With odd relief, Isabelle replaced her pen in its stand and rose to her feet. “Of course, show him in. And bring some tea, if you please.”
Mrs. Raisin effaced herself, and the enigmatic figure of Lord Torbridge strolled in, smiling. “Madame de Renarde,” he greeted her, bowing and shaking hands.
“How pleasant to see you, my lord. Won’t you sit? Mrs. Raisin is bringing tea.”
“Most kind,” Torbridge said, taking the chair opposite hers by the fire, which was burning gathered wood rather than expensive coal. “There is a definite chill in the air. How are you after your adventures in Sussex?”
“Refreshed and determined,” Isabelle said lightly. “You find me in the midst of an intensive search for a suitable post.”
“I hope you have plenty of good ones to choose from?”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “I am not overwhelmed with offers. But I have high hopes of this latest application, which is probably ideal, being in the country.”
“I hope the salary is satisfactory?”
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “And how are you, my lord? I imagine you are kept busy?”
“Oh, you know me,” he said vaguely. He had never actually admitted to doing anything at all in Isabelle’s hearing. He just tended to be there in certain situations and take charge. “Actually, while you wait for a suitable offer, I was wondering if you might do me a favor?”
“Of course,” she said at once.
His smile was slightly crooked. “I shall not hold you to that until you have heard my problem. Perhaps you are acquainted with Sir Marcus Dain?”
“I don’t believe so, although the name is vaguely familiar.”
“He is an inveterate traveler. You may have seen his articles in books and magazines. He is also an old friend of mine. In fact, I hope you don’t mind that I have asked him to call here so that I might introduce you.”
“I am not overwhelmed with callers these days,” Isabelle drawled. “I shall be glad to meet your friend. But I am intrigued as to why you asked him, and what he has to do with this favor I agreed to so foolhardily.”
“I hoped you would be.”
Mrs. Raisin entered with the tea tray.
“Thank you,” Isabelle said to her. “We are expecting another gentleman—Sir Marcus Dain. Please just show him straight in.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs. Raisin looked both impressed and delighted.
“She hopes I will stay,” Isabelle said ruefully when the housekeeper had closed the door. “And then she will not be out of work. She doesn’t grasp that I can’t stay here.”
“Even if you earned enough to keep it on?”
Isabelle blinked. “My dear sir, no governess position pays that well! Even if it did, I would get rid of this horrid little house as fast as I could.” She lifted the tea pot. “But let us return to Sir Marcus Dain.”
“Indeed. He has a brother, a major in Wellington’s army on the Peninsula. Sadly, he was injured and sent home to be treated. He and his wife sailed from Lisbon earlier this month. Their ship was attacked by a French frigate, which it saw off, though it took some heavy damage. The captain believed they could limp home and indeed they might have except for the storm… To cut a long story short, they had to take to the longboats. Most made it home, you’ll be glad to hear, but Major and Mrs. Dain did not. Thank you,” he added, accepting the cup of tea from her.
“Oh dear,” Isabelle murmured. “Were they drowned?”
“We thought they must have been, especially when the sailors who had been in the boat with them, turned up rescued by a smuggling vessel. Their boat had broken up against the rocks on the Normandy coast. The men were rescued, but there was no sign of the Dains.”
“Go on,” Isabelle urged, sipping her tea.
“On Saturday, I received news that they were in fact alive, hiding in a Norman cave near the village of St. Sebastien.”
“Well that is great news! I suppose you had that from smugglers, too?”
Torbridge merely smiled vaguely and sipped his tea.
“Did they not bring the Dains home with them?” Isabelle asked.
“No, they couldn’t. The problem is, you see, Major Dain is too ill to travel.”
Isabelle blinked. “But he is not too ill to live in a cave?”
“He is. Indubitably. But at least the cave has the advantage of shelter and stillness. These smuggling vessels are not large, and at this time of the year, the weather in the Channel tends to be atrocious. She may be wrong, but Mrs. Dain is refusing to move him.”
