The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  She shivered, touching her lips, remembering his kiss, the temptation. Come home.

  “It will be light in half an hour,” Villin observed as they rowed into the gloom. “They’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “I wonder where their ship is? They can’t row all the way to France.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.” He sighed. “Well, I kept my prisoners and saved my inn—most of my inn. I suppose I can go back and face the music. Before I block up this damned passage again.”

  She turned, picked up one of the lanterns, and preceded him through the cave.

  *

  Breakfast at the Hart was not something Isabelle had even considered. Climbing wearily back through the secret passage, she had been conscious, mainly, of a desire to sleep, but at the first wafting smells of frying bacon as she entered the house, she realized she was starving.

  By then, of course, the inn was overrun with soldiers. Lieutenant Steele had summoned them as soon as Isabelle and Villin had returned but, removing any need for Steele to lie by more than omission, it was she who had told the harrowing tale of being forced through the horrid, steep, winding passage to be used, if necessary, as human shields.

  Captain Brandon had immediately sent half his men through the passage and raced over ground to the beach with the other half. But neither party had seen any sign of the French raiders. From the inn window as day began to break, Isabelle had glimpsed a few distant vessels at sea, a couple of smaller dots closer to shore. Impossible to know if Noir and his men were in one of those dots or heading for any of the visible ships.

  By the time Brandon returned, fuming, the dots seemed to have vanished. Any suspicions which the British officer might have harbored were clearly shoved aside as he and his men—along with the French prisoners—tucked into bacon, eggs, and sausages, with thick slices of newly baked bread and butter. They were served in the coffee room, while Isabelle, along with Sir Maurice, Lieutenant Steele, and the Ferris family, ate in the private parlor.

  At first, Sir Maurice had bridled at being asked to share the parlor he had hired with anyone except Isabelle, until she had pointed out, in Lily’s hearing, that it would be most improper for her to breakfast alone with him. And that the alternative was for her to join Captain Brandon and the soldiers.

  “How are the prisoners?” she asked Lily as the girl poured coffee for them all.

  Lily shrugged a little sadly. “They seem quite resigned with my mother’s breakfast inside them. I think the adventure of escape quickly palled, even before my father rumbled them and got his friends to bundle them into…the place they were. Are you sure you want coffee, madame? Wouldn’t you like to sleep? The chamber is yours until tomorrow with no extra charge, and we’ve already set it back in order.”

  “No, the notion to sleep has quite left me,” Isabelle replied. She felt Ashton’s gaze on her face but refused to look at him. Now that the excitement was over, she felt hunted. And not in a pleasant way. Ashton didn’t admire her. He wanted admiration for possessing her. Whether he was like that with all women, or just with her, the contemptible wife of the traitor, she did not know.

  She did know she couldn’t tolerate it. Last night, meeting the reckless, perceptive, compassionate Noir had cleared her mind and returned her to some level of self-respect. She would not compound her mistakes with Pierre and Verne with any worse ones.

  “Lady Overton’s ball is on Friday,” Sir Maurice pointed out. He smiled at his own cleverness. “I assumed that was why you had come down to Sussex.”

  “On the contrary, I have not been invited to Lady Overton’s. I had hoped to see my family, but the time isn’t convenient. I shall return to London.”

  “You must allow me to escort you.”

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary. I intend to call on friends first, and I would not keep you from the Overtons’ ball.” She said it as an excuse to avoid him, but as the words spilled out, she realized that it was what she wanted to do. Verne was her friend, whatever he had been in the past. And his wife could be. Besides, Jane was with them now, and it was the child, not her Longstone grandparents, that Isabelle was eager to see again.

  *

  An hour later, refreshed and dressed in a cleaner if older gown, pelisse and bonnet, she opened her bedchamber door for Jem, the stable hand, to carry it down to her waiting carriage. Then, dragging her gaze away from the expanse of sea in her window, she picked up her reticule and her traveling cloak.

  “Isabelle.”

