Petals in the Storm Read Free Page B

contribute his evaluation of the woman, but the ensuing discussion resolved nothing.
    Finally Rafe said, "The information we have is nothing if not contradictory. Obviously your Maggie is a superb actress. I'll have to play the situation by ear and hope that she proves susceptible to my famous charm."
    As they all got to their feet, Lucien asked Rafe, "How soon will you be able to leave?"
    "Day after tomorrow. The most beautiful spy in Europe ? The prospect sounds quite stimulating." There was a gleam in Rafe's eye as he stubbed out his cigar. "I promise that I shall do my utmost for king and country."
    They all returned to the party and mingled with the other guests. After he had done enough socializing to seem normal, Rafe was impatient to get away, but it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask what the so-beautiful Maggie looked like. Since Lucien had disappeared, Rafe went in search of Nicholas.
    Seeing his friend step into a curtained alcove, Rafe followed. Yet when he pushed aside the curtain, he halted, one hand clenching the edge of the drapery.
    In the shadowy alcove, Nicholas and his wife Clare were in each other's arms. Not kissing; if that had been the case, Rafe would have smiled and left without a second thought. But the sight that met his eyes was simpler, yet more disturbing.
    Clare and Nicholas were resting against each other, eyes closed, his arms circling her waist, her forehead against his cheek. It was a tableau of perfect trust and understanding, and far more intimate than the most passionate embrace.
    Since his presence had not been noticed, Rafe silently withdrew, his face tight.
    It wasn't good to be too envious of one's friends.
    After a day of frenzied preparation, the Duke of Candover was ready to leave England . He would be traveling fast, taking only one carriage, his valet, and a wardrobe that would do justice to his rank in the most fashionable capital in Europe .
    As the clock struck
midnight
, he sat down in his study with a glass of brandy and leafed through the day's correspondence to see if there was anything urgent. Near the bottom of the pile was a note from Lady Jocelyn Kendal. Or rather, Lady Presteyne; since she was now very married, he must stop using her maiden name. In the note she thanked Rafe for his good advice in sending her back to her husband, extolled the joys of a happy marriage, and urged him to try it himself.
    He smiled a little, glad to hear that matters had worked out. Underneath her beauty, famous name, and extravagant fortune, Jocelyn was also a very nice girl.If she and Lord Presteyne were both raving romantics,perhaps they would stay happy indefinitely, though Rafe had his doubts. He raised his glass in a solitary toast to her and her fortunate husband and drained the brandy, then smashed the glass into the fireplace.
    The toast came from the heart, yet his smile went wry as he contemplated the shattered results of his uncharacteristic gesture. A man known for savoir faire would have been wiser to refrain. All he had to show for the moment was one less crystal goblet and a nagging sense of loss.
    He poured another glass of brandy, then settled back in the wing chair and surveyed his library with a jaundiced eye. It was a beautifully proportioned room, a symphony of Italianate richness. In all of Rafe's vast holdings, there was no spot he enjoyed as much. That being the case, why the devil did he feel so depressed?
    Wearily he recognized that the only way to cure his morbid mood was by giving in to it. Jocelyn wasn't the issue; if he had wanted the girl that much, he could have married her.
    What disturbed Rafe was the way she had reminded him of Margot—beautiful, betraying Margot, dead these last dozen years. There was little physical resemblance, but both women had had a bright, laughing spirit that was irresistible. Whenever he had been with Jocelyn, he had found himself remembering Margot. She had moved him as no other woman ever had—and since he could