An alarm bell went off in Maggie's mind. Northwood was an inveterate gambler with unexpected financial resources? They had concentrated on investigating the assassination plot since that was most urgent, but there was also the matter of a possible spy in the British delegation. If there was such a person, the mysterious Le Serpent might be using his services. Since Maggie heartily disliked Oliver Northwood, she was quite willing to believe him a villain. And if he was in contact with the master conspirator...
Controlling her excitement, she said casually, "His salary from the Foreign Office must help."
"It is a mere pittance, only two hundred pounds a year." Cynthia shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps he has become a cleverer gambler. If he didn't pay his debts, I suppose no one would continue to gamble with him."
"Is it possible that your husband might be involved in something he shouldn't?"
"What do you mean?"
Maggie put on her innocent face. "It's just a hope. If Northwood has some secret, he might be more easily persuaded to let you leave without causing trouble." She smiled wickedly. "I assume that part of the reason you wished to talk with me was to get the ideas of a wily European who was not raised with your English sense of fair play."
Cynthia's momentary shock swiftly turned to embarrassment. "Perhaps it was, without my being aware of it." Her expression became withdrawn as she thought about what her hostess had said. "Perhaps he is concealing something. He seemed to change when he joined the Foreign Office, and it has become more pronounced since we came to Paris. He has had more money since then, too. More than can be accounted for by his salary, I mean."
"Do you suppose he could be taking bribes?"
"He hasn't much influence to sell," Cynthia said doubtfully.
"He might pretend to more than he has," Maggie said. Bribery was common, and many people would accept bribes who would never consider spying against their country. Northwood might be one of those. Nonetheless, the possibility was worth further investigation.
Cynthia said slowly, "Several weeks ago when I was writing letters, I ran out of paper and looked in Oliver's desk for more. He happened to come in then, and became outraged when he saw what I was doing. In fact, he struck me. At the time I didn't think much about it since he is often unpredictable, but ever since then he has made a point of locking up all his papers. Do you think that's significant?"
"Possibly, possibly not. Some men are naturally furtive. But if he has some guilty secret that you could discover, it might give you ammunition to defend yourself." Maggie caught Cynthia's gaze and said soberly, "It is not a nice thing that we are talking about. Are you willing to behave so dishonorably?"
Cynthia took a deep breath, but her gaze was unwavering. "Yes. We women have few weapons at our disposal, and I would be foolish to waste one. Perhaps I can stop some greater tragedy, like a duel. I don't think Oliver would dare challenge Michael, but I could be wrong." She trembled as if a cold draft had touched her. "I couldn't bear to be the cause of Michael risking his life."
Satisfied, Maggie said, "If you are sure. Do you think you could unlock your husband's desk and study his private papers?"
Cynthia bit her lip, but nodded her head.
"You must be extremely cautious, not only in acting when he is away, but in leaving no traces of your search. Your husband has a violent temper, and if he suspects you, he could do you a serious injury. You have not only your own life to consider." Maggie put as much earnestness in her voice as she could. Though she was not particularly proud of herself for setting a wife to spy on her husband, the opportunity was too good to pass up. Moreover, if Oliver Northwood really was a spy, that fact might make it easier for Cynthia to escape him.
"I promise I will be careful." Her mouth twisted. "I know better than anyone what Oliver might do."
"If you discover anything suspicious, bring it to me first," Maggie said. "I have considerable experience of the world, and I might better understand what you have found."
Cynthia nodded again as she stood. "I can't thank you enough. Countess. Talking to you has helped enormously."
Maggie rose also. "Perhaps you should call me Magda since we are going to be conspirators. Or Maggie, if you prefer."
"Thank you, Maggie. And please, call me Cynthia." Leaning forward, she gave the older woman a heartfelt hug.
After again cautioning Cynthia to be extremely careful, Maggie showed her guest out. Then she sat back to think about what she had learned.
