"I pride myself on being full of surprises," she said dryly.
Ignoring her comment, he went on, "However, my information about you is incomplete. Is Miss Ashton still the correct designation or have you acquired some husbands over the years?"
"Not legal ones," she said tartly.
The count smiled knowingly. "I'm sure there have been many of the left-hand kind, like your blond friend."
Maggie's pulse quickened. "I suppose you mean Robert Anderson. Do you have him, too?"
To her intense relief, the count nodded. "Yes, though his quarters are less comfortable than yours. He is almost directly below you, five levels down. Castles have certain drawbacks as living quarters, but they do have excellent dungeons."
"What are you going to do with us?"
Varenne gave a faint, chilling smile. "One of my associates yearns to further his acquaintance with you, so I shall give him the opportunity to do so. After that, it depends on how cooperative you are. You could be quite an asset, my dear."
Nausea returned, and it was all Maggie could do to keep her revulsion from her face. "What about Robin?"
"I had hoped that he might prove useful, but he's a remarkably stubborn young man. There isn't much point in keeping him around indefinitely." The count shook his head with spurious regret. "But I fear I bore you by thinking out loud. If there is anything you would like to make your visit more comfortable…"
Though she doubted that he expected her to take his ironic comment seriously, she said, "A hairbrush, comb, and mirror would be nice. Also a washbasin, soap, water, and something to read."
He smiled with genuine amusement. "You are a most adaptable woman, Miss Ashton. Do you wish to make yourself presentable for your new paramour?"
She wanted to spit at him. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Of course. One must make the best of circumstances."
Varenne glanced at the guard. "See that she gets what she asked for." Then the two men left.
As soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, Maggie doubled over on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Her stomach heaved, and she struggled to prevent herself from being violently sick. Dear God, she had tried so hard not to be a victim, and for a dozen years she had been successful.
But now she was caught in events that showed how powerless she really was. She was merely fodder for a mob, or a helpless prize for a conspirator. And this time there was no Rafe or Robin to save her.
The first small victory was controlling her nausea. When she had managed that, she got shakily to her feet and walked to the window, where she inhaled deeply of the cool air. Far below, rocks were visible at the base of the cliff. With a sense of relief, she realized that she could always jump.
Her mouth firmed. That was a coward's way out, and she had not survived as much as she had to die without a fight. Still, it was a comfort to know that the cliff was available as a last resort.
Turning from the window, she went to the tray and found a bowl of savory stew, a small bottle of wine, half a loaf of bread, and several pieces of fruit. Determinedly she sat down to eat, for she would need all her strength.
A soft 'Mroowp" by her chair announced that Rex had come to join her, clearly desirous of sharing her meal. She smiled a little as she watched his enormous tail switch back and forth hopefully. Then she spooned several lumps of meat onto the floor. He was the only ally she was likely to find here.
Helene Sorel was waiting when Rafe returned from seeing Roussaye. As he had feared, there was still no word from Maggie. Helene had questioned Cynthia exhaustively about what she had seen, but without learning anything more about Maggie's kidnapper. Her face taut with anxiety, Helene asked, "Is Roussaye our man?"
Unable to sit, Rafe prowled about the room. "No, he convinced me that his desire for peace is as great as ours. He is going to try to discover who Lemercier was working for."
"I pray that he is successful," Helene said grimly. "We have no other leads, do we?"
Succumbing to morbid curiosity about how Margot did her work, Rafe asked, "Not unless you can utilize the same sources that Maggie did. Is that possible?"
"Not really. She knows hundreds of women throughout the city-laundresses, maids, street peddlers. All across Europe, actually. I was merely one of them, except that we became friends. We each needed a friend."
Rafe stopped and stared in astonishment. "She got all her information from women?"
Helene clicked her tongue in disgust. "You're as bad as Colonel von Fehrenbach. Why do men always assume that the only way a female spy can work is on her back? Think about it, your grace. Women are everywhere, yet they are often treated as if they are invisible. Men speak of secret plans in front of maids, throw vital papers in the trash, boast of their achievements to prostitutes. Maggie's genius was in collecting so many pieces of information, then making sense of them."
She bit her lip for a moment before continuing. "I suppose that somewhere there might be a list of Maggie's informants, but it would be well hidden, and certainly in some kind of code. Even if we could find and decipher such a list, most of her women would not talk to a stranger. Our loyalty is to Maggie's cause, and to her personally. Money was secondary."
Rafe drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece while he thought about Helene's revelation. In his jealousy, he had assumed that Margot traded her body for information, with the cynical connivance of Anderson. Bloody hell, had he been right about anything?
Interrupting his thoughts, Helene asked, "What will you do now, go to Wellington?"
"No, as I told Roussaye, all Wellington could do is lend some troops, and without knowing where to search, that would do no good. I've sent an urgent message to the man in London who sent me here. I'm sure he'll have some useful suggestions, but it will be several days before I can expect to hear from him."
"And in the meantime?"
Rafe grimaced. "If Roussaye is successful at discovering Lemercier's employer, we may be able to go right to the source of the conspiracy. Apart from that, damned if I know. I'll go back to the Hotel de la Paix and rack my brains. Write down your direction, and I'll contact you if I come up with anything."
Helene went to the escritoire for pen and paper and ink. After writing her address, she said, "I, too, shall see if I can think of anything else. There must be someone who could help, if I can only think who it would be."
The two exchanged a bleak look, then Rafe left.
It was on the carriage ride home that he decided that it was worth talking to Count de Varenne. If, as Roussaye had said, the count had been active in royalist spy work during his exile, he might still have useful information sources.
Rafe stopped at his hotel only long enough to change to riding clothes and to ask the concierge for directions to Chanteuil. Then he set off on the bay gelding he had bought the first week in Paris. Not only would riding be faster than his carriage, but he desperately needed the physical release of being on horseback.
His route led west past the imperial palace of Malmaison, which Josephine Bonaparte had bought as a quiet country retreat. Josephine had retired and died there after the emperor divorced her for failing to produce an heir. It was said that Malmaison was where Bonaparte had spent his last free hours on French soil, for he had wanted to be near the spirit of the woman he had never stopped loving.
It was a romantic story, and as Rafe passed the estate he felt a twinge of sympathy for the Butcher of Corsica, who had continued to love where it was neither wise nor expedient. It was perhaps the only thing they had in common.
It took Rafe less than an hour to reach Chanteuil. The iron gates were rusted but solid enough, as was the gray stone wall that protected the estate. An ancient gatekeeper examined Rafe with deep suspicion before allowing him entrance.