Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney

just returned to the city." Her voice had the same sweetness as her face.
    Maggie introduced her to the two men as Madame Sorel. After offering her hand to Rafe, the Frenchwoman turned to the Prussian. "Colonel von Fehrenbach and I are acquainted."
    The colonel's face pokered up even more, if that was possible. In a voice that could only be described as forbidding, he said, "Indeed we are."
    Sensing the tension, Rafe wondered if Maggie knew what lay between her friend and the Prussian.
    Before Madame Sorel could reply, von Fehrenbach said, "If you will excuse me, I must attend Marshal  Blücher. Ladies, your grace." He nodded, then made his escape.
    As she watched the ramrod-straight back vanish into the crowd, Maggie exclaimed, "Good heavens, Helene, what did you do to that man to make him bolt like a cavalryman?"
    Madame Sorel shrugged, the movement causing a charming ripple of curves. "Nothing. I have met him several times at various functions. He always glares at me as if I were Napoleon himself, then walks away.Who knows what might be on his mind? Except that he has no use for anything or anyone French."
    Studying her friend with shrewdly narrowed eyes, Maggie said, "But he is a fine figure of a man, no?"
    Helene said dryly, "He is not a man, he is a Prussian." After exchanging a few more remarks, she took her leave with a charming smile.
    Rafe watched her swaying walk with male appreciation. When she was out of earshot, he asked, "What was going on there that I did not understand?"
    "I'm not sure," Maggie said thoughtfully, "though I might hazard a guess." Glancing up at him, she said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
    As she headed for the ladies' retiring room, Rafe compared her walk with Madam Sorel's, and decided that while the Frenchwoman was well worth watching, it was amazing Maggie didn't have crowds of men following her down the street.
    His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the regrettable Oliver Northwood. "Congratulations, Candover, you're a fast worker. Three days in Paris and you've captured the countess." Northwood's words were jovial, but his beefy face was malicious. "Not that she's hard to capture, for a man who has the price."
    Turning to give Northwood his most frigid stare, Rafe said, "I thought you were unacquainted with the lady."
    "After you told me her name, I made inquiries. No one knows much except that she's a widow, she's received everywhere, and she has expensive tastes." He winked meaningfully. "She's very good at getting others to pay for her pleasures."
    Rafe should have buried his fist in Northwood's gut. Instead, to his disgust, he found himself asking, "What else did you learn about her?"
    "She's said to be worth every penny of her price, but then, you would know that better than I, wouldn't you?"
    It was the vulgarity that disturbed him, Rafe decided. After all, Maggie was a spy, and what better way to get men to talk than over a pillow? She had to support herself, and it was doubtful that the British government paid her enough to maintain that house or that wardrobe. Behaving like any other highborn tart who expected jewels in return for her favors was a splendid way of concealing her deeper purposes.
    Odd how it was easier to think Maggie was a whore than to believe she would betray her country.
    Maggie was seated at one of the mirrored vanity tables when the only other lady in the retiring room said in English-accented French, "Isn't Candover a splendid lover?'
    Maggie swiveled around in astonishment to stare at the young woman sitting at the neighboring vanity table. In her chilliest tone, she said, "I beg your pardon."
    "I'm sorry, that was dreadfully forward of me," the girl said remorsefully. "But I saw you with Candover and it seemed from the way you were acting that, well ..." She finished with a vague wave of her hand. Her face was flushed, as if she was only now realizing how outrageous her comment had been.
    Amusement replaced Maggie's irritation. "I assume from your