The hostess set them up with a bottle of bad port in the cafe section of the establishment. Rafe discovered that the man was indeed Captain Henri Lemercier, and the port was obviously not his first drink of the evening.
As the level of the bottle dropped, Rafe learned that the captain despised all Germans, Russians, and Englishmen, present company excepted, and that he was a devil of a fellow. Soon he was boasting of the numerous times that his iron nerve had caused him to win when lesser men would have withdrawn from the game.
It was not an enlightening conversation, though Rafe was interested to learn that Lemercier was a regular patron of the Cafe" Mazarin. ("At least the tables are usually honest, my English friend.")
Lemercier had the nervous gestures and darting eyes of a ferret. Rafe guessed that he was an addicted gambler, the kind of man who would do anything for money. If the captain had political convictions, they would easily be subordinated to personal gain. There was an excellent chance that he was the Frenchman Maggie's contact had overheard here the night before. If so, who was the foreigner the captain had spoken with?
After half an hour of listening to the man's ramblings, Rafe decided that he was unlikely to learn anything more. He took his leave with mutual assurances of esteem and hopes of meeting at the Cafe Mazarin in the future. If he did seek Lemercier out again, Rafe made a note to do so earlier in the evening, when the man was more likely to be sober. He was not an interesting drunk.
Rafe paid the bejeweled woman behind the counter for the port. Before going downstairs, he cast one last glance across the room. His eyes narrowed when he saw a blond man taking the empty chair opposite Lemercier. In spite of the dark smokiness of the room and the man's distinctly French way of dressing, Rafe had no trouble identifying the newcomer who was talking so earnestly to Lemercier.
It was Robert Anderson, the ubiquitous underling from the British delegation. Maggie's lover.
The Englishman was tense even though he had made this blindfolded journey once before. The summons from Le Serpent had been curt, with no explanation of why his presence was needed. Once again a hackney circled through Paris and the silent escort refused all conversational overtures. However, this time when he was brought into Le Serpent's presence, the sibilant voice instructed him to remove his blindfold.
The Englishman felt a stab of fear that the order meant he would not be leaving, but a hoarse chuckle allayed that. "Don't worry, mon Anglais, you will not recognize me. You will need your eyes for what you must tell me tonight."
Pulling off the blindfold, he found himself in a dark room lit by the feeble glow of a single candle and furnished only with a desk and two chairs. Le Serpent sat behind the desk, his face masked and a black cloak disguising his body so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell if he was tall or short, fat or thin.
Disdaining preliminaries, the dark figure said, "Draw me a detailed sketch of the British embassy stables. There have been changes since the Princess Borghese sold it to Wellington, and I need to know about them. I am particularly interested in where Castlereagh's horses are kept. I want you to describe his beasts exactly, in both looks and temper."
The Englishman's eyes widened. "You're plotting against Castlereagh? If anything happens to him, there will be hell to pay. Wellington is his best friend, and he would set the whole British Army to searching for assassins if necessary."
And a diligent investigation might uncover matters to the Englishman's detriment. Only a complete lack of suspicion had made it possible for him to pass so much information.
Reading his mind again, Le Serpent smiled nastily. "You needn't fear for your worthless neck. Whatever happens to Castlereagh will seem like an accident. Soon the illustrious duke himself will be in no position to investigate anything."
As the Englishman started sketching floorplans of the stable and its yard, his mind was racing. It sounded like his repellent host wished to eliminate both of the top British officials, a fact that had interesting ramifications. Clumsy attempts had been made on Wellington's life before, but there would be nothing clumsy about an attempt by Le Serpent. The question was, how could this information be turned to account?
Le Serpent asked a number of questions about the routine of the stables and the grooms, curtly demanding that his visitor find the answers to anything he couldn't answer immediately. After discussing the stables, he made exhaustive queries about the daily routines and habits of Castlereagh and Wellington.
Tiring under the interrogation, the Englishman said irritably, "Surely you know that the duke prefers low company-he doesn't even live at the embassy. How am I supposed to know about all his movements?"
"I am quite aware that Wellington lives at Ouvrard's Hotel," Le Serpent replied. "Nonetheless, he is often at the embassy, and if you have the brains of a rodent you should be able to learn what I require. I will expect a report with the answers you could not supply tonight within forty-eight hours."
"And if I decide I no longer wish to be in your employ?" It was an ill-chosen time for defiance, but the Englishman was too tired and irritated to be wise.
In a voice heavy with menace, Le Serpent hissed, "Then you are ruined, mon Anglais. I can have you assassinated, or I can let Castlereagh know of your duplicity and your own people will destroy you. Publicly, so that every one of your relatives and friends, if you have any, will know of your humiliation. Do not think you can buy your life by informing against me, because you know nothing."
He slapped his hand on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. "You live on my sufferance, you dunghill cock. I own you, and you are fortunate that I am a man of honor. If you serve me well you will prosper, unless you are caught through your own stupidity. If you try to betray me, you are a dead man. Those are the only choices you have."
The Englishman's eyes fell as he tried to hide his fear. That was what led to his stroke of luck; the hand his adversary had braced on the desk bore a heavy gold ring with a complicated crest on it. He knew better than to stare, but his quick glance showed that the central coat of arms was twined by a three-headed serpent.
It would take time to identify the owner, but at least the Englishman had a clue. Slumping in pretend defeat, he muttered, "I will serve you well."
Inside, his heart sang with inner exaltation. He'd find out who Le Serpent was, by God, and then the bastard would be sorry for his insults. If he played his cards right, he would be able to come out of this a hero-a rich hero.
Chapter 9
The next morning Maggie received a note from Helene Sorel reporting that a discontented French officer had asked a group of cafe idlers if anyone wanted to earn some money by shooting the Duke of Wellington. Since the idiot had made his offer before a dozen witnesses, he had been arrested within minutes.
Maggie smiled wryly as she set the note aside. There was plenty of dissatisfied grumbling in the city, but most of it was as harmless as this. Men like the foolish French officer were not the problem.
Her amusement faded as she considered her own lack of progress. Robin had stopped by the night before and they had stayed up late talking, but without reaching any new conclusions. It was vastly frustrating. Too many possibilities, too little time…
She spent the day pushing harder, looking at the information she had and trying to see some pattern, but without success. She could only continue as she was doing, and hope that General Roussaye might hold the key.
As she dressed for Prince Orkov's ball, even her favorite green satin gown failed to improve her mood. She was silent as Inge styled her hair into a tumble of golden curls. Privately she wondered how much Rafe was adding to her tension.