The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  “I imagine your eyes tell a more interesting story,” she accused. “Though I doubt it would be fit for the ears of a lady.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “But I have always found attack to be an excellent defense.”

  A flash of amusement lit his restless face. “I wish we had time to compare stories. But I fear that is doomed to remain one of my life’s regrets.”

  “Of course, you are in a hurry to return to your smuggling.”

  “Also,” he reminded her, “you dismissed me.”

  “So I did, and yet here you still are.”

  As though he took her words as a challenge, he walked back toward her. “You distracted me.”

  “If so, you are too easily distracted.”

  A breath of laughter shook him as he halted before her. “Not easily enough.” His warm, dazzling smile raised sudden butterflies in her stomach, taking her by surprise.

  He was tall, forcing Isabelle to look up. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s part of the story we have no time for.” Unexpectedly, he took her hand. The touch of his fingers was intense. “Thank you for hiding me from your Royal Navy.”

  His eyes, those wild, laughing, yet almost desperate eyes, were not those of a rake, a seducer. So why did she feel she was being seduced?

  “It is not my navy,” she said nervously. “Or my country, in truth.”

  He blinked. “It isn’t?”

  Her eyebrows flew up, for although she spoke fluent English, no one had ever accused her of doing so without a trace of a French accent. “I think you are not as observant as you imagine. I am an émigrée.”

  His gaze held hers. “I suppose I hoped you were not.”

  “Why?”

  His lips curved. “Many reasons.” He raised her hand and kissed it, a light, brief caress that stirred every nerve in her body. Then he released her. “Mostly, because you are much too delightful to have anything to do with a man like Maurice Ashton.”

  Her mouth fell open. By the time she had shut it again, the door was closing softly behind him.

  She sank onto the nearest chair, then jumped up, frowning, and began to pace around the room.

  What the devil had he meant by that? Was he a friend of Ashton’s? Could Sir Maurice possibly have been blabbing about his assignation? In the public taproom of an inn?

  Her face flamed, and she covered it with her fingers in a vain attempt to cool it. It seemed she had made many mistakes in coming here. Only her instinct to stay silent about Sir Maurice in Lily’s presence had been correct.

  She would leave tomorrow at first light. Though why she should care about her reputation still, she had no idea. Pierre had already made that pointless. No, it wasn’t so much her reputation that moved her. It was more outrage that she had been duped. Shame from many sources curled her toes.

  She needed to get away from this wretched country. Perhaps she could go to America, if she could only scrape together enough money for her passage. Though, of course, there was war there, too. She felt suddenly trapped in the Hart, in the country, in her whole life as she had made it.

  Fortunately, perhaps, Lily came in then to clear away the supper leftovers.

  Isabelle watched her for a little in silence. Then she said abruptly. “Lily, have you been in the taproom this evening?”

  “Yes, helping Dad out when I can.”

  “I thought I saw Sir Maurice Ashton there when I arrived.”

  “Fashionable gent?” Lily asked. “Yes, he’s there. Is he a friend of yours?”

  I very much doubt it. “Merely an acquaintance. Tell me, did you happen to notice if he is with friends?”

  “He arrived on his own,” Lily recalled. “Well, with his valet and groom, which is about as close to alone as a gentleman gets! He’s been sitting with Lieutenant Steel, the navy officer. Well, both gentlemen together, I suppose. And the other strangers—they’ve been sitting at Sir Maurice’s table, too.”

  “What other strangers?”

  “Gentlemen who arrived right about when you did, madame.”

  “And are they friends of Sir Maurice?”

  Lily shrugged. “They may be now. Weren’t when they arrived, for I heard them all introducing themselves to each other.”

  “And who are they?” Isabelle asked curiously. “What are their names?”

  Lily thought. “Black. The one who talks most, with the eyes, is Black. Can’t remember the others, if I heard them, which I doubt.”

  With the eyes. It could only be her visitor. Mr. Black. “Lily, I wonder if you—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, several shouts blasted from the taproom, followed by an almighty crash, such as furniture falling. Lily dropped her tray and as one, she and Isabelle bolted out of the coffee room to see what on earth had happened.