  She turned to see Sir Maurice in the doorway. “Goodbye, sir. I’m sure we’ll meet again in London.”

  He took a step into the room. “Again? Isabelle, we didn’t exactly meet here.”

  So, it was not to be a matter of discreet and subtle hints. She met his gaze. “Sir Maurice, my coming here was the most foolish thing I have ever done, whatever my reputation may say to the contrary. I find I am grateful to our late captors for preventing any passage between us, and more than anything else that tells me any sort of liaison between us would be wrong. I am sorry to have misled you.”

  He frowned. The corner of his eye twitched. “Misled me? My dear lady, this was your idea. You owe me.”

  She stared at him. “The Hart was my idea. The invitation, if you recall, was yours. But you are right. I do owe you. For indiscretion, rudeness, and a quite ungentlemanly lack of respect. Be grateful I have not paid this debt. And pray I never do.”

  His mouth was an ugly sneer. With his heel, he kicked the bedchamber door shut and took a step toward her.

  But the door did not close. It bounced off someone’s hand—Jem. “This all your luggage, ma’am?” he said cheerfully.

  “Yes, thank you, Jem,” she replied and sailed out before either of them.

  Discretion was indeed the better part of valor. But part of her longed still to plant her knee hard where he would least appreciate it. She was not as helpless as he imagined.

  *

  She directed the hired coachman to Finmarsh House. It was not a long journey, but long enough for her newfound confidence to plummet. She had no real reason to believe that the Vernes would receive her when her own cousins did not. She almost stopped the carriage twice to instruct the driver to turn onto the main London road. After all, the sooner she returned to London, the sooner she could begin her search for a governess position.

  But she sat on her hands to prevent her rapping on the ceiling. She had come this far. She might as well find out once and for all.

  She stepped down from the coach with as much leisurely regality as she could muster and sailed up the steps to the front door. At least the footman who opened it hadn’t been instructed to refuse her entry. He showed her to the reception room and carried her card on a silver tray across the hall in the direction of what had once been Verne’s library.

  Isabelle sat on the edge of the uncomfortable chair, preparing not to care if she were denied. In the end, she did not have much time, for the footman returned almost immediately, not to dismiss her but to ask her to please follow him. She was led through the library—which looked somehow brighter and airier than it used to—and into the room beyond.

  Her feet almost faltered as she followed the footman, for this, as she well knew, used to be Verne’s bedchamber.

  It wasn’t anymore. It was a bright, warm sitting room with several comfortable chairs and sofas and a writing desk at the window from which the elegant figure of Lady Cecily rose to greet her.

  “Isabelle,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand in welcome. “What a pleasant surprise. I did not know you were in Sussex.”

  Isabelle took her hand, hiding her relief. “It was an impulsive decision. I hope I haven’t interrupted you. I just called to inquire after you both. And Jane.”

  “How kind of you! Please, sit and I shall ring for…what would you like? Tea? Sherry? You will stay for luncheon, I hope? Patrick and Jane are out on the estate, but they shouldn’t be long.”

  Lady Cecily h
ad always possessed natural manners that endeared her to all but the highest sticklers. And since she was the daughter of a duke, she did not need care much for such trivial disapproval.

  Isabelle chose a chair on one side of the fireplace. “I would love to stay and see them, but you should know, I have eaten the most enormous breakfast at the Hart and will be able to live off it comfortably for several more days.”

  Cecily laughed and broke off to order tea. “We’ll have the wine when Verne gets back, then. But did you say you were at the Hart? What on earth was going on there this morning?”

  “You heard?” Isabelle exclaimed. “Already?”

  “One of the maids had it from the stable lad that some escaped French prisoners were recaptured there. But the dairy maid said it was smugglers they caught and that Villin’s been clapped up in Finsborough jail, which I sincerely hope is not true.”

  “So do I! But he was hale and hearty and ordering his taproom when I saw him last.”

  “Then it is all a hum?” Cecily asked.

