Between the buildings opposite, she glimpsed the River Seine. Armand had promised to accompany her for a walk along its banks, as soon as he returned.
They had ridden at breakneck speed from St. Sebastien, parting soon from the familiar faces of Boucher, Caron, Dupont, and Lefevre who followed more slowly without changing horses every few miles. It had made an exhausting journey, but an exciting, even delightful one because it had been taken with Armand.
Having tumbled into this pension, with which Armand was clearly familiar, she had slept like the dead. But Armand had risen at first light, kissed her goodbye, and gone off to answer his general’s summons, leaving Isabelle to sleep longer.
However, curiosity had got the better of her. She could not stay in bed when she was in Paris. As long as her parents had been alive, they had dreamed of returning here, more even than to their lost estates in southern France. And quite unexpectedly, she was here.
And she did not think she could wait for Armand. Closing the window, she swept up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders. Then she reached for her bonnet.
And a knock sounded at the door.
She straightened, suddenly wary, for Armand would not knock. But she was being silly. It would be Madame Rievaulx, their landlady. “Entrez,” she said calmly.
The door opened and a gentleman strolled in. Tall and slender, he walked with a decided limp that detracted nothing from his sheer presence. He carried himself with the pride of an aristocrat and the unconscious confidence that Isabelle associated with power.
As his gaze fell on her, he paused for an instant before closing the door behind him. He removed his hat but inclined his head rather than bowed. “Mademoiselle?”
“Madame,” she corrected. “How might I help you?”
His gaze took in the apartment, which served as both sitting room and bedchamber. “You could point me in the direction of Captain le Noir.”
“He is not here. If you leave your card, I will see he receives it.”
The gentleman’s eyes came back to her, and she was almost frightened. They were cool, assessing, formidably intelligent, at once perceptive and dismissive. Their power took her breath away. He smiled gently. “I will wait. Don’t let me keep you,”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But you will not wait here.”
The hooded eyelids came down and rose. He seemed faintly amused. “I will not?”
“You will not.” There was something undeniably intimidating, almost sinister about her guest, and she would not allow him to remain here, neither alone with her nor without her.
His lips curved into a faint, cold smile. “I believe we have a misunderstanding. And my manners are at fault. You are…?”
“Isabelle de Renarde,” said Armand from the doorway.
Both Isabelle and her visitor swung at once to face him. Her heart skipped a beat because he looked so handsome and smart in his uniform, a faint smile playing around his lips. But there was defiance in his eyes as well as a hint of irritation. She had been so focused on the somewhat alarming caller that she hadn’t even heard the door open.
He kicked it closed with his heel and walked into the room to stand beside Isabelle, facing the sinister stranger. “My betrothed.”
One elegant eyebrow lifted. “Indeed. Felicitations, dear boy. Am I now worthy of a more proper greeting?”
To her surprise, Armand’s face relaxed. He took a step nearer their visitor and the two men embraced.
Understanding began to dawn on Isabelle, and with it came guilt over her quick dismissal of the caller. “Oh! Is this your Abbé T?”
“It is,” Armand said, releasing him and scowling. “And if you knew him better, you would not be surprised that my general had nothing to say to me. His summons, I believe, was at your behest.”
The abbé shrugged. “Well, you would not obey my summonses, which I have been issuing since you returned from England. I trust it is not going to become one of your grudges?”
“I don’t bear grudges,” Armand said at once, “and in any case, it isn’t. In fact, I’m very glad to see you, because we need your help.”
The abbé sighed. “It is as well I am not easily offended. What do you want of me?”
“Isabelle was an émigré in England,” Armand said bluntly. “Basically, we need to establish her right to be here so we can be married.”
The abbé regarded her, not without interest. “Who were your family?”
She lifted her chin. “De Brantome.”
The piercing eyes seemed to go straight through her. He smiled faintly. “I believe I knew your uncle, the Duc de Moneau.”
“You did?” she said, startled.
“I am only surprised you choose to ally yourself with this low-born oaf, for contrary to popular belief, he is not my son, natural or otherwise. I only took an interest in him because for some reason, I liked him. Mostly, I can’t understand that either.”
