The Secret of Love (Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family Book 3)

by Cynthia Wright

  Just as she reached for another book, a very stout fellow wearing a green-striped waistcoat appeared in the doorway. He looked to be at least forty years of age, but it occurred to Izzie that perhaps that was because of his weight and thinning black hair, which he combed forward à la Caesar.

  “My lady,” he greeted her in perfect English. “Allow me to make myself known to you. My name is Eustache LeFait, manservant to Gabriel St. Briac. I am here to assist you and your woman in any way possible.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  “You must call me Eustache.” He bowed, smiling. Before Izzie could tell him their names, he continued, “Allow me to show you to your rooms.”

  They went up a narrow staircase to find two small bedchambers, with a much larger one across from them. That, clearly, belonged to St. Briac.

  “Have you been with M’sieur St. Briac very long?” Izzie inquired as casually as if she were mentioning the weather.

  He turned to look at her with sincere brown eyes. “I came to him a dozen years ago, in the town of Saint-Malo, when I was barely sixteen years of age. I felt lost and uncertain of my future until that very morning. However, when I saw monseigneur walking with his brother on the ramparts, something I cannot explain happened. I felt an immediate connection: a feeling. A sense of fate!” Eustache spoke in a low voice brimming with emotion. “I went to monseigneur and threw myself down before him, begging to be of service.”

  “Lud!” Lowenna exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  “You call him monseigneur?” Izzie asked, spellbound. “‘My lord’?”

  “But of course! He is a St. Briac, from one of the noblest families in France.”

  “But… I understood that your master descends through another, uh, branch of the family.”

  “My lady!” Eustache blinked at her, clearly offended. “Monseigneur is noble, through and through.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t mean to disparage him in any way. I don’t give a fig for such things,” Izzie said. “You must tell us what happened next, after you threw yourself down at his feet.”

  “Ah, well, he tried to put me off, but I knew it was meant to be. Monseigneur is a solitary sort by nature, though perhaps you already know that? He likes to look after himself. But when he finally realized that I was not going away, he agreed to allow me a few duties.” Eustache shrugged philosophically. “He may scoff at the feelings I have about our shared destiny, but he knows that he can trust me.”

  “I’m certain it must mean a great deal.” Her heart warmed to the man. “Do you have a family? A wife?”

  “How could I, when I have a higher calling? I must be always available to monseigneur, at a moment’s notice.” As he spoke, Eustache set her portmanteau next to a little window that overlooked the narrow, cobbled lane. “Please excuse me. I’ll show your woman her chamber, and then order baths. I hope you’ll be comfortable, my lady.”

  Not until Eustache had backed out of the room, head bent, and closed the door did Izzie realize he had never asked her name.

  Chapter 9

  Tocquer, the innkeeper, worked his way through the crowded public room, greeting every patron. Finally he reached the corner where St. Briac sat at a small table, reading a book.

  “Bonjour, m’sieur. Will you try the cotriade?”

  Gabriel looked up in time to see the older man wink. “You know that I always take your recommendation.”

  He pretended to return to his book while watching the other patrons. Gabriel didn’t care much for this shadowy, damp public room with its stone floor and low-beamed ceiling. He preferred the inn’s sunny terrace where roses would be climbing by this second week of May. There were, however, more important reasons for his visit.

  “Here you go, m’sieur!” boomed Tocquer, a fresh white apron stretched taut around his considerable girth. “Just the way you like it!”

  Obediently, Gabriel dipped his spoon into the fragrant Breton fish stew and tasted. “It is perfect, as always, with just the right amount of sorrel. Will you sit with me for a few minutes while I eat?”

  “Of course.” Tocquer perched on the edge of the other chair, his back to the rest of the men in the room. For a decade, the innkeeper had been Gabriel’s trusted collaborator in Roscoff. He knew everyone who came and went in the little village, and he had proven himself to be discreet and insightful. “A minute or two, but that is all I can give you.”

  “Have you a reason for this special caution?”

