"Given the quality of the Bourbons, it should be possible to convince the royalists," Rafe admitted with reluctant interest, "but what about the Bonapartists? They will never accept a member of the old order who wants to turn back the clock."

"But I do not wish to turn back the clock, my dear duke, that is what makes me unique," Varenne said complacently. "I am a flexible man, I can prate of the rights of man, of 'liberty, equality, fraternity,' as well as any revolutionary. I already have Bonapartists working for me. Remember, Napoleon spoke of liberty and created the greatest tyranny Europe has ever known. If one tells a great lie boldly, one can do almost anything."

"That's very clever, Count." Rafe lifted the bottle of wine and topped up both of their glasses. He didn't know whether Varenne was insane or a genius, or if there was a difference between the two. "But I would think it will be difficult to get the factions to agree on anything."

The count shook his head. "Under Napoleon, France became the greatest power since Rome. No true Frenchman wants to give that up, and that includes the royalists."

"So you will rally the nation together 'pour la gloire' one more time," Rafe said. "But there is one group that you have forgotten. What of those people who are tired of fighting, who want to live in peace?"

"The wolf will eat the lamb every time, Candover."

There was no doubt that Varenne believed his own words. Yet when Rafe thought of Margot and her army of women, of Helene Sorel, of the tough pragmatism of Michel Roussaye, who had seen enough of war, he was not sure that he agreed. Enough brave lambs might overwhelm even the most ruthless of wolves.

However, this was not the time for a philosophical discussion. He asked, "If you aren't going to kill me, what do you intend?"

"You are insurance, Candover. Though my plan is excellent, it is possible that I might fail. Chaos is inherently hard to control, even when one is expecting it. If someone else rises to the top, I will need a great deal of money."

"Aren't you already a wealthy man?"

"I try to convey that impression. However, you see the condition of my estate, and conspiracies are expensive. At the moment I am almost penniless. If my coup d'etat succeeds, I will have all the wealth I need, and you will be returned to England unharmed. If I fail"-he shrugged-"I assume that you would be willing to pay a substantial price for your life and freedom."

"For mine, and the countess's as well."

"You are so fond of the little trollop?" Varenne said with surprise. "I really should find out what she does that is so special. She's only a woman, after all."

Rafe discovered that the expression "to see red" was not a metaphor. His blood roared, and if a small fragment of common sense hadn't reminded him of the armed men at the door, he would have tried to take Varenne apart with his bare hands.

Some of that must have showed in his face, because the count said, "If you feel that strongly, I'm sure something can be arranged. Of course I would not free you without your word as an English gentleman not to retaliate in any way. It is one of the delightfully amusing things about Englishmen-they take such promises seriously."

A knock sounded at the door, and a courier entered with a message. Varenne looked at it and frowned. "Sorry, Candover, I can't chat any longer. Matters require my attention. I apologize for the quality of the accommodations, but if you became too comfortable, you would be in no hurry to pay your ransom and leave." He glanced at the guards. "Please escort our guest to the dungeon."

Rafe's thoughts were racing as the gunmen herded him out of the library and down the corridor. Varenne might be mad, but there was no denying that his scheme was diabolically clever. Given die precarious political state of France, a well-chosen blow might indeed take the count to ultimate power. Louis' throne stood on sand, and a strong leader who could unite the factions would be welcome.

It was also likely that once the deed was done, the rest of Europe would accept any French leader who had a fig leaf of respectability. Yes, Varenne's plan might very well work, and France would find herself in the hands of a new Napoleon. It was a terrifying prospect.

After descending several flights of winding stone stairs, they reached the lowest level of the castle. Though the upper section was dank and unpleasant, the cellars were far worse, stinking of death and ancient evil.

Eventually they reached a dismal antechamber containing a massive iron-bound door. Lavisse took a key ring from a hook on the wall and inserted the single heavy key into the old lock. As his companion kept Rafe covered with the shotgun, Lavisse struggled with the ancient mechanism until it turned.

Swinging the door out just enough to admit a man, the guard said with heavy sarcasm, "Enjoy your visit, your bloody grace." Then he gave Rafe a shove in the middle of the back that propelled him headfirst into the cell.

