In time, Madame Daudet emerged to greet her visitor. The old lady seemed scarcely more than black lace and delicate bones, but there was still strength and the ghost of beauty in her face. "What can I do for you today, child? Is your pretty blond friend here, too?"
"No, madame, I am here because I am worried about her," Helene replied. "Countess Janos and some other friends have disappeared, and the only clue I have is that a d'Aguste might be involved. Can you tell me anything about the family?"
The old lady pursed her lips. "There is little to say, because the direct line is extinct. There have been no noble d'Agustes for the last fifty years or so."
Helene's disappointment was so bitter she could taste it. Grasping at straws, she asked, "What happened fifty years ago?"
"Let's see…," Madame Daudet murmured as she cast her mind back over the years. "The last of the d'Agustes was an only daughter named Pauline. She married the Count de Varenne and the d'Aguste name died out. Pauline was the mother of the present count. A strange girl. There's bad blood in the d'Agustes."
"Varenne!" Helene exclaimed. After thanking Madame Daudet, she flew out of the apartment and down to the street. She still didn't know what to do about it, but at least she now knew who Le Serpent was.
Michel Roussaye frowned over the notes he had made after visiting a dozen clubs and cafes where Bonapartist officers gathered to drink and gamble and reminisce about the glorious days of the empire. Mention of Captain Henri Lemercier had produced blank looks, expressions of distaste, or occasionally a hard stare followed by a curt disclaimer of any knowledge of the man.
The lack of information was not surprising, since discretion was wise these days, but Roussaye had noticed something else that was disquieting. In every cafe", there had been fragmentary rumors of change in the wind. Several times he had heard whispers about Le Serpent, a man who would lead France once more to the glory she deserved. Two or three men who remembered Roussaye's army nickname had even asked obliquely if the general was the coming leader.
Roussaye had vehemently disclaimed any such role, but the hints were worrisome. Though most officers were like him, tired and willing to give peace a chance, there were still a few hotheads whose truest happiness had been in the days of the great victories. Such men refused to see what a high price their country had paid for a fleeting taste of la gloire.
Even more alarming was the news his servant received when he tried to deliver a message to the Duke of Candover: the duke had gone out the previous afternoon and had not returned. Roussaye swore to himself.
First Robert Anderson, then Countess Janos, and now Candover; the crisis must be near.
Impatiently he got his feet and decided to go to Silves's, another popular Bonapartist cafe.More and more, it was necessary to learn who had employed Henri Lemercier.
While Maggie sat in a shabby wing chair attempting to read a lurid French novel, Rex sprawled on the floor beside her. He lay on his back, curled sideways like a comma, his massive furry feet in the air. She gave him an affectionate smile. If he wasn't snoring she would have wondered if he was alive. A pity that she couldn't relax so thoroughly.
In the past twenty-four hours she had made what plans she could, and now there was nothing to do but wait. With a sigh, she laid the novel on the table next to her and leaned over to scratch Rex's neck.
The cat was much better entertainment than the book, since the servant who had filled her requests seemed to think that females enjoyed reading the most appalling tripe. Besides having characters too absurd to believe, the novel had a spy subplot that was pure idiocy. The author had no idea what an unglamorous business spying was.
At the moment, Maggie would have been delighted to embrace the most boring spy work in existence. Being kidnapped might be exciting in a book, but it was a combination of terrifying and tedious in real life. After making what meager preparations she could, there was nothing left to do but wait.
A key grated in the lock. Since lunch had already been served, a visitor must mean either Varenne or, much worse, the associate he had promised her to. She straightened in her chair and dried her damp palms on her skirt while Rex scuttled under the bed.
When Oliver Northwood came through the door, she was almost relieved. The man was a coarse brute, a wife abuser, and a traitor to his country, but at least he was a known quantity, with neither the intelligence nor the calculated wickedness of Varenne. Against him, she would have a chance.
As he relocked the door, she ordered herself to forget the horror of rape; forget the open window that promised an end to panic and pain; forget everything but the role she had decided on. If she didn't play it well, her nightmares would become brutal reality.
Northwood turned to face her, his broad, fleshy face openly gloating. He would expect her to be frightened. In fact, he was probably looking forward to it, and would be on her in an instant if she cowered or begged.
There was a good chance, however, that being treated with the social amenities would make him respond in kind. Rising to her feet, she offered her most gracious smile. "Mr. Northwood, what a pleasure! I did so hope it would be you, but the count wouldn't tell me, naughty man. Do sit down." She gestured to the brocade chair that she had set by the table. "Would you care for some wine?"
Taken aback, Northwood took the seat indicated.
With the air of a hostess in her own drawing room, Maggie poured part of her lunchtime carafe of wine into her glass, then handed it to her visitor. "Here you are. I'm sorry that it's only vin ordinaire, but I have nothing better to offer you."
Expression baffled, he accepted the glass. "You're glad to see me?"
"But of course! I've always fancied you, you know."
"You picked a damned funny way of showing it, Margot Ashton," he said belligerently. "You always treated me like dirt."
She took the chair opposite him, soft folds of green muslin settling in a way that exposed a hint of ankle.
That morning she had spent considerable time combing her hair into a loose style designed for the boudoir, and she had also made some adjustments to her neckline. Judging by Northwood's expression, her appearance was having the desired effect.
With a delicate sigh, she said, "Oh, dear, I had always hoped that you would understand. We are kindred spirits, you know-I have always sensed that."
Obviously enjoying her flirtatious manner, Northwood leaned back in his chair. Nonetheless, he would not let himself be appeased too easily. "If we're such bloody kindred spirits, why were you always so rude to me, both when you made your come-out and these last weeks? You never treated Candover like that."
"Of course not." She put a hint of exasperation in her voice. "The man's insanely jealous, and it wouldn't be safe to flirt with anyone else when he's around. You're much cleverer than he is, though. He mentioned that I looked like a girl he had known once, but even though we had been engaged, he has never recognized me! The gullible fool actually believes that I'm a Hungarian countess."
Gulping a third of the wine, Northwood said, "Oh, I'm clever all right, though I never let that lot at the embassy know. They all think they're so bloody superior." He brooded for a moment. "So why did Candover get the royal treatment, not me?"
"Because he's rich, of course," Maggie said, making her eyes wide and innocent. "Surely you don't think women would waste time on the man for any other reason?"
"You're talking nonsense," Northwood said viciously. 'The bastard has always had any woman he wanted-including my wife."