“She’ll stay with him till he dies,” Isabelle said sadly.
“I’m sure she would. But his brother—you do remember Sir Marcus?—is determined that will not happen. So, I have helped him find a vessel to smuggle him into Normandy.”
Isabelle blinked at such casualness. “Will he be able bring them both back?”
“By now, if Major Dain is still alive, I imagine the first priority is for him to see a doctor. Bringing a doctor to English people in a cave is an invitation to capture them. We need a longer-term solution. Unless the major is already dead, in which case his wife can simply return with Sir Marcus and the smugglers and the matter will be over.”
“And if he is not dead?” she asked, fascinated.
“Then Sir Marcus will have to take a house in St. Sebastian, bring his brother there, and summon a doctor.”
Isabelle stared. “I hope he speaks good French.”
“He does. He grew up there before the revolution. And I believe their French nurse accompanied them back to England.”
Isabell set down her teacup. “Then I wish him all good luck. But where does my favor fit in?”
Torbridge leaned forward. “Well, that is the tricky part. A man on his own is more likely to arouse suspicion. Especially, since I understand Mrs. Dain has very little French. In short, Sir Marcus needs a wife.”
Isabelle’s mouth dropped open. She barely heard the sharp rap on the front door. “Mrs. Raisin is in need of a new post. I am holding out for a governess position. It is still preferable to that of wife.”
Torbridge grinned as the sitting room door opened. “It would only be pretend, madame.”
“Sir Marcus Dain,” Mrs. Raisin announced jovially, and a tall, stern man marched into the room.
Isabelle, gathering her wits and rose to greet him. Lord Torbridge pronounced the introductions, and Sir Marcus bowed with slightly impatient grace. He wanted to get on with the matter in hand.
“Tea, sir?” Isabelle offered.
“Thank you, no. Has Torbridge explained what is required of you?”
Isabelle laughed. It wasn’t meant to be a pleasant sound, and it certainly appeared to take Dain aback.
“I have asked Madame de Renarde for her help,” Torbridge corrected smoothly. “But she has had no time to consider what this involves.”
Rather to her surprise, Dain’s harsh face relaxed into a rueful smile. “Forgive me, I am impatient to get on with this. I assumed you were some kind of…employee, under Torbridge’s orders.”
“I believe I may count his lordship as my friend.”
“Then we have that in common. Madam, I am desperate. Do I have your help?”
“I won’t deny it’s dangerous,” Torbridge said. “But I will have a boat waiting for you at all times. St. Sebastien is remote, unimportant, and its inhabitants keep themselves to themselves. I believe this is eminently possible. On top of which, I vouch for Sir Marcus as a gentleman, who has too much honor and too much on his mind besides to make you…uncomfortable.”
Isabelle was very conscious of the beating of her heart. France. She would be in France, the country of her birth which had executed most of her family and caused the rest to flee. Without even seeing him, it would somehow bring her closer to Armand.
And on top of everything, the adventure called to her.
“You will be acting for the government of Great Britain,” Torbridge added. “And as such, you
will be compensated. It will be enough to keep this house on.”
“I hate the wretched house.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dain said, surprising her again by looking about him appreciatively. “It is small, but the proportions are good. I cannot imagine it is decorated to your taste, but a little work would make it much more agreeable.”
Isabelle closed her mouth. The man might even be right.
“Your part in the Sussex matter impressed,” Torbridge added. “After this business, it is possible there might be more. Unless governessing is your preferred course. But that is for the future. Will you consider helping Sir Marcus?”
Her breath caught. “How long do I have for all this consideration?”
“Half an hour,” Torbridge said apologetically. “You will need to catch the next tide.”
*
And that was how she came to be crossing the English Channel on a bitterly cold and choppy November night. The first part of the crossing had been spent heaving into a bucket, an indignity of which she was thoroughly ashamed.
However, both the crew and Dain treated her with cheerful sympathy, and when her stomach was empty, suggested she go on deck. And despite the cold and the lashing spray, that was actually better.