Quite apart from her dislike of Oliver Northwood, her instinct said that he was capable of treachery. She did not rule out the possibility that he was innocent, or guilty of no more than minor corruption. However, given the volatile situation in Paris, information was tremendously valuable. A weak man might easily succumb to temptation.
The next question was whether to tell Rafe. She frowned. While Rafe and Northwood were not close friends, they had known each other forever, and had been part of the same circle when they were young men about town. Rafe would have trouble believing that someone from that group of bluff, honest Englishmen was a traitor. It was much easier to suspect a stranger than an acquaintance.
Maggie decided that she would not tell Rafe of her suspicions unless Cynthia discovered some concrete proof. For all of their sakes, she hoped that would happen, and soon.
* * *
That evening Rafe went to the Salon des Ètrangers, the closest thing to a gentlemen's club in Paris. It was a rendezvous for confirmed gamblers, and many of the richest and most influential men in Paris were regular customers. Though he had visited several times in the hope of hearing something useful, so far he had had no success. Still, it felt better to be doing something than nothing.
Standing at the entrance to the main gambling room, he surveyed the crowd for familiar faces. The Salon was larger and far grander than the modest Cafè Mazarin, but the signs of gambling fever were the same.
The proprietor, the Marquis de Livry, came forward. The marquis bore a remarkable resemblance to the Prince Regent, both in girth and grandeur of manner. Smiling graciously, he said, "How delightful to see you this evening, your grace. What is your preference?"
"I'll wait to see what table calls me," Rafe said.
The marquis nodded, accustomed to gamblers who looked for magical signs that fortune favored them. After urging Rafe to enjoy himself, Livry left to greet a party of Austrians.
Taking a glass of excellent burgundy from a footman, Rafe strolled through the crowd. With a feeling of inevitability, he saw Robert Anderson sitting at a faro table. The blond man had a talent for turning up in unexpected places. It seemed highly probable that Anderson was also involved in the murky shadows of intelligence gathering.
But if so, for whom did he work? The logical answer was that he kept his ears open on behalf of the British delegation. Yet Rafe had his doubts.
Shielded by a Corinthian column, he sipped his wine and studied the younger man. Again he felt that tantalizing sense of near-recognition, but could not identify it.
His attempts to remember were interrupted by a jovial greeting. "Evening, Candover. Good to see you again."
Rafe turned without enthusiasm to greet Oliver Northwood. He was surprised to find his old acquaintance at a place where the play was so deep, for men of much greater fortune than Northwood had been ruined in the Salon des Ètrangers.
As the men exchanged idle talk, Rafe watched Anderson push half the counters in front of him across the table after losing a bet, as imperturbable in defeat as in victory. The man looked as blond and angelic as a choirboy. Was that what Maggie saw in him, that handsome face? Or did she fancy herself in love with him? What the hell did Anderson have that he himself didn't?
Rafe was shocked by the violent jealousy that surged through him. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and not one that he liked. He had always been willing to bid a graceful farewell to women who developed other preferences—except where Margot was concerned. Even thirteen years later, he bitterly resented Nor
thwood's intimacy with her, and the anger he felt at the memory of Anderson slipping in Maggie's back door was a serious blow to his view of himself as a civilized man.
In an effort to control his primitive emotions, Rafe reminded himself that Anderson was just one of the men in Maggie's life. There was no point in being jealous merely because the bastard was the only one of her lovers Rafe knew.
The reflection was a singular failure at calming him.
Deciding that he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to learn more about his rival, Rafe said, "Your colleague Anderson reminds me of someone, but I can't remember who. What's his background?"
"Hasn't any." Northwood drained his glass of wine. "Fellow just appeared in Paris in July, and Castlereagh took him into the delegation. Must have had letters of recommendation, but I don't know from whom. Says he isn't related to any Andersons I know." He hailed a footman and exchanged his empty glass for a full one. "Comes here often."
"Really? Then whatever Andersons he comes from must be well off."
