Petals in the Storm (35 page)

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."

Rate'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."

The general removed the cigar from his mouth and looked at his visitor with astonishment. "I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. Why should I have any desire to injure the countess? Quite apart from the fact that she is a delightful woman, my interest now is in preserving life, not destroying it."

"Fine words, General," Rafe said bitterly. "After you tell me what you have done to Margot, perhaps you can explain how you rationalize assassination as preserving life."

Roussaye studied his visitor intently. "I am beginning to think that we are speaking at cross purposes. What exactly are you accusing me of, and why should your lady be involved?"

Rafe was beginning to loathe the calm he had admired. Fleetingly he wondered if his own imperturbable control had maddened others as much over the years.

Throwing discretion to the winds, he said, "The countess is a British agent and has been instrumental in uncovering your conspiracy. I assume that you realized what she was doing and decided to remove her, but it's too late. We already know about the attempt on Castlereagh's life, and that Wellington was your next target. After you tell me what you have done to her, I want to know what your future plans were. I shot your confederate Lemercier, and by God, I'll put a bullet in you if I have to!"

Roussaye threw his head back and laughed. "This would be hilarious, except that I will probably end up just as dead as if I were really guilty of what you accuse me of." He took another pull on his cigar. "My villainy, of which it now appears you were ignorant, was an attempt to help some of my distinguished colleagues who are on King Louis' death list."

As Rafe stared at him, the general elaborated. "Come, Candover, surely you know about the death list—the names of many of the chief imperial military men are on it. It is only a matter of time until Marshal Ney and a score of others are executed. They are considered 'traitors.' It is the sheerest chance that I am not in prison with them."

He stared at the coal on the end of his cigar, his expression brooding. "Treason is so often a matter of dates. The condemned men were all honorable soldiers—their only crime lies in serving the losing side. I had hoped I might help a few of them escape. Even some of your countrymen agree that the king's reprisals are outrageous. Indeed, a Briton has been aiding me."

He exhaled a thin wreath of smoke. "I won't give you his name, so don't waste your time with threats. Though I suppose that your government would not execute a British national for participating in a foiled escape plot."

Mouth dry, Rafe asked, "Was it Robert Anderson?"

Roussaye paused, then said slowly, "You are well informed."

Stunned, Rafe rapidly rearranged everything he knew. If Roussaye was telling the truth, it removed a major piece of the evidence of Anderson's treachery. Many men, Rafe included, disagreed with the vindictiveness of the royalists. Anderson's money might be suspect, but as Margot had defensively suggested, her lover might have been selling the same information in several places without actually betraying his own country.

As for the general, his nickname of Le Serpent could be a coincidence; after all, the three-headed serpent crest found among Northwood's papers was still unexplained, and it might be the symbol of the true Serpent. The only other possible link was from Lemercier to Roussaye, and the fact that both were Bonapartist officers didn't mean that they were conspirators.

Rafe asked, "Was Henri Lemercier also working with you?"

The general wrinkled his nose as if a bad odor had forced its way through the cigar smoke. "You insult me. Lemercier is a jackal, the worst kind of officer. He would never lift a finger to help anyone unless he was well paid. If the price was right, he'd strangle his own grandmother and cook her in a fricassee."

Numbly Rafe uncocked the gun and thrust it beneath his coat. Perhaps Roussaye was simply a brilliant liar, but Margot had always doubted that he had the temperament of an assassin, even though she had suspected that he was involved in something secret. Her instincts were proving to be remarkably sound.

Rafe said woodenly, "I owe you an apology. I hope you will forgive my accusations."

"Wait." The general raised his hand. "Why did you think I would want to murder Castlereagh or Wellington? Without them, France would be forced to accept a much more punitive peace."

"Exactly. It seemed possible that a true revolutionary might want to see France humiliated, to the point where she would be willing to take up arms again. Now if you will excuse me, I must leave and start looking for Margot."