She and Dain clung to the rail and discussed their parts as Monsieur and Madame Renard from Paris. They had decided on a name close to her own to make her more comfortable answering to it. And so that the locals wouldn’t pry too closely, Torbridge had suggested Dain pretend to be an important employee of the government who had left Paris under a cloud and was now keeping out if the way in St. Sebastien until it all blew over and he was recalled.
“I don’t want to talk about it works quite well,” Torbridge had said. “Or even I can’t talk about it.”
“I never realized you were so devious,” Dain remarked.
“Yes, you did. It’s why you came to me. Imply it was a very senior position to account for your superior manners and aristocratic accents. But with luck, no one will wish to talk to you in case your disgrace is catching.”
“The dashed physician had better talk to me! Do we know if there is one in St. Sebastien?”
“Young and eager, according to my sources,” Torbridge said. “But I won’t tell you his name. It will look more natural when you ask the townsfolk.”
“Someone should have begun the search for our house,” Dain said to Isabelle now. “We are to inquire at the solicitor’s office in the town square. I suppose we will need to have servants, too, though I’m not keen on having strangers around us all the time.”
“If the house is small enough, we can exist very well with one, all-purpose servant. It will keep her too busy to pry.”
Dain blinked, but was clearly too gentlemanly to ask if that had been her purpose in London, too. It hadn’t. There, she had simply been short of money. He turned, gazing out to sea. “It may not arise,” he said abruptly. Meaning his brother might already be dead.
“Then we’ll bring your sister home. But I am looking forward to a longer adventure.”
Now that her sea-sickness had faded, she found it was true. There had barely been any time to think about what she was doing. But she felt alive in a way she had not since leaving Sussex. Since Armand had sailed away.
Despite her inner happiness caused by his parting words, I love you, she’d recognized the danger of simply waiting. Of slipping into a torpor where the past and the future were more important than the present. Searching for a post kept her busy. She had hoped that once she took one up, it would involve her deeply, but she hadn’t truly believed it.
This adventure, however, was far more. This was…real distraction.
Damn you, Armand. Everything comes back to you. Even though she barely knew him.
*
They landed in the dark, in freezing drizzle. However unpleasant for Isabelle, she could not help fearing for the wounded man and his wife who must have been living in such conditions for most of a week at least.
Several shadowy figures waited on the shore to help pull the boat as far as possible out of the water. Dain chivalrously carried her from the boat to dry land, while all around them was intense activity, unloading the cargo from the boat, and, presumably, reloading it with the crates and barrels already waiting on the beach.
For a moment, she stood still on the sand. I am in France. A little thrill surged up from inside her shoes to her spine. After twenty-five years, she stood again on French soil, in the land of her birth.
She hadn’t expected it to mean anything. After all, she was here on behalf of her adopted country. But something stirred within her. She just wasn’t sure what it was.
Simple fear, probably.
A man detached himself from the flurry. “Monsieur Renard. Madame. Come with me.”
There was no farewell exchanged with the crew who had brought them. She and Dain were just another commodity for which, presumably, the smugglers had been paid. Their anonymous new guide led them over a sandy path, then paused to light a lantern, for which Isabelle was unspeakably grateful.
The man, an unshaven, rough individual, perhaps in his forties, raised the light to show them a distinctive hollow in the rock beside them. A pebble lay inside it. The man swiped it off, and it clattered amongst its fellows on the ground.
“When you are ready to depart, leave a pebble in the hollow, and I will know. Come.”
The path flattened out, leading them around the coast.
“Aren’t you afraid of your light being seen?” Dain asked with a doubtful glance inland.
Their guide shrugged. “Not tonight. The landings are varied between two beaches on either side of the town. Tonight, the soldiers watch the other.” His teeth gleamed briefly. “And we watch the soldiers.”
“He never mentioned the proximity of soldiers,” Isabelle murmured.
“There is a lot he doesn’t mention if it suits his purpose,” Dain replied. Which was another, interesting way of regarding the amiable Torbridge.