“Yes, you can,” Isabelle said shrewdly, and for an instant, genuine amusement twinkled in the abbé’s eyes.
“I believe I shall like you, too. Very well, I shall arrange everything that is necessary. When do you wish to be married?”
“As soon as possible,” Armand replied.
The abbé eased himself into the chair by the fire and stretched out his bad leg. He tapped his finger against his lips, glancing from her to Armand and back. “Very well. This afternoon will do. I had set it aside for Armand in any case. And you and I, my dear, will need to have a long talk. Very soon.”
“About what?” she said, bewildered.
“Great Britain,” the abbé replied, still watching her very carefully.
“You’re wrong,” Armand said amiably, mystifying Isabelle thoroughly. “She has nothing to do with you. She doesn’t even know who you are.”
A frown tugged at her brow. “Who are you?” she asked.
Armand sighed. “Allow me to present to you Prince Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord.”
The blood sang in her ears. This was the “defrocked priest” Armand had claimed was his foster father. This aristocratic churchman turned revolutionary, who had not only survived but thrived during the countless changes of regime in France since the revolution. A clever diplomat and puller of strings, the master of a massive network of information. And a man who had both supported and betrayed Bonaparte, according to rumor. But it wasn’t the fact that he carried such power that floored her.
It was the realization that Torbridge had known all along. In defecting to France with Armand, she had put herself just where he had always wanted her. Next to Talleyrand.
The great man smiled in understanding. “I don’t suppose you know a man called Lord Torbridge?”
“Even I know Torbridge,” Armand scoffed.
“Which is precisely why I summoned you,” Talleyrand said.
*
“We have been manipulated from the beginning!” Isabelle raged when Talleyrand had finally left them alone. She paced the room much more in Armand’s style than her own. “I for one will not play the spy or the traitor, not for either of them!”
“I’m not sure that is what’s wanted of either of us,” Armand said thoughtfully, sitting on the bed and watching her.
She swung on him. “Is that why you were so suspicious of me when we first met in France? You thought I was pursuing you? To get to your foster-father?”
“It crossed my mind,” he admitted. “I thought of you as my untouchable, unattainable angel, and for a short while—a very short while—you seemed…sullied. I’m sorry. It was soon perfectly clear you had no idea about my background. Though I doubted Torbridge was so ignorant.”
“I wish you had warned me.”
“Why?” He caught her hand as she strode past him and pulled her onto the bed beside him. “Would it have made any difference? If you had known my abbé was Talleyrand, would you have gone back to England with the Dains?”
She shook her head. “No. No, you know I would not. Unless it
was to slap Torbridge’s devious face before I came home again.”
Armand smiled and drew her back to lie with him on the bed. “Home. You called France home.”
She let herself relax into his arms. “You are home.”
“Then don’t be angry. Don’t regret Torbridge, because he sent you to me. Don’t regret Talleyrand, because despite everything, I love him. And between them, they have brought us together.”
She touched his cheek. “That is true.”
He kissed her. “You might also consider that it is not betrayal either of them want from you or me, but a way to peace. The emperor’s failure in Russia weakens him, leaves him open to negotiation at the very least. Perhaps we have an honorable part to play in what follows.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, doubtful but intrigued.
He kissed her again, with just a little more urgency in his persuasive lips. “In the meantime, we have just over three hours until you marry this unmarriable soldier. How would you like to spend it?”
She smiled against his lips. “Walking by the Seine.”
“And?” His hands swept down her body, making her gasp and arch into his caress.
“And this,” she whispered.
“Do you love me?” he asked fiercely.
She threw both arms around his neck. “With all my heart.”
Epilogue
As his coach thundered through the village of Carmillac, Armand threw himself forward to stare out of the window. The sudden intensification of pain made him tug in frustration at the bandage around his head. Despite the surgeon’s instructions to remain calm and relaxed as much as possible, he could not. He yearned to be home too badly, for Isabelle should be delivering their first child any day, and he had no idea how either of them fared. Fear for them, at this most dangerous time of a woman’s life, ate him up.
