Read Online Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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Instead, she gave herself to any man who wanted her.
Rafe had been quite willing to oblige. Not only was Cynthia attractive, but the affair fulfilled an ignoble desire for revenge. Though Northwood would never know how his indiscretion had shattered Rafe's life, there was still satisfaction in paying the man back by bedding Northwood's wife.
The affair had not lasted long, for Cynthia's desperation had made Rafe uncomfortable. He had disengaged himself gracefully, as he was so skilled at doing. In the years since, he had sometimes seen Cynthia socially, and been pleased to see her regain her equilibrium, no longer holding herself cheaply.
There had been recent rumors linking her with a soldier, perhaps the major she had been talking with at the ball. Rafe wondered if she really loved the man, or if she was using him as still another weapon in her war with her husband.
Her tactics seemed to be working. Oliver Northwood was apparently the sort of man who would chase anything in skirts, but was enraged when his wife claimed the same freedom to amuse herself. One of them would probably end up murdering the other.
As he went up the steps to his hotel, Rafe swore that he would not let himself get caught in their crossfire. Paris promised to be unpleasant enough without that.
----
Chapter 4
Even before her eyes opened the next morning, Maggie remembered her encounter with Rafe Whitbourne, and shuddered. Impossible man! Usually she admired calm English control, but the same trait infuriated her in Rafe. Whatever warmth and spontaneity he had had as a young man had obviously dissipated over time.
She lay still in bed, listening to the sounds of early morning—the creak of a cart, occasional footsteps, the cry of a distant rooster. Ordinarily she rose at this hour, had a cup of coffee and a hot croissant, and went for a ride out at Longchamps. This morning she simply groaned and pulled the covers over her head, burrowing farther into the feather mattress as she planned a busy day of spying.
Half an hour later, Maggie rang her maid Inge for breakfast. As she sipped strong French coffee, she jotted down the names of the informants she wished to contact first.
While it was popularly supposed that a female spy gathered information on her back, Maggie scorned that method as too limited, tiring, and indiscriminant. Her technique was different, and as far as she knew, unique: she had formed the world's first female spy network.
Men with secrets might be cautious with other men, but were often amazingly casual in front of women. Maids, washerwomen, prostitutes, and other humble females were often in a position to learn what was going on, and Maggie had a talent for persuading them to confide in her.
Europe was full of women who had lost fathers, husbands, sons, and lovers in Bonaparte's wars. Many were glad to pass on information that might contribute to peace. Some wanted revenge as much as Maggie did; others were impoverished and desperately needed money. Together, they made up what Robin called Maggie's Militia.
Vital documents could be put together from scraps in trash baskets, important papers were sometimes left in the pockets of clothes sent for washing, men bragged of their deeds to their conquests. Maggie cultivated the women who had access to such data, listening to their joys and sorrows, sometimes giving them money to feed their children even when they had no information to sell.
In return, they gave her loyalty beyond anything that could be purchased. None had ever betrayed her, and many had become friends.
Since losing her father, Maggie had spent the largest part of her time in Paris, disguised as a humble widow with drab clothing and a mob cap over her bright hair. When the Congress of Vienna was called, she had resumed her natural appearance and gone to Vienna as the Countess Janos, where she had moved among the diplomats at their own social level.
When Napoleon had escaped from Elba and reclaimed his
Rafe had been quite willing to oblige. Not only was Cynthia attractive, but the affair fulfilled an ignoble desire for revenge. Though Northwood would never know how his indiscretion had shattered Rafe's life, there was still satisfaction in paying the man back by bedding Northwood's wife.
The affair had not lasted long, for Cynthia's desperation had made Rafe uncomfortable. He had disengaged himself gracefully, as he was so skilled at doing. In the years since, he had sometimes seen Cynthia socially, and been pleased to see her regain her equilibrium, no longer holding herself cheaply.
There had been recent rumors linking her with a soldier, perhaps the major she had been talking with at the ball. Rafe wondered if she really loved the man, or if she was using him as still another weapon in her war with her husband.
Her tactics seemed to be working. Oliver Northwood was apparently the sort of man who would chase anything in skirts, but was enraged when his wife claimed the same freedom to amuse herself. One of them would probably end up murdering the other.
As he went up the steps to his hotel, Rafe swore that he would not let himself get caught in their crossfire. Paris promised to be unpleasant enough without that.
----
Chapter 4
Even before her eyes opened the next morning, Maggie remembered her encounter with Rafe Whitbourne, and shuddered. Impossible man! Usually she admired calm English control, but the same trait infuriated her in Rafe. Whatever warmth and spontaneity he had had as a young man had obviously dissipated over time.
She lay still in bed, listening to the sounds of early morning—the creak of a cart, occasional footsteps, the cry of a distant rooster. Ordinarily she rose at this hour, had a cup of coffee and a hot croissant, and went for a ride out at Longchamps. This morning she simply groaned and pulled the covers over her head, burrowing farther into the feather mattress as she planned a busy day of spying.
Half an hour later, Maggie rang her maid Inge for breakfast. As she sipped strong French coffee, she jotted down the names of the informants she wished to contact first.
While it was popularly supposed that a female spy gathered information on her back, Maggie scorned that method as too limited, tiring, and indiscriminant. Her technique was different, and as far as she knew, unique: she had formed the world's first female spy network.
Men with secrets might be cautious with other men, but were often amazingly casual in front of women. Maids, washerwomen, prostitutes, and other humble females were often in a position to learn what was going on, and Maggie had a talent for persuading them to confide in her.
Europe was full of women who had lost fathers, husbands, sons, and lovers in Bonaparte's wars. Many were glad to pass on information that might contribute to peace. Some wanted revenge as much as Maggie did; others were impoverished and desperately needed money. Together, they made up what Robin called Maggie's Militia.
Vital documents could be put together from scraps in trash baskets, important papers were sometimes left in the pockets of clothes sent for washing, men bragged of their deeds to their conquests. Maggie cultivated the women who had access to such data, listening to their joys and sorrows, sometimes giving them money to feed their children even when they had no information to sell.
In return, they gave her loyalty beyond anything that could be purchased. None had ever betrayed her, and many had become friends.
Since losing her father, Maggie had spent the largest part of her time in Paris, disguised as a humble widow with drab clothing and a mob cap over her bright hair. When the Congress of Vienna was called, she had resumed her natural appearance and gone to Vienna as the Countess Janos, where she had moved among the diplomats at their own social level.
When Napoleon had escaped from Elba and reclaimed his
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