Before long, their guide left the path, which led, perhaps, to a village or to St. Sebastian itself, and walked downward once more. The sea washed over rocks beneath them, battering at the low cliffs of the headland beyond.
Their guide halted, glancing back to make sure they had caught up with him. Then he faced the rock through a mist Isabelle had not noticed before. “Madame.”
He wasn’t addressing Isabelle. There was a rustle, a movement of frond-like foliage and brush, and a woman peered out.
“Come,” she said.
It was doubtful she even saw Dain and Isabelle. Their guide held the foliage aside, and Dain squeezed past Isabelle to step inside before he reached for her hand and helped her inside, too. Their guide entered afterward and replaced the door of hanging foliage and loose branches.
The cave was smoky, but to Isabelle at this moment, it was warm. The reason was an ancient brazier burning in the middle of the chamber, giving off a warm, almost cozy glow. In fact, it was probably smoke from here and not mist she had noticed outside. A pile of rough blankets lay close to the brazier. Someone was helping the stranded couple, most probably their guide.
“Marcus,” the woman said hoarsely and all but fell into her brother-in-law’s arms. It was a short, desperate embrace for Dain needed to know about his brother.
“Stephen?” he demanded. “Is he…?”
“Ill. Desperately ill.” Breaking free, Mrs. Dain dropped to her knees by the pile of blankets and revealed the man within shivering uncontrollably. Isabelle stepped closer and saw a gaunt, unshaven face, eyes closed. By the guide’s lantern, sweat glistened on the sick man’s face.
“Where is he injured?” Dain demanded.
“There’s shrapnel in his side. It’s infected, I’m sure, and the reason we were coming home in the first place. And then his leg was broken in the shipwreck. Georges set it,” she added, nodding to their guide before she peeled back the blanket to show the splints on either side. “You see why I c
annot risk moving him? Even getting him to a boat would be impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Georges disputed. “Difficult. And painful.”
“He doesn’t look as if he’d notice,” Dain said grimly. Crouching by his brother, he smoothed the damp hair off the burning forehead.
“How did you get him here?” Isabelle blurted.
Mrs. Dain blinked at her, as though noticing her for the first time.
“Madame Renard,” Dain murmured, using her slightly altered name. “My sister-in-law, Louisa Dain.”
They exchanged curt nods before Mrs. Dain answered the question. “I didn’t. He got me here, even found the cave. I was unconscious.” She touched her head as though remembering a pain, or perhaps still feeling it. “I don’t like to think of the agony he must have been in, dragging me and that leg…” She shuddered. “And the next day, Georges found us and sent word to England. By then, Stephen was already fevered, and he’s only got worse.”
“He needs a doctor, Louisa,” Dain said heavily.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” she burst out. “Even Georges cannot bring a respectable doctor to a cave to treat an English soldier in hiding! There are French soldiers in St. Sebastien.”
Dain turned to Georges, asking him in French, “How many soldiers in the town?”
“Not many. They are quartered outside the town, mostly guarding prisoners of war, but they come in now and again. A few new ones have arrived recently to sort out the smuggling problem.” He grinned villainously. “But then, why should they? The trade goes both ways.”
In both goods and spies, presumably.
“Then they aren’t looking very hard?” Isabelle guessed.
Georges shrugged. “An initiative to please the public. The government is seen to be doing something about it. But a British soldier would be carted off to prison, wounded or not, before you could say, Vive l’empereur. And this prison is no place for officers.”
Isabelle regarded him with greater curiosity. “Then why do you help?
Georges smiled. “I am not French.” He turned to Dain. “At first light, find the road, about a hundred yards from here directly south. A carriage will wait to take you to St. Sebastien, as though you have just come from Paris. It will leave you there, and from then on, you must take care of matters yourself.” He glanced at Mrs. Dain and his eyes softened. This might have been the real reason he helped. “Good luck, madame.”
The Broken Heart Page 12