How ironic it would be for him to have survived this head wound received in battle at Dresden only to discover he had lost everything that made his life worthwhile… But he would not, could not think of such a possibility.
There was nothing to distract him but scenery as they sped out of the village and onward down the hedge-lined road. Abbe T had given them the farmhouse as a wedding present. It was small enough not to draw undue attention, large enough to entertain friends and family. Even a cousin of Isabelle’s had come to stay for a week, while he had had opportunity during his last leave of absence, to introduce her to several of his closest friends. It had warmed his heart to see her welcome them, and appreciate them as he did.
But this child, which he both longed for and feared for the danger it presented to Isabelle… He rubbed his head through the bandage, and sat at the very edge of the seat, drumming his fingers against the window. The coach swerved to the left, slowing on the narrower track that led to the farm.
His heart drumming, he barely waited for the coach to halt before he jumped out. That didn’t help his headache, either, but he could not wait. The front door was open, while a maid swept the step.
“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet in apparent delight.
Somewhere that surprised him, but he had no time to dwell on anything other than Isabelle. “Where is my wife?” he demanded.
“In the garden, monsieur, with—”
He pushed past her, charging through the house to the side door that led to the garden and bolted outside, where he came to a sudden, dizzying stop.
The September air was warm, yet fresh and sweet. He realized it smelled of home. Every sense spoke of home here, not least the image of Isabelle, hatless in the sunshine, stretched out on a blanket on the grass, bent over whatever was hidden in the shade of a parasol.
His wife was smiling, her eyes soft and tender as she gazed down at the object of her attention. She was so beautiful he could not breathe, so alive that he wanted to shout and weep for joy.
Then she looked up, and his heart stood still.
Her hand flew to her breast. For an instant, the smile seemed frozen to her face, and then with a sob, she leapt to her feet and flew to him. He caught her in his arms and her fingers were on his face.
“Oh, my love, my love, you are hurt,” she whispered, touching his bandage. “What…” The rest was lost as he kissed her. She returned the embrace with enthusiasm.
After a few moments, his mind began to work again. He recognized the bump had gone from her belly and began to suspect what he should always have known, what—indeed who—lay beneath the parasol.
With a gasp, he tore his lips free.
“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely. “Well on the mend. And you, you are well?”
“More than well,” she whispered, tugging his hand to make him move his apparently paralyzed feet. “Come.”
And there beneath the parasol lay the tiniest, most perfect being in the world. A baby.
“Your daughter,” Isabelle said. “I named her Aimée.”
“Perfect,” he whispered, dropping to his knees on the blanket. He touched his daughter’s cheek with the tip of his little finger. She took a swipe at it and caught it, holding on with a strength that made him smile. “Oh, my dear, aren’t you clever?”
“Aimée?” she asked shakily. “Or me?”
He lifted the baby in one arm, and with the other, drew Isabelle close in to his side. “Both. I am the luckiest man alive.”
She leaned in to him. “How long can you stay?”
“Two months or more, the surgeon said.”
“Tell me everything,” she said anxiously.
“After you’ve told me everything,” he insisted. “And kiss me again.”
She obeyed the latter instruction, then rested her head on his shoulder. “I have a family of my own. I never knew, never imagined, I could be so happy as now, when I have you both together.” She smiled. “I wonder what is happening at the Hart Inn right now. I wonder if Lily married her farmer or held out for true love.”
“That is another story. At the moment, I am more than contented with mine.” He kissed her and then his daughter.
“So am I,” Isabelle said, nestling into him. “So am I.”
About Mary Lancaster
Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids and a small, crazy dog.
Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the popularBlackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.
Connect with Mary on-line – she loves to hear from readers:
Email Mary:
[email protected]
Website:
www.MaryLancaster.com
Newsletter sign-up:
http://eepurl.com/b4Xoif
Facebook:
facebook.com/mary.lancaster.1656
Facebook Author Page:
facebook.com/MaryLancasterNovelist
Twitter:
@MaryLancNovels
Amazon Author Page:
amazon.com/Mary-Lancaster/e/B00DJ5IACI
Bookbub:
bookbub.com/profile/mary-lancaster
The Broken Heart Page 21