  He shrugged. “That ferret, Adolphus Lynton, appeared this morning, then went off to nose around Roscoff. Do you remember him? He used to be Fowey’s Supervisor of Salt some years back, and after getting into trouble by targeting Lord Sebastian Trevarre and his wife, he was demoted to a mere Customs Officer.”

  Gabriel straightened. He had come to Tocquer to inquire if he knew of any respectable ships sailing for England. He’d been counting on finding an old friend, or at least someone he could trust, to ferry Isabella and her servant back to Cornwall. This was not the news he’d been hoping for.

  “Unfortunately, I do remember Lynton. Each time he’s appeared in Roscoff, his motives have been suspect.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Tocquer. “Today, he asked me if I knew of any young, newly-arrived English women.”

  “What?” Gabriel’s heart seemed to skip a beat. He set down his spoon just as a shadow fell over their table.

  “Bonjour, messieurs!”

  Wincing at the speaker’s excruciating French accent, Gabriel looked up to see Adolphus Lynton looming above them. This was the last thing he needed.

  “Aha,” he replied. “We meet again, Lynton.”

  “I heard you were here, Captain, and intuition prompted me to speak to you.” The gaunt Customs Officer glanced toward an empty chair, but when Gabriel did not invite him to join them, he pursed his lips. “All right then, I won’t waste our time on pleasantries. I have received information that a citizen of Polperro, a female artist, may have been kidnapped. I have traveled to France to determine if the lady in question needs rescuing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this matter, would you, St. Briac?”

  Gabriel suppressed an urge to laugh at the notion of Adolphus Lynton attempting to rescue Lady Isabella from him. Instead, he said coolly, “I haven’t a clue, sir, but I can assure you that if I encounter any Englishwomen who need saving, you’ll be swiftly informed.”

  “The lady I speak of is of noble birth,” Lynton proclaimed imperiously.

  “Then it is even less likely that her path should cross with mine.” He fixed the Englishman with a rapier-sharp gaze. “If you don’t mind, I have other business this morning.”

  “I see. Fine. But I warn you, my suspicions are aroused!” And with that, Lynton spun on his heel and stalked out of the public room.

  Tocquer coughed. “The fellow is a jackass.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Why doesn’t Lynton mind his own business?”

  “At least it’s nothing to do with you, or your…profession!” Tocquer winked conspiratorially. “Enough about that vermin. I shouldn’t be seen lingering here with you—but before I go, I do have one more piece of information to share.”

  “Ah! I hope it will cheer me up. I need a bit of good news.”

  “I’m not certain. A Parisian gentleman was in Roscoff just two days ago, and he mentioned your name. I thought you might like to know. Are you acquainted with Vivant Denon? He and another well-dressed fellow lodged here at our auberge.”

  “Denon was here, in Roscoff? That’s odd.” St. Briac’s thoughts raced. Could there be a connection with his stolen painting? Was it possible that the ambitious Denon, who was in charge of the Musée Napoleon, could be connected with the theft? “Did he mention his traveling plans?”

  “He paid the bill two mornings ago. I heard him saying to his companion that he was eager to return to Paris, where he wouldn’t fear poisoning with each bite of food.” The innkeeper narrowed his eyes at that. “An insult to my wi
fe, whose cooking skills are legendary!”

  “Who was the other man? Do you remember his name?”

  Tocquer stood and held up a hand to acknowledge a table of patrons who called for more food. “I can’t be certain, my friend, but I think the fellow was called Wicar…”

  Gabriel was startled by this piece of news. He had a vague recollection of Jean-Baptiste Wicar as a third-class artist who had once been in charge of Napoleon’s art looting. Rumor had it that Wicar had settled in Rome, his apartments filled with a share of the masterpieces he’d stolen. What purpose could have brought him back to France, to travel with Vivant Denon?

  “I must go,” he said as he rose to look down on Tocquer’s bald head. “If anyone asks for me, tell them only that I will return shortly.”

  As Gabriel walked away, he heard Tocquer mutter good-naturedly, “That’s what you always say.”

