Her friend gave her a worried glance. "Yes, and none of it is good. That one is dangerous. Is he involved with your plot?"
"Possibly. Do you know where I might casually meet him?"
"He is often at Lady Castlereagh's evening salons. Be careful, my friend, when you meet him. They say he writes his name in blood."
In spite of the afternoon's heat Maggie felt a shiver along her spine. Firmly she told herself that she was only reacting to Helene's melodramatic phrasing.
If Castlereagh and Wellington were the targets, Varenne should be dropped from the list of likely candidates. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, she wanted to meet him. Rafe was taking her to the theater tonight. Afterward they could go to the salon at the British embassy and hope that the Ultra-Royalist count was there.
But if Varenne was uninvolved, why did thinking of him give her a nagging sense of danger?
When Rafe called to take Maggie to the theater, she entered the salon in a shimmering, silver gray dress that reflected hints of blue and green in its folds. She was so lovely that it hurt to look at her. He took a slow, deep breath. Patience was not going to come easily.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, your grace. Shall we be on our way?" The honeyed voice was friendly and intimate.
Rafe was impressed at how calm his reply sounded. "You're looking particularly lovely tonight, my dear. I shall be the envy of every man in Paris."
She gave a sorrowful shake of her head. "I'm disappointed, your grace. Surely a gentleman with your reputation for address can offer more imaginative flattery."
"I speak only the truth, Countess," Rafe replied as he escorted her through the door. "Flattery would be useless with a woman of your acuity."
She gave him a mischievous smile. "My apologies for underestimating you. Clearly you flatter on a higher level. A woman who is often complimented on her appearance much prefers to hear lies about her intelligence."
Grinning, he helped her into his carriage. It would take every ounce of wit and charm he possessed to seduce her; he hadn't felt so alive in years. Having more money and more women than he knew what to do with had become a bloody bore, and the harder she made him work, the sweeter the prize at the end.
As the carriage rattled down the Boulevard des Capucines, Maggie spoke, her teasing gone. "The plot is thickening. I have a reliable report of a threat against Lord Castlereagh within the next fortnight."
"The devil you say!" Lechery vanished as Rafe listened to the meager facts that Maggie had. Briefly he wondered who her informant had been-another patron of the gambling hell, over a pillow this afternoon?-but shoved the thought aside for more serious considerations. "Perhaps I can visit that club later this evening, after I leave you off."
"It's not likely to do much good. You can hardly ask the people who work there the names of the two men discussing assassination last night."
"True, but the fellows might be regular customers. If I make a few critical comments about Castlereagh or Wellington, one might strike up a conversation with me."
At her continuing silence, he added, "I'm not wholly incapable of subtlety, you know."
"I suppose not," she said, clearly not convinced. "I presume you know enough to go armed? There are French officers who make a point of insulting foreigners in the hopes of starting a duel. As an Englishman, you will be fair game. Not as good as a Prussian, but still appealing to a belligerent Frenchman."
"I am touched by your concern for my continued existence."
"Don't flatter yourself, your grace," she said tartly. "I merely dislike losing a chess partner in the middle of a game."
He couldn't tell whether it was sarcasm or humor that laced her voice.
She added, "If you do get forced into a duel, pistols would probably be a better choice. Most of the French officers are capital swordsmen, and it's a rare foreigner who can best them."
Rafe was about to ask why she had faith in his marksmanship when he remembered a long-ago afternoon when they had shot at wafers together in a friend's private pistol gallery. She must remember his skill. Margot had been equally good, the only woman he had ever met who could shoot as well as a man. It was one of many things her father had taught her, treating her as if she had been a son instead of a daughter. One of the many things that made her different from any other woman he had ever known.
The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Maggie attracted a great deal of attention from gawkers as Rafe helped her from the carriage. She played up to it, casting flirtatious smiles around her. No one watching would ever imagine that she was a coldblooded spy rather than a hot-blooded tart.
He escorted her upstairs to their private box. The play was excellent, and for whole minutes at a time Rafe forgot serious thoughts in the humor of Moliere's Tartuffe.
But as the performance progressed, he became increasingly aware of Maggie's closeness. After the second act began, he casually laid his arm across the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel warmth from her skin.
He was pleased to see her lean forward, as if absorbed in the play. It wasn't Moliere that put that flush on her high cheekbones; she was as aware of him as he was of her, and he guessed that she didn't trust herself to relax against him. Good. He let his fingertips drift across her bare shoulder.
She shivered, and her hand tightened on her folded fan. He wondered how far he could go before she called a halt. Not much further, he suspected. He rested his arm on the chair again. Gradually she relaxed and leaned against the padded chair back, her shoulders barely grazing his arm.
It was a pleasant game. He was considering massaging the nape of her neck when a growling sound emerged from the pit. Instantly alert, Rafe withdrew his arm and leaned forward to look over the railing of the box. The growl became a rumble, and he saw men shoving each other below.
The actors tried to shout their lines over the increasing noise, but cries of Vive le Roi! began warring with Vive I'Empereur! The next actor who spoke was pelted with pieces of fruit, and the whole cast bolted for the wings.
Some members of the audience raised white banners, signifying support for the king. When Bonapartists began brandishing violet flags, Rafe realized that a brawl was in the making. One of the most frightening experiences of his life had been when he was caught in a London street riot, and the mob below was heading in the same dangerous direction.
The royalists outnumbered the Bonapartists, and one by one the violet flags were ripped apart. One brawny fellow with an imperial eagle banner was dragged down, disappearing under brutal kicks and punches. A woman screamed, her voice abruptly cutting off. The cries of Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi! became a harsh, threatening chant that made the walls and ceiling vibrate.
Rafe looked across to see Maggie silently staring down. She was utterly impassive, only the tight set of her lips indicating concern. As he studied the calm profile and flawless golden hair, he had a sudden, horrifying vision of Maggie surrounded and pulled down by rough men. The scene was so vivid that for a moment it blurred the reality of the theater. She was fighting frantically, but there were too many attackers and she disappeared beneath vicious hands.
The shocking image gave Rafe a frantic urge to take Maggie away before violence engulfed the whole theater. He grabbed her arm and half lifted her from her chair. "Come on," he snapped. "We're getting out of here."
He swept her toward the back door of the box. The tumult drowned out the sound of his voice, and at first she resisted. Rafe was on the verge of swinging her off her feet and bodily carrying her through the corridor when she capitulated.