled under the bed.
When Oliver Northwood came through the door, she was almost relieved. The man was a coarse brute, a wife abuser, and a traitor to his country, but at least he was a known quantity, with neither the intelligence nor the calculated wickedness of Varenne. Against him, she would have a chance.
As he relocked the door, she ordered herself to forget the horror of rape; forget the open window that promised an end to panic and pain; forget everything but the role she had decided on. If she didn't play it well, her nightmares would become brutal reality.
Northwood turned to face her, his broad, fleshy face openly gloating. He would expect her to be frightened. In fact, he was probably looking forward to it, and would be on her in an instant if she cowered or begged.
There was a good chance, however, that being treated with the social amenities would make him respond in kind. Rising to her feet, she offered her most gracious smile. "Mr. Northwood, what a pleasure! I did so hope it would be you, but the count wouldn't tell me, naughty man. Do sit down." She gestured to the brocade chair that she had set by the table. "Would you care for some wine?"
Taken aback, Northwood took the seat indicated.
With the air of a hostess in her own drawing room, Maggie poured part of her lunchtime carafe of wine into her glass, then handed it to her visitor. "Here you are. I'm sorry that it's only vin ordinaire, but I have nothing better to offer you."
Expression baffled, he accepted the glass. "You're glad to see me?"
"But of course! I've always fancied you, you know."
"You picked a damned funny way of s
howing it, Margot Ashton," he said belligerently. "You always treated me like dirt."
She took the chair opposite him, soft folds of green muslin settling in a way that exposed a hint of ankle.
That morning she had spent considerable time combing her hair into a loose style designed for the boudoir, and she had also made some adjustments to her neckline. Judging by Northwood's expression, her appearance was having the desired effect.
With a delicate sigh, she said, "Oh, dear, I had always hoped that you would understand. We are kindred spirits, you know—I have always sensed that."
Obviously enjoying her flirtatious manner, Northwood leaned back in his chair. Nonetheless, he would not let himself be appeased too easily. "If we're such bloody kindred spirits, why were you always so rude to me, both when you made your come-out and these last weeks? You never treated Candover like that."
"Of course not." She put a hint of exasperation in her voice. "The man's insanely jealous, and it wouldn't be safe to flirt with anyone else when he's around. You're much cleverer than he is, though. He mentioned that I looked like a girl he had known once, but even though we had been engaged, he has never recognized me! The gullible fool actually believes that I'm a Hungarian countess."
Gulping a third of the wine, Northwood said, "Oh, I'm clever all right, though I never let that lot at the embassy know. They all think they're so bloody superior." He brooded for a moment. "So why did Candover get the royal treatment, not me?"
"Because he's rich, of course," Maggie said, making her eyes wide and innocent. "Surely you don't think women would waste time on the man for any other reason?"
"You're talking nonsense," Northwood said viciously. "The bastard has always had any woman he wanted—including my wife."
"Well, he's always been very, very rich, hasn't he?" Maggie said reasonably. "Oh, he's not bad-looking, but he's also a bore, both in and out of bed." She gave a bawdy chuckle, then asked silent forgiveness for the enormous lie she was about to utter. "Really, Oliver—do you mind if I call you Oliver? I always think of you that way—if Candover had to rely on his physical attributes to keep a mistress, no woman would go back for a second round."
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