  Chapter Two

  Captain Armand le Noir collected distractions like richer men might collect fine porcelain. Which was one reason he kept volunteering for the insanely risky tasks offered by his commanders. By those standards, landing in England at night to meet escaped prisoners of war and return them to France gave him little concern, even when said prisoners failed to turn up outside the inn at the right time.

  And so, whiling away the irritating waiting time, his restless mind had plenty of room to be distracted by the beautiful émigrée who had entered the inn just in front of him. She of the tall, elegant figure and the swan-like neck, of the shining golden hair and the haunted, almost desperate eyes. She who had made barely any fuss at all about him catapulting himself into her solitude an hour later. That had intrigued him. And he’d rather liked her understated humor, the lazy laughter lurking behind her brilliant, gray-green eyes. He’d guessed her purpose here, of course, almost as soon as he’d first strolled into the busy taproom, looking about him as any stranger would.

  The patrons were largely ordinary country folk and fisherman, though a man of around his own age in the uniform of the Royal Navy did give him a moment’s pause. However, he appeared to be sitting alone, with some space between him and the only aristocratic looking gentleman in the room. This was an elegantly-dressed civilian with short brown hair brushed forward over a sharp-nosed, yet somehow soft face.

  Letting his gaze merely glide over them, Noir found no sign of the men he sought, no one, indeed, very interested in him or his two companions.

  There were other seats available in the room, but with his usual reckless tempting of fate, Noir chose to sit at the table with the naval officer and the aristo. As he did so, he flicked his gaze at his men, advising them it might be best to sit elsewhere. But they ignored him, as they occasionally did, and sat stolidly on either side of him.

  “What can I get you, gentlemen?” asked the pretty serving girl.

  “Ale, if you please,” Noir replied in his best English. “Unless you have a decent brandy?”

  The aristocratic Englishman smiled and raised his own amber glass.

  “I can bring you both, sir,” the girl said cheerfully.

  “Have we missed the joke?” Noir asked the aristocrat after agreeing to the girl’s suggestion.

  But it was the naval officer who answered in a disapproving voice. “Only because the brandy is good. It is clearly French and has therefore been smuggled by those in league with the enemy.”

  “Oh, come, sir,” the aristocrat drawled. “There’s been smuggling along this coast since duty was invented! You can’t accuse the ‘gentlemen’ of treason.”

  “I can, and I do,” the officer retorted. “I have personally come across such creatures, and they do not care the damage they do. Cut-throat traitors!”

  Noir, with good reason not to discuss what was smuggled in and out of England or France, merely accepted his ale and brandy from the girl. He clinked glasses with his friends and murmured to his English companions, “Your health, gentlemen.”

  The naval officer, perhaps feeling
he had been too forceful in his condemnation for a convivial evening, made an effort toward pleasant conversation. He offered Noir his hand. “My name is Steele, lieutenant aboard His Majesty’s ship, Resolute.”

  Noir shook hands. “Black. This is Bush and Carter,” he added, indicating Boucher and Caron beside him.

  When their hands were duly shaken, too, the aristocrat finally offered his hand to Noir. “The name’s Ashton. Sir Maurice Ashton.”

  “How do you do?” Noir murmured politely, and they all shook hands with Ashton, too.

  Noir found it amusing to be so quickly accepted by English gentlemen. In fact, he had more than half expected his accent not to pass muster and be forced to fall back on his émigré story. Which was even funnier. That he, the nameless Paris street orphan, should play the great aristocrat who’d fled from the revolution. However, since he had called himself Black, he left the matter alone.

  “Are you staying overnight at the inn, gentlemen?” Lieutenant Steele asked.

  “No, we mean to ride back to Finsborough,” Noir replied with a quick glance toward the door where two locals were leaving. Where the devil were the men he was meant to meet? “Is it a comfortable house?”