  * * *

  After finding his way through the torturously narrow lanes leading to the waterfront, St. Briac inspected the underground tunnels and caverns attached to his warehouse. Fortunately, his memory had not betrayed him; there was a surplus of goods, ready to be loaded on ships and smuggled past Napoleon’s blockades into England.

  “Martin!” he called, catching sight of the young man rolling crates of brandy down one of the damp tunnels. “Come with me; I need to talk to you.”

  They walked through the arched tunnel until they reached a narrow side corridor. Turning, Gabriel led the way up an oppressively narrow, dark stone staircase. When they reached the top step, he drew an iron key out of his coat pocket and used it to open a sliding panel.

  Moments, later, they were inside his office. St. Briac moved a gliding bookcase back into place, blocking off the secret doorway that led down into his other world.

  For years, St. Briac had kept this office in a cottage adjacent to his warehouse. When he was here, he pretended to conduct business as the owner of fishing boats, but everyone in Roscoff knew that it was all an act, put on for the benefit of the Customs Officers.

  “I have to go away,” he now told Martin, pouring the young man a small glass of brandy. “I am putting you in charge here. Everything is already in place for the next fortnight. We are expecting an extra shipment of brandy, but beyond that, everything is in order.”

  “You’re going away?” Martin repeated.

  “Yes. Here is the shipment schedule that is already in place,” said Gabriel. He took a leather-bound book out of his desk and opened it to reveal dates and notes, all written in his own bold, clear hand. “I must go on a journey and I trust you, with Helivet’s assistance, to oversee my business while I’m away. If anyone asks, say that I am expected back shortly. Continue on with business as you would if I were here.”

  Martin’s dark eyes were filled with questions, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. “Of course, Capitaine.”

  “No one must know that I have left the area.” Then, staring hard at the younger man, St. Briac said, “And you must not speak to anyone about the stowaways. Do you understand? If you, or Helivet, or any man who was aboard Deux Frères dares to breathe a word to anyone about those two women, the payment will be death.”

  For a moment, he thought Martin didn’t believe him. His men knew him as someone who was quick to laugh in the face of danger. He’d never threatened any of them before, but this matter was too important to leave to chance.

  “Did you hear me?” he demanded.

  “Of course, Capitaine.” Martin swallowed hard, still looking doubtful, but added, “Death, you said. We will all die if we betray your trust.”

  “Exactly so! And it won’t be pretty,” St. Briac confirmed. “Now drink your brandy and be on your way.”

  * * *

  As if he didn’t have enough trouble, when St. Briac turned the corner of Rue Amiral-Révelliere, he nearly collided with a willowy female wearing a lavender silk butterfly cap and carrying a little dog.

  “Gabriel!” she exclaimed. “I have been waiting for you.”

  He nearly groaned aloud. “I have told you, repeatedly, never to wait for me, Marie. It is a recipe for disappointment.”

  “But my cook saw your ship yesterday, when she was buying fish, so I knew you had returned.” She clung to his arm and he caught a whiff of her jasmine scent. Suddenly it seemed overpowering. “I have been counting the days!”

  “That’s unfortunate, because I am about to depart again—on an errand.” He wanted to tell her that he would be away indefinitely, but remembered the instructions he’d given Tocquer and Martin.

  “But, I don’t understand. When you went away just a few days ago, you held me on your lap and said that you would miss me, my lips, my—”

  “No, don’t say it.” St. Briac shook his head to silence her. “This is a public place.” Unbidden, an image of Isabella’s intelligent, animated face came to him and he wondered how Marie’s company ever could have diverted him. Even the memory of her passion was off-putting now.

  “This is not like you, Gabriel. Who has stolen your ready laugh and your lusty appetites?”

  “You have always known the sort of man I am. I am undependable; I come and go with the wind. You would do much better to give your affections to someone who welcomes them.” He peeled her hands away from his coat sleeve. “Now you must loose me. Adieu, cherie.”

  He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked away, reached his own house, and entered. Pausing to look back through the tiny lookout window, he saw Marie finally whirl around and walk swiftly away. Good, she was angry.