  “Not all. The soldiers did arrive at an ungodly hour of the morning to recapture the escaped prisoners—who were being hidden by the Villins from a French raiding party who had come ashore to collect them!”

  Cecily’s mouth fell open. “And you were in the middle of all this? I don’t know whether that is wildly exciting or simply terrifying!”

  “Neither do I,” Isabelle admitted.

  “You must be wishing you had not stopped there but gone on to the Longstones.”

  Isabelle hesitated. Fortunately, the tea arrived, and she did not need to say anything until the servants had departed.

  “I thought I would speak to Jane—and to you—before I called there. To be frank, Elvira made it plain that I was not welcome in their home after Pierre…well, you know.”

  “Only too well, but Pierre’s sins are hardly to be laid at your door.”

  “She may have changed her mind,” Isabelle said with forced lightness. “But you will know better than I. Please don’t spare my feelings. I am quite inured.”

  A rueful smile flickered over Cecily’s face. “Actually, we are not on visiting terms with the Longstones. Miss Arbor takes Jane to see her grandmother for tea every second Sunday, but that is the only contact.”

  “I see.” Isabelle searched her face. “Do you regret it?” she asked carefully.

  “Not in the slightest. It was my decision.”

  “Good for you. They were vile to Patrick.”

  “Viler than you know,” Cecily said grimly. “But it is too pleasant a day to dwell on the past.”

  As Isabelle agreed, she became aware of a slamming door somewhere in the house and voices approaching—a deep, unmistakable voice belonging to Patrick Verne and another higher and more childish one that made Isabelle smile with pleasure. Their laughter grew nearer along with pounding feet, and they launched themselves into the room almost together.

  “I won, Cecily, I won!” Jane claimed. Then as her gleeful eyes fell on Isabelle, they widened. “Cousin Izzy!” she cried and flew to her with a hug guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts. For the second time that day, Isabelle wanted to weep.

  Lord Verne’s laughing welcome was more restrained but equally natural. It wasn’t that either he—or his wife—had forgotten the liaison. Merely, it was not important to them as they were now. Cecily was secure enough to lose her jealousy. And Patrick happy enough that he looked at no other woman as he did his wife. Isabelle, once unsure how she would feel about that, found herself relaxing into their company. By the time luncheon was served, she was genuinely glad for their happiness, and her ache of loss so faint as to be an echo. Everyone had moved on; everything had changed.

  Of course, she had to tell the story of the raiders and the soldiers again. And if Patrick and Cecily guessed she was not telling everything, they did not press her.

  It was Jane who changed the subject by informing her with great eagerness that on Friday, she was going to stay the night with Eliza Maybury.

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Isabelle said, genuinely delighted that Jane had developed such a friendship.

  “Because of the ball,” Cecily explained. “We’ll come home, of course, but rather than wake Jane at three o’clock in the morning, we’ll leave her there. It will be nice for Eliza to have company, too, when the rest of the family is occupied. Are you staying with the Overtons?”

  “Oh, no, I shall be back in London,” Isabelle replied. “I have quite decided to be a governess.”

  While the Vernes digested this, Jane eyed her dubiously. “Will you teach them watercolor painting and etiquette?”

  “Whatever I am required to.”

  “Uncle Patrick thought you had forgotten history and Latin and—”

  “Did he?” Isabelle interrupted. “Or did he think I didn’t know them in the first place?”

  Patrick only grinned at her. “I didn’t work out until later that you were teaching only what Elvira wanted Jane to know. But you slipped in the odd nugget of knowledge, I’ve since discovered.”

  “I’m overwhelmed by your notice,” Isabelle said wryly.

  After lunch, they walked in the garden that had once been beautifully formal under the ownership of Patrick’s late sister-in-law, and then wild and neglected under his. Now, with Cecily in charge, it seemed natural and pleasant without being overgrown.

  “Before you take up drudgery,” Cecily said lightly, “why do you not stay with us for a few days? In fact, come to the ball with us.”

