He bid her a polite good night, and hoped that it was a trace of disappointment that he saw in her eyes. Then he walked down the steps, crossed the stable yard, and turned left into a narrow, deserted alley.
He was far too restless to retire tamely to his apartments. He considered going to the Palais Royale to find a card game or a woman, but the prospect did not appeal. Deciding to walk, he headed toward the Place Vendome.
Maggie was irresistibly on his mind. Even when she was eighteen her innocence had existed only in his mind, so it should be no surprise to learn that she had joined the company of women who collected expensive tributes in return for their favors. It was very common where women had greater beauty than fortune. He didn't think it would be fair to call her a courtesan; she had merely found a practical way to combine business and enjoyment.
At least she also had goals beyond her own pleasure. Presumably she chose her lovers both for wealth and for the information they could provide. In bed with a woman like Maggie, a man might say anything and not care, nor remember it later.
He entered the octagonal Place Vendome, which was nearly deserted at this hour. In the center was an enormously tall pillar that Napoleon had erected to commemorate the Battle of Austerlitz. The bronze spiral that twined up the column had been made by melting down the twelve hundred cannon Bonaparte had captured at that battle. Not surprisingly, the Prussians wanted to pull the column down.
His mouth twisted. It was hard to care about politics when his mind was disabled by lust. He might as well face the fact that he wanted Maggie for a mistress. Though it was true that he had bedded women that could be considered more beautiful, he had never known one who was so alluring.
In spite of her protests, she was not indifferent to him, and this evening her hostility seemed to have lessened. It was time for them to put aside the past and enjoy each other as they were now, without recriminations or complications.
Instead of sparring with her, he would make a straightforward offer. Perhaps part of the reason she had been so adamant about keeping her distance was because she didn't want to give away what usually was a source of profit.
Well, he was a reasonable man, and recognized that Maggie had to support herself. Though he had never paid for a mistress before, he was willing to make an exception in her case. In fact, he was prepared to be extremely generous. If she agreed to a long-term arrangement, he would even consider making a permanent financial settlement, so she would have some security for the future.
He turned decisively and headed back to the Boulevard des Capucines. Though it was late, he returned to the alley behind her house, hoping for some sign that she was still awake, perhaps as restless as he was himself.
As he scanned her windows, he saw a stealthy figure coming along the alley from the other direction. Rafe stepped farther back into the shadows so that he wouldn't be seen.
Instead of passing by, the other man stopped and looked around warily. Rafe flattened himself against the wall, glad that he was wearing dark clothing.
Apparently satisfied that he was unseen, the stranger climbed Maggie's back steps and knocked at the door. It swung open immediately. Maggie was standing inside, illuminated by a lamp in her hand. She had changed to a flowing dark robe and her bright hair was loose around her shoulders, like the white queen.
Her visitor bent to kiss her, and Rafe stayed to watch no more.
The stealthy newcomer was Robert Anderson, the white king himself. No wonder she had talked to him with such intensity at the reception; they had been setting up an assignation.
Rafe was coldly furious without quite understanding why. He knew that Maggie had lovers, so why should it anger him to see one entering? It certainly wasn't jealousy; he hadn't felt jealous about a woman since… since he was twenty-one, and Margot had betrayed him with Northwood.
He swore out loud, rejecting the idea. His anger was not a result of jealousy, but concern for his mission. Maggie had been told not to associate with the lesser members of the British delegation, yet she was defying Lucien's orders.
This was a dangerous, complicated business, and getting more so by the hour. Rafe stalked the streets until long after midnight, thinking hard about the new development.
Since Maggie was an expert at espionage, he had assumed that she would not make foolish errors of judgment. That had been careless of him. While he still refused to believe that she would deliberately betray her country, in the future he would be more skeptical of her actions.
Though her affair with Anderson might be irrelevant to the business at hand, it was safer to assume the worst. Women were just as susceptible to misjudging bedmates as men were. If Anderson was a traitor, he might be using Maggie exactly as she had used countless other men.
By the time Rafe reached his hotel, he had decided on a strategy. He knew enough of Maggie's stubborn independence to be sure that if he asked her not to see Anderson, she would laugh in his face. Rafe would have to become her lover so that he would have more influence over her. Then he would tell her to get rid of Anderson-and any other damned men she had on her string.
He had wanted to bed her for purely physical reasons. Now that desire was reinforced by a need to secure her loyalty. For the sake of their mission, he was prepared to use every weapon he had to gain the upper hand with Maggie.
How convenient that in this instance, duty would march with pleasure.
He didn't doubt that ultimately he would be successful; he had never failed to win a woman he really wanted. But he would have to move very carefully. Since time was critical, he daren't risk antagonizing her. Rather than make a straight financial offer, he would first soften her resistance with expensive gifts.
He also decided that he should develop some information sources of his own. A wealthy lord has many employees; it took Rafe only a few minutes to think of two clever, discreet, and trustworthy Frenchmen who worked for him.
Before going to bed, he wrote a letter to his agent, summoning both men to Paris immediately.
Robin looked tired and worried, which was unusual, so after giving him a welcoming kiss Maggie insisted that he join her in a midnight supper. They sat at the kitchen table and worked their way through pate, sliced squab, and sundry other delicacies that had been left by Maggie's cook.
When they finished, he pushed the remnants aside. "Nothing like good food to restore one's optimism. Did you learn anything useful this evening?"
Maggie described her encounter with Colonel von Fehrenbach, ending with her conclusion that he was probably not the man behind the conspiracy. "Now it's your turn, Robin. What has happened to worry you?"
He ran his right hand restlessly through his hair. It was a paler blond than Maggie's and looked silvery in the candlelight. "An informant told me that someone has been making discreet inquiries for a brave fellow who would like to bring down 'the Conqueror of the Conqueror of the World.' "
Maggie bit her lip. The Parisians had hung that nickname on the Duke of Wellington after his victory at Waterloo. It was appropriate, since Bonaparte had gotten into the habit of thinking himself the Conqueror of the World, and Wellington had most certainly cleared up that bit of hyperbole.
"So they really are going for Wellington," she said with depression. "They could hardly make a better choice for stirring up a hornets' nest. Were there any indications of who was making the inquiries?"
"Only that it was a Frenchman, which fits with the conclusion you reached tonight." Robin polished off the last slice of pate. "How are things going with Candover?"
Maggie shrugged and traced a pattern on the table in a few spilled drops of wine. "You were right, he's an excellent cover for my inquiries. He's perceptive, too-he reached the same conclusion about von Fehrenbach that I did. But I'm concerned…" Her voice trailed off.