"Perhaps. Perhaps not," she said reflectively. "He might be so angry that he wouldn't care what happened to him after he accomplished his goal."
"Do you think he is our man?"
The silence was so long that Rafe wondered if she was going to answer. With a hint of steel in his voice, he said, "Maggie, for the sake of our mission I will let you drag me around like a fur muff to disguise your interrogations, but do not treat me like a backward child when we are alone. Like it or not, we are in this together, and there is a greater likelihood of success if we share our information and surmises."
"Is that a threat, your grace?" Her voice was lightly mocking. "If I don't choose to lay bare my thoughts, will you beat me until I change my mind?"
"I have a better way of persuading you than that," he replied with deliberate ambiguity.
"If Cynthia Northwood was correct in her praise of your abilities, I suppose that means you intend to overpower my feeble female brain with kisses." The sarcasm was blistering.
"Not at all. All I have to do is appeal to your sense of fairness, the inbred Achilles heel of Britain."
After a moment of surprised silence, she laughed out loud. "Rafe, your talents are wasted. You should have become a negotiator like Castlereagh. You certainly know how to take advantage of an opponent."
"We are not opponents," he pointed out. "We are partners."
"I must admit that I have trouble remembering that." She paused, then said, "Despite von Fehrenbach's anger, I don't think he is our man. He's not the sort to plot in secret; he would think it ignoble. He might walk up to Talleyrand and shoot him in the heart, but I doubt that he would lower himself to conspire with others. Though the colonel is like a wounded, dangerous bear, I don't think that he is the one we seek."
"Tell me about Madame Sorel."
"He1ene is a widow with two daughters. Her husband was a French officer who died at Wagram. She was left comfortably off, and is received in the best Parisian society. We've been friends for years, and I trust her."
"Would you care to guess why von Fehrenbach reacted to her presence so vehemently?"
"I think the reason is very simple, and not at all political."
Rafe accepted that without comment. "If you're right about von Fehrenbach, one of the Frenchmen is the most likely villain."
"If I am right." Maggie's voice took on a note of bitterness. "But it's not unknown for me to be wrong."
Things can be done in the darkness that would be impossible in the light. Rafe impulsively reached across the seat to take her cool, tense hand in his own. He neither knew nor cared what memories brought that tone to her voice. All that mattered was that she had carried burdens too heavy for even the broadest of shoulders, and that she was feeling that weight.
Her fingers tightened convulsively around his, though she made no other acknowledgment. Her hand warmed, became more relaxed. For the first time, Rafe felt that the barriers between them had gone down. Perhaps they would get along better if they didn't talk to each other.
When they reached her house, Maggie released his clasp to pull her cashmere shawl about her shoulders. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, her mouth quirked up. "You see yourself as a fur muff?"
He smiled. "Or some other useless, ornamental object carried only for display." He turned and dismissed his carriage.
Maggie gave him a hard look when he followed her into the house. Before she could comment, he said, "If we are to maintain the illusion of an affair, I can't drop you at your doorstep and leave. After a suitable interval, I'll walk back to my hotel. It isn't far from here."
She accepted his reason with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. "I suppose it's necessary."
They went into the salon and she poured brandy for them both. Then she kicked off her sandals and curled up on one of the sofas. "Should I have asked Cynthia Northwood how long you must stay to uphold your reputation? Perhaps I should make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, since no one would expect to see you before morning."
He refused to be drawn. "I'll slip out the back door in an hour or so. After all, it would be a blow to both our reputations if I left too soon."
Wandering across the room, he found an antique chess set on a small game table. The chess pieces were designed as a medieval court. The smooth enameled figures were about three inches high, and each was a sculpture with individual, hand-drawn features.
Rafe picked up the white queen, an exquisite golden-haired lady riding a white palfrey, then glanced at Maggie. The resemblance was undeniable. The queen, the most powerful figure on the board.
Setting the piece down, he lifted the black king from the opposite side of the board. His dark face arrogant and hawklike, the king brandished a sword from a rearing charger. Rafe studied the figure for a moment, wondering if he imagined its resemblance to himself. The kings were the ultimate objectives in chess, but had relatively little power themselves.
It was not unlike the game he and Maggie were playing, with the white queen in charge and the king standing by. But they were on the same side, weren't they?
He lifted the fair-haired white king. The face was cool and enigmatic, and it took little imagination to see the figure as Robert Anderson. If it was an omen, it was a disturbing one.
Rafe set down the white king. "Care for a game of chess? At the reception, you promised me better amusement at your home."
Maggie rose gracefully and joined him at the chess board. "If you wish. You'll find that my playing has improved a bit. Shall we toss a coin to see who plays white?"
Traditionally white moves first, an advantage, but Rafe picked up the white queen again, admired the proud chin, then handed it to Maggie. "She could only be yours."
They sat down and began. In younger days, Maggie had played with a wild brilliance that occasionally brought victory, but more often led to defeat against Rafe's more thoughtful style. Now they were evenly matched. He was interested to see that she still played boldly, but with a much keener eye for strategy.
An hour passed where the only words were an occasional compliment on a good move. When the clock struck eleven, Maggie looked up in surprise. "At the risk of seeming a poor hostess, I must ask you to leave. We can finish the game another day. I doubt that anyone is watching the house, but just in case, I'll show you to the rear door where you can slip out unobserved."
Rafe followed her through the halls, admiring the house. Though not exceptionally large, it had been designed to feel spacious and every detail was perfect. It was very much the home of a gentlewoman, reinforcing the idea that it was not supported on a spy's wages. He wondered acidly how many lovers were contributing to the establishment.
When Maggie turned to face him at the back door, Rafe was surprised to see how small she seemed in her stocking feet. The top of her head scarcely reached his chin. She looked young and soft and utterly desirable, and the air between them seemed charged with possibilities.
Once Margot Ashton had looked up at him with just such an expression in her eyes. For a moment Rafe's world tilted as the past and present crashed together. He desired her with all the passionate intensity of twenty-one; he wanted to bury his face in tangles of golden hair, to discover one by one the mysteries of Margot's laughing, elusive spirit and lush body.
It was a painful moment of disorientation, and his only salvation was that the present-day Maggie was unaware of it. A faint tremor went through him as he fought the desire to draw her into his arms. Experience told him that it would be better to play a waiting game. She desired him; allow time for her desire to grow. If he moved too quickly, she would become antagonistic instead.