  Touched in spite of herself, Isabelle said with difficulty, “I have not been invited by Lady Overton.” She smiled, as though it were funny. “And to be frank, if I have to hire the carriage for any longer, I won’t be able to eat once I return to London.”

  “Well, that would hardly be fair. Patrick will pay him off and you can go back in our carriage.”

  Isabelle searched her face and opted for honesty. “I will happily spend a couple of days with you if you truly wish it. But I have some pride, and I will not inflict myself on Lady Overton who is too good natured to ask me to leave.”

  “Oh, they have servants well-trained to deal with that kind of thing,” Patrick said, overhearing. “If she didn’t want you there, then you wouldn’t get near her or her guests.”

  “Exactly. So tomorrow or Friday would be a good day for me to return to London.”

  “Let me speak to her,” Cecily advised. “I am sure lack of invitation was a mere oversight. In fact, you are probably included on the Longstones’ card.”

  “Cecily, you are sweet,” Isabelle said helplessly. “But I do not wish to be invited, particularly not as a favor to someone else.”

  “It wouldn’t be,” Patrick said. “You’re being too proud.”

  “Pride is all I have,” she said lightly.

  “Then don’t misuse it,” he retorted. “Isabelle, you are young and beautiful and charming, and the Overtons don’t believe for a minute that you were involved in Pierre’s treachery.”

  “I think this is just what you need to get back out into society,” Cecily agreed.

  Isabelle looked from one to the other. “Why should I want to do that? To be a more discontented governess than otherwise? Or to meet likely employers?”

  Cecily shrugged. “Or to forego the need of employment at all. Who knows? You might encounter the love of your life there.”

  Isabelle laughed. “Are you matchmaking already, Cecily? Even were I not so recently widowed, I am now entirely unmarriageable. Poor, foreign, and the widow of a traitor. Write to me and tell me all about the ball.”

  Chapter Eight

  Armand le Noir woke quite suddenly from his deep if troubled sleep. It was still light beyond the porthole on the smuggler’s ship, so he couldn’t have slept very long. But he knew he’d wakened for a reason. A reason more than the contented snoring of his men on the cabin floor.

  He sat up, rubbing his face to bring back life and thought.

  Isabell
e. He had kissed Isabelle, and against all odds, she had kissed him back.

  She hadn’t gone with him, though. If she had, he wouldn’t have had this crazy idea. He would have taken her to safety. Frowning with the effort of remembrance, he went to speak to the crew, who were a mixture of nationalities.

  It was the English first mate he wanted. “Higgins,” he greeted him, sitting him bodily down on the bench on deck. “What did you tell me last night? About where they’d taken the French prisoners?”

  “Finsborough jail. A few miles inland. They’ve to wait there until they’re picked up by the prison guards—their punishment for losing them in the first place, I suppose.”

  “It took our boys three days to get down to Finsborough on foot,” Noir mused. “How long would it take soldiers?”

  “Riding? Half that. Although of course, word has to get back to the prison for them to come. So, I suppose that makes it about three days at least. Why? What difference does it make?”

  Noir’s breath caught. “Every difference in the world. Five men can’t rescue four prisoners from a guarded fort. But they can probably break them out of a country jail. Turn the ship back to England.”

  Higgins laughed at him.

  So did the captain, until Noir pulled out his pistol and held it to his head.

  “You’re insane!” Higgins yelled.

  “Want to test that?” Noir inquired.

  “No,” the captain growled. “Do as he damn well says!”

  Boucher, emerging onto the deck yawning and scratching, stopped dead at the sight of his captain holding his pistol to the head of the smuggler chief while the rest of the crew seemed to be running around, changing sails and shouting.

  Boucher groaned. “We’re going back, aren’t we? And these cutthroats won’t wait for us again now that you’ve provoked them! To call it no worse.”

  “Nonsense. We just have to pay them enough.”

  “And how in hell do we do that?” Boucher demanded.

  “Oh, we’ll think of something,” Noir said happily. “Highway robbery, perhaps!”