  “There you are, m’sieur!” cried Madame Kerjean, coming out of the kitchen. “Back at last.”

  Knowing that she was expecting him to tease her and sit down to chat while he ate his thick wedge of tarte aux oignons, Gabriel gave her a jaunty grin. “Did I not promise a speedy return? And where is that Eustache?”

  “Will you sup now?”

  “As soon as I speak to Eustache,” he promised. “Where may I find him?”

  The housekeeper pressed her lips into a thin line. “I believe he is upstairs, tending to your clothing—and your guests.”

  “My dear Madame Kerjean, have I told you that this household would tumble into the street without you?” Gabriel took her bony hands in his and dared to kiss them. To his relief, she blushed. “Be patient with me. I must leave again, but I’ll return soon—and I promise to bring you a fine gift.”

  “You are a rogue.” Her gruff tone was suffused with affection.

  “You know me too well, madame. How fortunate I am to have someone like you to organize my life for me.” He turned to start up the stairs, but paused just long enough to look back and add, “I must beg you not to speak to anyone about the two guests who are staying here. Do I have your word?”

  “M’sieur! You insult me. I would rather drink poison than divulge your secrets.”

  “There’s no need for that,” he said, laughing. “Just pretend to know nothing, should anyone ask.”

  “No need to pretend, m’sieur,” came her tart reply. “I can’t claim to have the faintest idea what’s happening in this house!”

  * * *

  St. Briac went into his own large rooms, expecting to see Eustache tending to his duties with his usual excess of devotion. However, the bedchamber was empty. A cheerful fire had been lit and Gabriel’s possessions were unpacked and put away.

  For a long minute, he stood there soaking up the blessed stillness, wishing he could strip off his clothing, climb into the comfortable bed, open a book, and leave his problems behind. Upon reflection, it seemed to St. Briac that his world had been askew since the day he’d arrived in Cornwall. Remembering how Isabella had burst in on him while he’d been shaving, clearly believing he was someone else, the corners of his mouth twitched.

  But why was he smiling? Nothing was as it should be! He ought to be riding away on his horse tonight, alone, leaving even Eustache behind. That’s the way he preferred to live: unencumbered by responsibilities, u
nfettered by the rules and expectations of society. What good was it to be descended through the bastard St. Briac line if he had to travel with an entourage like a cursed nobleman?

  Yet, there was nothing for it. St. Briac would have to take Isabella with him. He might as well speak to her and get it over with.

  Chapter 10

  “The light is sublime at this time of day,” Izzie said softly, in French. “Do you notice the way the sun has begun to slide down behind the rooftops, leaving behind a glow of pink and gold? The effect is simply magical.”

  She was perched on the edge of a chest, in the little dormer window that jutted out over the house’s steeply sloping roof. Her traveling box of art supplies was open on a nearby chair, within reach. Cradled in her left arm, she held her sketchbook.

  “Yes, my lady, I do see the magic,” Eustache LeFait murmured from a few feet away. She could feel him watching her as she quickly drew the rooftops, the little sculpted dragons and ships that popped up above the buildings, and the choppy seas of the harbor in the distance. “You have a God-given talent.”

  Her eyes stung for a moment as she thought of her mother, closed away in her atelier, painting for hours on end. Art had been her mother’s escape from a desperately unhappy marriage, but it had also been one more barrier between her and her children.

  “That is very kind of you to say,” Izzie murmured. “Merci.”

  “It’s a shame you weren’t able to bring your oil paints.”

  Izzie didn’t take her eyes off the little boats that bobbed at anchor in the harbor, their sails furled for the night. It was a challenge to find a way to convey their movements in her sketch. “When I travel short distances, I bring my paint in little pig’s bladders the size of walnuts. If I had tried to have them on this long journey, they would have dried out too quickly. My colorman in Fowey has shown me how to keep the bladders moist longer, by storing them in an earthenware jar, but I couldn’t risk that added weight.” She smiled without turning her head. “I was already courting danger by bringing my artist’s case. How many stowaways do you know who are foolish enough to tote a portmanteau filled with painting supplies?”