Roussaye shook his head. "Ingenious thinking, but I assure you, I would do nothing to prolong my country's suffering—France can afford no more Waterloos. If there is a conspiracy that threatens the peace, I am as interested in uncovering it as you are. If you will tell me what you know, perhaps I can help."

Rafe hesitated, then sat down, cursing himself for being so bewitched by Margot that he hadn't asked more questions when he had the chance. Now it was too late; with both Anderson and Margot out of the picture, he was crippled by his own ignorance. Without access to their information sources, he had no idea where to turn, so any assistance was welcome. Briefly he outlined what they knew or guessed, then listed all of the primary and secondary suspects they had been investigating.

The general listened attentively, his face darkening at the news of Robert Anderson's disappearance, but he interrupted only when Rafe mentioned that Count de Varenne had been a suspect. "Why Varenne? The Ultra-Royalists have the greatest stake in the status quo."

Rafe had to think back to remember. "At the beginning, there was some thought that the Ultra-Royalists might want to assassinate the king so that the Count d'Artois could succeed him. Once it became clear that the attack was aimed at the British leaders, we eliminated Varenne from our list"

Roussaye nodded. "I had never met him before our encounter at the Louvre, so I made a few inquiries. Varenne was heavily involved in royalist intelligence work during his exile, but his activities are now legitimate. Pray continue."

When Rafe was finished, the general pondered while the air became blue-gray with smoke. Eventually he said, "I am familiar with most of those men, and of them all, Lemercier was the most likely to be involved in a conspiracy. However, he wasn't intelligent or ambitious enough to be the mastermind. We need to know who he was working for."

After more thought, he said, "I might be able to discover that. If we know the identity of Lemercier's employer, you may have your Serpent. I'll begin inquiries this afternoon and notify you if I learn anything significant. What will you do—ask Wellington for men to search for the countess?"

"No, without some idea of where to look, we could set all of the Allied troops in France searching and not find her. Still, you have given me an idea. If Varenne was involved in royalist information gathering, he might still have some sources. Perhaps I can convince him to help me, for the countess's sake. He seemed to admire her."

"What man wouldn't?" Roussaye said with his first smile since the duke had made his accusations. Then seriousness returned, and his fingers tightened on his cigar stub. "Will you tell the royalist government about my interest in freeing prisoners?"

"I will not turn in a man for being loyal to his friends," Rafe said as he got to his feet. "But have a care, General, your wife deserves your loyalty, too."

"I know." Roussaye was silent for a long moment. "When you told me I was under arrest, I had a vision of my wife a widow, my unborn child an orphan. I will not subject them to that. Besides," he added with self-mockery, "I would be a liar if I did not admit that life is sweet to me, now more than ever."

Rafe offered his hand. "There is nothing wrong with enjoying life. God knows there is enough misery in the world."

After shaking hands, he left, wondering what on God's earth he could do next.

Consciousness returned slowly to Maggie, accompanied by a feeling of nausea that she guessed was caused by the drug they had given her. She was lying on a bed, but her vision was so blurred and the light level so low that she saw only vague shapes when she opened her eyes. From the silence, she guessed that she was alone, so she lifted her right hand in a gingerly exploration of her surroundings.

The side of her hand brushed a round, hairy object, and a bolt to sheer panic blazed through her. She jerked upright, even as her mind said that the shape and texture were wrong for a man's head.

She turned to the right, which triggered more vertigo, and blinked her eyes clear. Then she blinked again as two reflective gold circles materialized in the blackness. As she teetered on the verge of hysteria, the gold circles were joined by a yawning pink mouth with small, gleaming fangs.

The relief was so great that she almost laughed. She was not sharing a bed with a rapist, but a cat. Curled in a ball on her pillow, it was very large, very shaggy, and very black, with the pushed-in face of a true Persian. The silly creature must have slipped in when Maggie was deposited here.

Cautiously pushing herself upright, she croaked, "If you're Varenne's cat, you keep low company, Rex. Or are you imprisoned for spying, too?"