Maggie supposed he meant that she was too much of a lackwit to understand politics. Still, the less intelligent he thought her, the better. Fluttering her eyelashes, she cooed, "It's all so dreadful. Since the wars are over, one would think there would be no more problems."
"I'm afraid matters aren't quite so simple," Varenne said, a satiric glint in his dark eyes. "I look forward to the day when I can retire to my estate and concentrate on my own affairs, but it will not be soon."
"Is your estate near Paris?" Maggie asked, though she knew the answer from her research.
"Yes, not far from the emperor's house at Malmaison. Chantueil is perhaps the finest medieval chateau in France."
"It sounds wonderfully romantic."
"It is." Varenne gave her a smile that would have been charming were it not for the calculation in his eyes. "I would be delighted to show it to you. Perhaps next week?"
Maggie's answer was forestalled when Rafe put his arm around her waist. "Perhaps later. The countess and I are much engaged for the near future."
Seeming amused by Rafe's show of possessiveness, Varenne took Maggie's hand and sketched a kiss above it. "You and the enchanting countess would be welcome at Chantueil at any time, Monsieur le Duc."
Then he disappeared into the seething mass of angry Parisians. Maggie watched his broad back retreat with disquiet. The count had behaved flirtatiously, yet she sensed that he wasn't really interested in her.
Before she could analyze her unease, Rafe said brusquely, 'Time to leave, Countess. This crowd could turn ugly."
His words made her aware of the angry mutterings, and she felt the clenching fear that crowds always produced in her. As people fell away from Rafe, she was grateful for his presence. Anyone would think twice or thrice before accosting the Duke of Candover, not only because of his obvious wealth, but because of his air of gentlemanly menace.
When they were free of the crowd, Rafe summoned a cab to take them to the Boulevard des Capucines. In the privacy of the cab, he remarked, "It was interesting to see all three suspects together, but I can't say that I have any better idea of who is guilty of what. Do you have any thoughts on the subject?"
She frowned as she reviewed her impressions of the confrontation in the museum. "The same thoughts I had before, only more so. Colonel von Fehrenbach despises the French and enjoys their humiliation. While I still don't see him masterminding a plot, it's possible that he could be used by someone of more devious temperament."
"And General Roussaye?"
"He behaved with unusual restraint," she said slowly. "He was so furious with the invasion of the Louvre that I wouldn't have been surprised if he had rallied the French mob to attack the Prussians."
"Surely he wouldn't have risked that with his wife there."
"I'm sure that was a factor," she agreed. "Also, he's an intelligent man and must realize that driving the Prussians out would do no real good. But he is a warrior, and I had the feeling that it was very difficult for him not to fight back. Remember that I suspected that he might be involved in something secret? Perhaps he left rather than act in a way that might jeopardize another project. I would go long odds that some parts of his life wouldn't bear the light of day."
"What about Varenne and his so-romantic chateau?" Rafe inquired, a sardonic note in his voice.
She smiled a little. "I wouldn't trust that man further than I could throw his drawbridge. I suspect that he is so devious by nature that it would be impossible to determine if he is conspiring, or merely obfuscating on general principles."
Not responding to her light tone, Rafe said somberly, "I feel the way one does before a storm, when the clouds are gathering. I wish to God that I knew from which direction the winds will come."
Speaking from her own hard-won wisdom, she said, "Knowledge is not what saves one in a storm, but flexibility. It is those who won't bend who are broken."
His dark brows lifted. "Is that an oblique comment on rigid souls like me? Remember that flowers bend before a storm, yet still they are torn apart, their petals scattered to the four winds."
"Don't push the analogy too far, your grace," she said dryly. "I may look like an overblown rose, but I have survived fiercer storms than you will ever know of."
The cab pulled up in front of Maggie's house and they alighted. Since the premature end to the expedition had gotten them back hours early, he followed her inside.
Rafe's mood seemed odd, so she suggested, "We haven't played chess lately. Shall we finish our current game?"
He agreed, but both of them were so abstracted that it was an open question who played more carelessly. Maggie scarcely noticed what moves she made until he said, "Check."
Seeing that a black bishop was threatening her king, she moved a white knight into the bishop's path. Rafe could capture her knight, but then Maggie would be able to take his bishop, restoring the balance of power as well as saving her king.
"I like knights," she said idly. "They move in such a deceptive manner."
"Like you do, Countess?"
Surprised by the sharp edge to Rafe's voice, she said, "I suppose so. Spying is the art of deception, after all."
"Will the white queen sacrifice herself for the white king?"
Rafe's gray eyes bored into her, and she realized that he was no longer talking about chess. The lean planes of his face were hard, and his whole body radiated tension.
Her mouth tightened. She had suspected that at some point he would become difficult, and apparently the time had arrived. "Rafe, what are you trying to say?"
Instead of answering, he swept his black king across the board to capture the white queen.
"You know perfectly well that that isn't a legitimate move," she said with exasperation. "What obscure point are you trying to make?"
Rafe scooped up the white queen and the black king and lifted them from the board. "Only this, Maggie-I won't let you sacrifice yourself for the white king. With or without your consent, I am going to take you out of the game."
Chapter 13
Maggie stared at Rafe, wondering what idiocy was possessing him. '"Take me out of the game?'" she said coldly. "You'll have to speak a good deal more clearly."
With a furious sweep of his arm, Rafe knocked the antique chess pieces from the board. The enameled figures fell to the Oriental carpet and bounced in all directions, thudding and clicking against each other.
"We're talking about Robert Anderson," he snapped. "Your lover, who is a spy and a traitor."
Maggie stood so abruptly that her chair skidded backward. "You don't know what you're talking about!"
Rafe stood also, towering over her. The urbane, un-involved man of the world was gone, and he blazed with angry emotion. "Oh, yes, I do, my lady trollop. I know that he comes here late at night, even though Lucien told you not to communicate with anyone in the British delegation."
Refusing to turn away from his scorching gaze, Maggie said softly, "I have been playing dangerous games far longer than you have, your grace. I work with those I trust."
"Even if they are traitors? Your lover has been seen surreptitiously meeting General Roussaye. I myself saw him meeting Henri Lemercier at the Cafe Mazarin, perhaps planning the attempt on Castlereagh's life."
For the first time she felt apprehension, but she said stubbornly, "That proves nothing. Spies must talk to everyone, not only respectable citizens."
Rafe stepped around the table until he was only inches away from Maggie. "You admit that he's a spy?"
"Of course he is! We've worked together for years."