But one can't help thinking that it would have been simpler if Marshal Blucher had been able to capture Bonaparte and shoot him out of hand, as he wanted to."
Northwood laughed. "It certainly would have, but once the emperor surrendered to the British, we were stuck with preserving his wretched hide."
"One has to admire the man's effrontery, not to mention his cunning," Rafe agreed. "After calling Britain the most powerful, steadfast, and generous of his enemies, there was no way the Prince Regent could throw him to the wolves, even though most of the British people would cheerfully see Boney in hell."
"Instead, he retires at British expense to an island that is supposed to have one of the best climates in the world. Still, if he'd stayed on Elba I wouldn't be here in Paris now." Northwood gave a man-to-man chuckle. "It certainly is true what they say about the Parisian ladies, isn't it, Candover?"
Rafe gave one of his coldest stares. "I've only just arrived and have no opinion on the subject."
Immune to the setdown, Northwood glanced toward a side door in time to see Maggie return to the ball, her golden hair shimmering above the provocative green gown. She looked every inch the highborn trollop. Northwood stared, his jaw slack. "Say, would you look at that blond doxy! Must have been upstairs with some lucky devil. Think I'd have any success if I asked her for an encore?"
It took Rafe a moment to register that Northwood was referring to Maggie. He had never thought of her as blond, a word that conjured up thoughts of pale anemic maidens. Maggie's glowing cream-and-gold vitality was too vivid for such an insipid description. When he did realize who Northwood meant, Rafe felt a powerful urge to use his fists to wipe the smirk off his companion's face.
He held his breath until the impulse faded, then said, "I doubt it. I met the lady earlier, and she struck me as particular in her tastes."
The implied insult also bounced off Northwood's impenetrable skin. "Tell me about her." He frowned as Maggie disappeared into a clump of Austrian officers. "You know, she looks familiar, but I can't quite remember ..." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! She reminds me of an English girl I knew years ago. Margaret, no, Margot, something."
Rafe's stomach turned. "Do you mean Miss Margot Ashton?"
"Yes, she's the one. You were after her yourself, weren't you? Was she as good as she looked?" The coarse laugh left no doubt about the kind of relationship that Northwood assumed Rafe had had with Margot.
Rafe took another deep breath. Had Northwood always been this vulgar, or had he gotten worse with the years? Icily he said, "I wouldn't know. I barely remember Miss Ashton. Didn't she die a year or so after her come-out?" He made a pretense of studying Maggie. "I suppose there is some resemblance between them, but the lady you are admiring is Hungarian— Magda, the Countess Janos."
"Hungarian, eh? I've never had a Hungarian. Will you introduce me?"
Deciding that if he didn't leave in the next ten seconds, he would do Northwood serious bodily harm, Rafe said, "Unfortunately I have a pressing engagement, but I'm sure you can find some other mutual acquaintance. If you will excuse me ... ?" He was on the point of escaping when someone latched on to his right arm. With a sense of tired inevitability, he looked down into Cynthia Northwood's wide brown eyes.
"Rafe!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you here. Will you be staying in Paris for a while?"
Cynthia was an attractive young woman with dark curls, a heart-shaped face, and an expression of misleading innocence. Her firm grip prevented Rafe's escape. Besides, she had been his mistress for a time and they had parted amiably, so he could hardly repulse ler.
"Yes, I've taken apartments and intend to stay through the autumn, perhaps longer." Gently he disengaged his arm. "Pray have a thought for my valet. He is so protective of my coats that I'm surprised he actually lets me wear
Northwood laughed. "It certainly would have, but once the emperor surrendered to the British, we were stuck with preserving his wretched hide."
"One has to admire the man's effrontery, not to mention his cunning," Rafe agreed. "After calling Britain the most powerful, steadfast, and generous of his enemies, there was no way the Prince Regent could throw him to the wolves, even though most of the British people would cheerfully see Boney in hell."
"Instead, he retires at British expense to an island that is supposed to have one of the best climates in the world. Still, if he'd stayed on Elba I wouldn't be here in Paris now." Northwood gave a man-to-man chuckle. "It certainly is true what they say about the Parisian ladies, isn't it, Candover?"
Rafe gave one of his coldest stares. "I've only just arrived and have no opinion on the subject."
Immune to the setdown, Northwood glanced toward a side door in time to see Maggie return to the ball, her golden hair shimmering above the provocative green gown. She looked every inch the highborn trollop. Northwood stared, his jaw slack. "Say, would you look at that blond doxy! Must have been upstairs with some lucky devil. Think I'd have any success if I asked her for an encore?"
It took Rafe a moment to register that Northwood was referring to Maggie. He had never thought of her as blond, a word that conjured up thoughts of pale anemic maidens. Maggie's glowing cream-and-gold vitality was too vivid for such an insipid description. When he did realize who Northwood meant, Rafe felt a powerful urge to use his fists to wipe the smirk off his companion's face.
He held his breath until the impulse faded, then said, "I doubt it. I met the lady earlier, and she struck me as particular in her tastes."
The implied insult also bounced off Northwood's impenetrable skin. "Tell me about her." He frowned as Maggie disappeared into a clump of Austrian officers. "You know, she looks familiar, but I can't quite remember ..." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! She reminds me of an English girl I knew years ago. Margaret, no, Margot, something."
Rafe's stomach turned. "Do you mean Miss Margot Ashton?"
"Yes, she's the one. You were after her yourself, weren't you? Was she as good as she looked?" The coarse laugh left no doubt about the kind of relationship that Northwood assumed Rafe had had with Margot.
Rafe took another deep breath. Had Northwood always been this vulgar, or had he gotten worse with the years? Icily he said, "I wouldn't know. I barely remember Miss Ashton. Didn't she die a year or so after her come-out?" He made a pretense of studying Maggie. "I suppose there is some resemblance between them, but the lady you are admiring is Hungarian— Magda, the Countess Janos."
"Hungarian, eh? I've never had a Hungarian. Will you introduce me?"
Deciding that if he didn't leave in the next ten seconds, he would do Northwood serious bodily harm, Rafe said, "Unfortunately I have a pressing engagement, but I'm sure you can find some other mutual acquaintance. If you will excuse me ... ?" He was on the point of escaping when someone latched on to his right arm. With a sense of tired inevitability, he looked down into Cynthia Northwood's wide brown eyes.
"Rafe!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you here. Will you be staying in Paris for a while?"
Cynthia was an attractive young woman with dark curls, a heart-shaped face, and an expression of misleading innocence. Her firm grip prevented Rafe's escape. Besides, she had been his mistress for a time and they had parted amiably, so he could hardly repulse ler.
"Yes, I've taken apartments and intend to stay through the autumn, perhaps longer." Gently he disengaged his arm. "Pray have a thought for my valet. He is so protective of my coats that I'm surprised he actually lets me wear
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