  “Oh, I hope so,” Aston said with a lascivious smile. He glanced around his companions with superior amusement. “Between ourselves, I have an assignation.”

  Noir had less than no interest in the man’s affairs.

  Even Lieutenant Steele curled his lips with distaste. “I cannot imagine Mrs. Villin will approve of your bringing your doxies here, sir.”

  The aristocrat laughed. “Doxies? My dear sir, do you really imagine I would have strayed so far out of London for a mere doxy? Oh, no, my bird of paradise is something quite different! In fact, her family far outranks mine. She possesses incomparable beauty, a figure to admire, and a burning desire for your humble servant.” He almost purred. “More than that, she is exotic and foreign. French, in fact.”

  Caron let out a snort which he quickly changed to a sneeze.

  Noir thought of the beautiful lady with the haunting eyes for whom he had opened the door, and wondered.

  “More smuggling, sir?” he asked wryly.

  “You are amusing. Of course, she is an émigrée. From one of the first families in France, as it happens. Her people were lucky to escape. In fact, many of them didn’t.”

  “And so, of course, you take advantage,” Steele sneered.

  But Sir Maurice Ashton merely smiled. “I have every intention of ensuring the advantage is hers.”

  Noir sat back, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “Forgive me, but what are you doing here with us?”

  “She has not yet arrived,” Ashton admitted.

  I think perhaps she has…

  “Perhaps she has no intention of coming,” Steele taunted.

  “Oh, she’ll come,” Ashton said softly.

  Noir found the man’s speech contemptible. Boasting of one’s conquest of any lady, let alone one of rank, in a public inn, was surely not the behavior of an honorable English gentleman. It was certainly beneath Noir and anyone he had ever called friend.

  “You look disapproving, my friend,” Ashton drawled, meeting his gaze.

  Noir shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”

  He gazed out of the window, willing the four men he awaited to loom out of the darkness. The taproom was emptying as men returned to their families and a good night’s sleep before the next day’s work. Noir and his men could not linger here much longer without drawing unwanted attention. They would have to wait outside, or go looking…

  He rose abruptly, “Excuse me. I believe I need some air. No, I’ll be back directly,” he added to Boucher and Caron, who clearly meant to follow him. Which would have looked rather ridiculous. He just hoped they would keep their mouths shut or stick to their émigré stories.

  Outside was cold, clear, and quiet. It was his own men who loomed out of the darkness to meet him.

  “Any sign?” he demanded.

  Lefevre shook his head. “We’ve been walking continuously around the perimeter, but no sign of them.”

  “Damn them, they should have signaled if something had gone wrong. Either it’s very wrong or we just have to wait.” He scowled at Lefevre. “I’m not good at waiting.”

  “I know,” Lefevre said fervently. “We’re all praying they come soon.”

  Some change in the light, as though someone had opened a curtain or lit a lantern, made him order the men hastily back to their patrolling. While he turned and beheld the beautiful woman he had seen earlier.

  Oh yes, this would be distraction…

  Leave her alone. She suffers enough if she is indeed that fool’s mistress.

  And then she threw the window wide and nothing short of arrest could have kept him from striding toward her…

  In the brief, intriguing encounter that followed, he had found himself hoping he was mistaken. That she had nothing to do with Ashton. For despite the confident tilt of her head, and the seductive sophistication of her manner, he sensed some deeper vulnerability in her. And he could discern no French in her accent. But then she admitted she was an émigrée and he was sure.

  He might have despised Ashton’s boastful remarks, but he could understand the obsession that caused him to make them.

  He meant his parting shot. “You are much too delightful to have anything to do with a man like Maurice Ashton.”

  Returning to the taproom with his mind too full of this heady new distraction, he found his men still awkwardly drinking their ale while Steele and Ashton bickered. His men sat up, looking openly relieved when he walked in.

  “Ah,” Steele said. “I took some air myself, but I didn’t see you.”

  “No? I strolled around a bit.” Noir resumed his seat, lifted the remains of his brandy, and smiled.

