Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney Read Free Book Online Page B

with Strathmore longer than I have."
    As Robin got to his feet, he shook his head with mock sorrow. "I see that all my lessons have been wasted. How many times have I told you not to trust anyone, even me?"
    "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"
    He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Yourself, of course. I'll leave first. Shall I come by tomorrow night so we can discuss our findings?"
    She nodded and watched him don his low-level diplomat's face. Every delegation was cursed with junior officers who had better family connections than wits, and Robin looked like one of those: ineffectual and too handsome to have a brain. In reality, of course, he had a mind like Saracen steel, highly polished and razor sharp. It was he who had taught her how to gather and analyze facts that might be of value, as well as how to cover her own tracks and avoid suspicion.
    But he was wrong on one count, she thought as she prepared to return to the ball. At the moment, she was not at all sure she could trust herself. Her life was no longer entirely under her own control, and she didn't like it one bit.
    Downstairs, the ball churned on exactly as Rafe had left it, with too many costumes, scents, and languages struggling for notice. Seeing nothing that encouraged him to stay, he started working his way across the room toward the exit.
    Because of the crowd, he had no warning before coming face-to-face with Oliver Northwood. Rafe was hard-pressed to conceal his shock. Bloody hell, it only needed this!
    The other man did not share his feelings. "Candover!" Northwood said jovially. "Splendid to see you. I had no idea you were in Paris , but of course, half the
ton
has come over. Too many years trapped on our island, don't you know."
    He laughed heartily at his own wit and offered his hand, which Rafe accepted without enthusiasm.
    Northwood was a beefy blond man of medium height, a younger son of Lord Northwood and almost a caricature of the hearty country squire. The first year that Rafe had been on the town, when his closest friends were still at Oxford , he had moved in the same circles as Northwood. Though not close, they had been on amiable terms, until Northwood's disastrous role in ending Rafe's engagement. Rafe knew it was irrational to blame the other man for what had happened, but he had done his best to avoid him ever since.
    Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid him now. "Good evening, Northwood," Rafe said with what patience he could muster. "Have you been in Paris long?"
    "I'm with the British delegation, been here since July. M'father thought I should get some diplomatic experience." Northwood shook his head mournfully. "Wants me to settle down and take a seat in Parliament, make myself useful, y'know."
    Parisian diplomatic circles were small, so they would be running into each other often. Rafe resigned himself to being civil. "Is your wife here with you?"
    He was unprepared for the ugly glint that came into Northwood's eyes as he looked across the room. "Oh, Cynthia's here. A sociable female like her wouldn't miss the opportunity to ... make so many new acquaintances."
    Following the direction of the glance, Rafe saw Cynthia Northwood at the edge of the ballroom, in earnest conversation with a dark, handsome British infantry major. Even at this distance Rafe could see how absorbed they were in each other, as if they were alone instead of in the midst of a crowd.
    Knowing better than to comment, Rafe returned his gaze to Oliver Northwood and decided to start gathering information. "How are the negotiations going?"
    Northwood shrugged. "Hard to say. Castlereagh plays everything very close to his chest, y'know, don't let us underlings do much except copy documents. But I'm sure you've heard that the first problem—what to do with Napoleon—has been taken care of. They were thinking of exiling him to Scotland , but decided it was too close to Europe ."
    " St. Helena should be far enough away to reduce the opportunities for mischief.