Even before he hit the stone floor, Rafe knew that he was not alone.

Chapter 20

Rafe automatically stayed down in a wary crouch while he scanned his surroundings. The cell was roughly cubical, about a dozen feet in each dimension, with walls of coarse stonework. The only furnishings were a slop bucket in one corner and a pile of straw with a couple of blankets.

Light came from a narrow, barred window high in the wall. Though the cell was dim, it was bright enough for Rafe to identify the blond man sprawled on the straw.

Bloody hell, it only needed this. Rafe took a deep breath before getting to his feet. Though he supposed he should be glad that Robert Anderson was alive and apparently no friend to Count de Varenne, Margot's lover was the last man on earth Rafe would have chosen as a cellmate.

Not bothering to rise, Anderson said, "I'm sorry that they got you, too, Candover. What has been happening?"

"Riots, kidnappings, conspiracy-the usual sort of thing." Rafe brushed the dirt from his breeches, then straightened and said soberly, "Varenne has the countess."

A black expression on his face, Anderson sat up, wincing at the sudden movement. "Damnation, I was afraid of that. Do you know if she's all right?"

"For what it's worth, Varenne says so." As his eyes adjusted to the light, Rafe realized that his companion looked considerably worse for wear, with his left arm cradled awkwardly in his lap and his face badly bruised. Forgetting his jealousy, he exclaimed, "Good God, man, what did they do to you?"

Anderson smiled humorlessly. "In a tribute to my legendary ferocity, Varenne sent four ruffians to invite me here. I attempted to decline, but they insisted."

Something clicked in Rafe's memory. "The morning after you disappeared, the bodies of two unidentified Frenchmen were found near your lodgings. Did you have anything do with that?"

Anderson's smile became more genuine. "I was very reluctant to accept their hospitality."

Surveying the slight build and almost feminine good looks of his companion, Rafe realized that he had been guilty of still another misjudgment. With a half smile, he said, "Remind me not to get into any arguments with you."

"I doubt I'd be a danger to a husky sparrow at the moment."

Anderson's pallor was extreme even for someone of such fair coloring, so Rafe crossed the cell and knelt by him in the straw. "Better let me take a look at that arm."

He whistled softly at the sight of the ugly swelling that had completely engulfed Anderson's left hand and wrist. As he began a careful examination of the injured area, he said, "Did you hit someone too hard?"

"No, I was fairly intact when I arrived here. However, Varenne was interested in chatting and I wasn't."

The sheen of sweat on Anderson's face showed how much his studied casualness was costing him. Rafe's reluctant admiration for his rival increased. "It looks like one of the bones in the wrist is broken, and three fingers," he said. "Luckily, the fractures look clean.

Let me help you take your coat off so I can bandage the area. That should help some."

Rafe took off his waistcoat and tore it into strips, then undertook the basic medical work learned in the hunting field. As he did, he was struck by a gut-wrenching image of that same elegant hand caressing Margot. He froze, fighting sick jealousy, while he told himself furiously that it was neither the time nor the place for such self-indulgence. After a long moment, he managed to resume his ministrations.

For his own self-respect, he took special care to make his efforts as painless as possible. Even so, the procedure nearly broke the younger man's stoicism. By the time Rafe had finished the bandaging and rigged a sling for the arm, Anderson was lying full-length in the straw, sweat matting the edge of his hair. Rafe guessed that he must be half unconscious from pain.

After his ragged breathing had steadied, Anderson said, "Since Varenne ended up capturing Maggie anyhow, maybe I should have just written the damned note."

In answer to Rafe's questioning glance, the blond man explained, "The count wanted me to write Maggie and lure her out here. Said he'd break bones until I agreed. I didn't mention that I was left-handed until he'd already neatly fractured three fingers, and by then he'd wrecked any chance of my handwriting being normal. He should have been working on the right hand."

As he settled down on the straw at Anderson's feet, Rafe found himself chuckling at the dark humor of it. "I'd like to have seen Varenne's face when you told him that."