Northwood frowned, giving the appearance of a man coming to a decision. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, Candover, but there's something dashed smoky about Anderson. Sprang from nowhere, always poking into things that don't concern him, then disappears like a bloody alley cat. And he has more money than he should."
"Interesting." Rafe tried to suppress his unworthy excitement. "Have you spoken to Castlereagh about your suspicions?"
After looking around to assure that no one was within listening distance, Northwood said quietly, "I've talked to Castlereagh, all right. That's why I'm here—the foreign minister asked me to keep an eye on Anderson. Informally, you know." At Rafe's questioning look, he added, "To see if he talks to anyone suspicious. Shouldn't be telling you this, but I know you can be trusted, and want to put you on your guard. You know what the situation is here in Paris. Can't be too careful."
Northwood looked as if he were weighing whether to continue, then added in an almost inaudible voice, "Confidential information has been getting out of the British delegation. Don't want to slander an innocent man—but we're watching Anderson very closely."
Rafe had never seen Northwood so serious, and he wondered if he had misjudged his old schoolmate. Perhaps the hail-fellow-well-met demeanor was a disguise. He studied the other man, trying to be objective.
Though Rafe could not like Northwood's vulgarity of manner, he had no reason to distrust the man. Had jealousy been coloring Rafe's judgment? Undoubtedly.
The same jealousy made it all too easy to believe the worst of Anderson. Rafe reminded himself that he was in Paris to help his country, not to pursue personal intrigues. But if the blond man was a traitor to England, it would be pure pleasure to see him caught and punished.
Rafe said, "I'll keep my eyes open, and perhaps I'll remember why Anderson looks familiar. It might be significant."
After a nod of complicity, he drifted from Northwood, ending at the rouge-et-noir table. It was a game that involved more luck than skill, so Rafe was able to monitor what was happening elsewhere in the room. He noticed when General Michel Roussaye took an empty chair at the faro table next to Anderson, noticed the intense words the two men exchanged, which might or might not have anything to do with faro.
Noticed, and frowned.
Chapter 11
The next day, Maggie and Rafe were both silent as they went to the British embassy to visit the Castlereaghs. She briefly considered telling him of her suspicions of Oliver Northwood, but he was too much the cool, remote aristocrat today, his dark face handsome and detached.
They ate in a private dining room, and the excellent luncheon was served on Pauline Bonaparte's own plate, which Wellington had bought along with the house the previous year. Looking every inch a duke's mistress, Maggie wore a sky blue gown with matching ostrich plumes in her hair. Lord Castlereagh was relaxed and witty, and the meal was an enjoyable one.
The talk did not turn serious until a silver pot of coffee was placed on the table and Lady Castlereagh signaled for the servants to withdraw. The foreign minister started the discussion by saying, "Have you heard the latest news from the Tuileries?"
Both of his guests shook their heads. The French king's court at the Tuileries was a whirlpool of rumor and gossip as factions of royalists struggled for ascendancy, but there hadn't been any serious news from that quarter recently.
Castlereagh said, "Fouchè has been forced out of the government, and Talleyrand will also be gone in a few days." A spark of humor showed in his eyes. "Whenever Prince Talleyrand comes under heavy criticism, he loftily offers his resignation. Much to his surprise, this time the king decided to accept it."
Maggie bit her lip as she considered the implications, then glanced at Rafe. His eyes were grave. Though Talleyrand was difficult and unpredictable, he had also been brilliant and a force for moderation. His departure might increase the danger for other moderates. She asked, "Has a new prime minister been chosen yet?"
"The tsar suggested that the king choose one of the French royalists who governed for him in Russia, either the Due de Richelieu or the Count de Varenne. Louis agreed to accept Richelieu," the foreign minister answered. "The consensus in the diplomatic corps is that he will last only a few weeks."
"Don't be too sure of that, your lordship," Maggie said. "I've met the man, and I think he will provide some surprises."
Castlereagh regarded her shrewdly; he must have hoped for such information. "What is your evaluation of Richelieu?"
