As he had promised himself, he didn't say a single word, or make a single gesture, that could alert Robin to the fact that Rafe and Margot had been more than friends. He had shattered her life once; he would not do it again.
Margot looked at him for a moment with some indefinable emotion in her eyes. Surely it couldn't have been pain. Then she turned and left, her arm around Robin.
Watching them walk away together was the hardest thing Rafe had ever done.
An embassy carriage was detailed to take Rafe back to the Hotel de la Paix. As he rumbled through the streets, he felt a curious kind of numbness, except for his heart, which seemed to have been hacked into small pieces with a dull knife.
Yet even though he had discovered Margot again only to lose her, he had been left with something of great value: learning the truth about the past had given him back his faith in love. For that, at least, he was profoundly grateful.
At his hotel, he walked unseeing through the foyer, wanting only to get to the privacy of his apartment. He didn't even notice the tall blond man talking to the concierge, until a familiar voice said, "Rafe, what the devil has been going on?"
Rafe's eyes snapped into focus, and he saw a travel-stained Lucien standing in front of him. "What are you doing in Paris?" he asked stupidly.
"Your reports got me so worried that I asked St. Aubyn to take care of my work while I came here myself." His friend raised his brows at Rafe's disheveled appearance. "If you're a Fallen Angel, you must have hit the ground hard and bounced a few times."
Rafe closed his eyes for an instant; it was immensely good to see a friend. Gesturing for Lucien to accompany him to his rooms, he said succinctly, "Plot foiled, the wicked destroyed, while the virtuous, including your agents Maggie and Andreville, have survived. Beyond that…"
As they entered his drawing room, Rafe drew a shuddering breath. "Don't ask me to explain anything more before tomorrow. Care to join me while I become exceedingly drunk?"
Lucien studied Rafe with shrewd, compassionate eyes, then briefly laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where do you keep the brandy?"
As soon as she returned home, Maggie settled Robin and called a physician to properly set his injured hand.
Before she could rest herself, she had to break the news of Northwood's death to Cynthia. Besides giving the official story they had tacitly agreed to, Maggie also recounted the facts. Oliver Northwood could be a hero to the rest of the world, but Cynthia knew better, and deserved the truth.
After Maggie had finished speaking, Cynthia bowed her head, her fingers restlessly twisting the fringe of her shawl. "I didn't want it to be like this. I never wanted to see him again, but I didn't want him dead." She looked up at Maggie. "That may be hard for you to believe after the way he treated me."
"I think I understand," Maggie said quietly. "He was part of your life for many years. Surely there are some good memories."
Cynthia closed her eyes for a moment, a spasm of grief crossing her features. "There are some-only a handful, perhaps, but yes, there were some genuinely good times. For all the things he did wrong, Oliver was not really an evil man, was he?"
Maggie thought of Northwood's act of casual malice that had brought so much pain to her and Rafe. It had changed her life forever and it was done from the meanest of motives.
Was that evil? By Northwood's actions she had lost Rafe and gained Robin, and she would rather not judge if her life was better or worse for the path Northwood had forced her to take. "His intervention helped bring off a fortunate result. Perhaps, at the end, he was trying to make amends for what he had done."
"Perhaps." Cynthia smiled sadly. "It was generous of you and your friends to give him the benefit of the doubt. It will make things easier for his family, especially his father."
"Blackening his reputation would have done no good, and saving it does no harm." Maggie gave Cynthia a sympathetic hug, then withdrew.
Alone in her own chamber, she wearily fell back onto her bed without changing from her ragged dress. She thought of Rafe, then closed her eyes against the sharp sting of tears. The way he had embraced her when he thought she had been shot by Varenne implied that he still cared for her a little.
But it wasn't love. The brief moment of time when they had loved each other was as dead as the flowers that had bloomed in that long ago spring. It was mere unlucky chance that those feelings had never really died in her.
The future stretched ahead of her, achingly lonely. Perhaps she should ask Robin if he would marry her; though he hadn't really wanted a wife at twenty, the idea might be more appealing now. If she asked him, she knew that he would agree from the same sense of responsibility that had made him offer when she was nineteen.
Yet even as the thought passed through her mind, she knew that she could not ask. Robin deserved a woman who would love him heart and soul. After all he had done for Maggie, she could not deprive him of the chance for that kind of love.
With a sob, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillows. In the future she would not let herself weep over the injustice of it all. She had learned to live without Rafe Whitbourne once before, and she would again.
But for this one hour, she would allow her tears to flow unchecked. She had earned the right to that much self-indulgence.
Chapter 26
Helene Sorel sat in her drawing room sipping a late morning cup of coffee and going through her correspondence. With the shafts of early autumn sunlight illuminating the graceful room, the high drama of the day before seemed no more than a fever dream. Roussaye and von Fehrenbach had dispersed Varenne's little army with only a handful of minor casualties on the part of their men. The estate that might have been the center of a new empire was now deserted except for the Prussian guards. The threat to peace was gone, and she had done her part.
She told herself that her feeling of depression was merely the sense of letdown that came at the end of a great enterprise. It was time to think about the future. In a few weeks it should be safe to bring her daughters back to Paris. The thought lightened her heart a little. Yet still Helene stared at the coffee grounds, wondering why she didn't feel happier.
Then the parlormaid entered to say that Madame had a caller. A Prussian gentleman, very tall.
After a frantic thought for her hair and the fact that this was only her second best morning gown, Helene touched tongue to dry lips and told the maid bring in her visitor. The colonel had brought her home yesterday with a respectful bow, but had said nothing about calling. No doubt he was here only to ask if she had suffered any ill effects from that frantic ride.
Karl von Fehrenbach looked very tall and very handsome, his fair hair gleaming in the morning light. He was also very grave as he bowed over the hand Helene offered.
After an awkward moment of silence, the colonel said slowly, "I have thought about what you said, that day you called on me."
Helene's pulse quickened. "Yes?"
His light blue eyes clouded by his attempt to express his emotions, he continued, "You said that someone must stop the hating, and that you wanted me to look at you without remembering that you are French and I am Prussian."
Helene remained silent, waiting, her expression as warm and encouraging as she knew how to make it.
After another long pause, the colonel said with difficulty, "I have tried to cut myself off from all feeling but I was unsuccessful. The pain was still there. Yet surely if a heart can feel pain, it can feel happier emotions."
There was a question in his tone, and Helene suggested softly, "Emotions such as love?"
"Exactly." His earnest gaze met hers. "If you are willing to forgive my coldness, perhaps… perhaps we can try."