  But for some reason, the suspicious Steele’s eyes had narrowed. “Is that a hint of French I hear in your accent?” he asked abruptly.

  For once, Noir cursed his distraction. “It could be,” he admitted brazenly. “Perhaps I have not yet lost it all.”

  “You, too, are an émigré?” Ashton said in surprise. “Called Black?”

  “Le Noir. I anglified it.” He allowed himself a wintry smile. “We émigrés are not all aristocrats.”

  “Even so,” Ashton said. “You must be an acquaintance of the Renardes.”

  Lieutenant Steele was looking suspicious again.

  For some reason, Noir felt his answer to Ashton’s question should be yes. But there were far too many pitfalls to claiming acquaintance with people he’d never heard of. He’d had enough of this work, wanted merely to recover his Frenchmen and go. He’d rather fight his way off the beach than sit here lying like some damned spy.

  “No,” he said baldly.

  The Englishmen wore almost identical expressions of civil disbelief. “It’s funny how few people know Renarde now,” Ashton observed. “Once, he was such a popular man.”

  “Acquit me,” Noir said impatiently. “I’ve never even heard of him. What is your—”

  “Never heard of him?” Steele interrupted, staring at him. “The dead traitor who has the entire émigré population fighting to prove its loyalty?”

  “It seems we moved in different circles,” Noir said impatiently. “Do you accuse me of some crime in not knowing your dead traitor?”

  “Hardly,” Ashton said peaceably. “It’s simply surprising.”

  But Steele, it seemed, was like a terrier with a rat. “Where did you say you were staying in Finsborough?”

  “I didn’t,” Noir said gently.

  Abruptly, Steele switched his hard gaze to Caron. “Then which is your favorite inn in the town? The George or the Dragon?”

  Frowning, Caron had clearly been following the conversation with some difficulty. “Dragon,” he said randomly.

  Mentally, Noir cast his eyes to heaven. And laughed, which seemed to throw the Englishmen, though only for an instant.

&
nbsp; “There is no inn called the Dragon in Finsborough,” Steele said triumphantly. “Sirs, I take leave to tell you that I doubt very much you are who you pretend!”

  “Well,” Noir said, rising to his feet. “Since we are clearly no longer welcome, we shall take our leave.”

  Obediently, his men rose with him. Ashton sat back, waiting to be entertained. But Lieutenant Steele jumped up and did the one thing guaranteed to cause disaster to all.

  He drew his sword.

  It had been hanging discreetly at his side all the time, almost part of him. And the screech of it leaving its sheath attracted the attention of everyone left in the taproom.

  “Don’t,” Noir said to his men, but it was too late. They were already drawing their own weapons in defense of their captain.

  “Here!” the innkeeper bellowed, though with more resignation than alarm or even much surprise. “None of that! Outside, now, before I call the—”

  The rest of his words were lost as Steele upended the table, forcing the Frenchmen to fall backward. He leapt agilely over the table with the clear intent of disarming and capturing all three of them. There might have been enough people in the taproom to help him do, it, too. Though not without a blood bath.

  “Caron, get everyone back to the far side,” Noir barked in French. “Boucher, the front door. No one else comes in and no one leaves.”

  Chapter Three

  In the hallway, a man dashed past Isabelle and Lily to the front door. But he wasn’t running away. He shot the bolts, then turned his back to the door. Grim-faced, he drew his pistol.

  Lily emitted a squeak of outrage.

  “Put that away, imbecile!” Isabelle commanded and strode purposefully across the hall without waiting to see if he would obey her. Often, she had discovered, the assumption she would be obeyed was enough to make it happen. She prayed it would here, because she certainly had no means to compel him.

  Inside the taproom was chaos. A duel appeared to be taking place.

  Isabelle’s recent visitor, Mr. Black, and the naval officer—Lieutenant Steele?—were fighting with swords across fallen tables and chairs, while another man, also armed with a pistol, had herded the handful of other drinkers to the far end of the room, along with Mr. and Mrs. Villin. And Sir Maurice who stood slightly apart, with his held high and his lip curled with distaste.