"Absolute integrity, capable of being forceful if necessary," she said without hesitation. "He will be a strong advocate for France, but I think you will deal well together."
Castlereagh nodded slowly. "That confirms my own impressions. The negotiations are going well, and the monarchs should be returning to their own countries in another fortnight or so." He gave his wife a reassuring glance. "There are a number of details to be worked out over the next several months, but I think that the worst is over."
"I hope you're right," Rafe said, "but we're afraid that the next two weeks will be very dangerous for you personally, Lord Castlereagh." Briefly he described the rumors that he and Maggie had been pursuing, and their suspicions.
The foreign minister took the threats calmly. "Lord Strathmore has informed me of what you say. I realize that there is some danger, but it's not the first time I have been threatened, and I don't suppose that it will be the last."
Maggie thought with exasperation that stoicism was all very well, but a little fear could be a useful thing. She glanced at her hostess and saw that Lady Castlereagh's round face was tense and her fingers had tightened around a silver spoon. While her husband was being heroic, Emily was dying inside. However, she had been a political wife too long to make a fuss in front of anyone, and only Maggie noticed her anxiety.
They talked a few minutes longer, until the dining room clock struck two. Lord Castlereagh said, "I must leave now for a meeting with the French and the tsar at the Tuileries. I expect it will be rather lively."
He and Rafe talked about the tsar's Holy Alliance as they headed to the stables where the duke's carriage waited with the embassy horses. Lady Castlereagh accompanied her guests to the rear door, and Maggie lagged behind for a moment to say, "There is some danger, Emily, but I'm sure he will come through safely."
"I can only pray that my husband has the same magical ability to avoid bullets that Wellington does," Emily said in a brittle attempt at humor. "We have discussed putting guards on all the embassy doors. Now I will insist on it." She gazed after her handsome husband. "I'll be glad when this is over and we are back in London. Sometimes I wish that Robert would have been content to stay in Ireland and raise sheep. It would have been much easier on my nerves."
"No doubt," Maggie admitted, "but he wouldn't have been the man that he is if he had done that."
"True. I remind myself of that." With visible effort, Lady Castlereagh schooled her face to that of a calm hostess. "So pleasant
to see you and Candover, Lady Janos. We must get together again soon." Then she reentered the embassy.
Going down the steps into the yard between the embassy and the stables, Maggie was some distance behind the two men. Candover's carriage had been called, along with a restless bay gelding for Castlereagh to ride to his meeting.
Maggie frowned, her instinct for danger tugging at her. She scanned the yard and the windows that overlooked it, but saw nothing suspicious.
Her gaze returned to the stable yard, and she saw Castlereagh's mount fidget and toss its head, eyes rolling. The beast seemed too wild for city riding, and she wondered that the groom was not holding it in better.
Rafe and Castlereagh had reached the horse's side, but they were so absorbed in their discussion that they didn't notice the animal's behavior. Maggie's gaze went next to the groom, who stood on the opposite side of the horse. He was a dark man with a scarred face, and something about him was subtly wrong.
While she was trying to decide why the groom seemed out of place, the horse suddenly neighed, a furious sound that echoed harshly between the stone buildings. Neighing again, the gelding reared and jerked free of the groom, then put its head between its front legs and kicked back.
Rafe and Lord Castlereagh were standing too close to escape, and the wild, iron-shod hooves smashed into the foreign minister. As Maggie watched with horror, Castlereagh was hurled into Rafe and both men crashed to the ground.
She instantly raced down the steps, shouting for help. Trapped in a corner of the yard, the horse couldn't easily bolt, so it continued stamping and bucking over the foreign minister's unconscious body.
Rafe scrambled to his feet and grabbed Castlereagh under the arms. As he tried to pull the minister out of danger, the horse kicked again. This time one of the lethal hooves almost struck Rafe's head. He managed to dodge, but the hoof clipped his shoulder, knocking him off balance. After a moment, he got a new grip on Castlereagh and resumed the retreat.