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

by Cynthia Wright

  When Eustache didn’t laugh at this sally, Izzie turned her head and saw Gabriel St. Briac standing in the doorway. How long had he been there, listening to them? He was bristling with energy and more handsome than ever in fawn breeches, topboots, and a fitted coat of charcoal kerseymere. His expertly knotted neckcloth was white as snow against his tanned face and tousled hair. Even from a distance, Izzie perceived the flame that came into his sapphire eyes, and she was secretly glad that she had bathed and changed into an attractive gown of pale blue dotted muslin. Although she still felt self-conscious about her curves, the frock was flattering.

  “You asked how many women attempt to stow away carrying a portmanteau filled with artist’s supplies?” Gabriel repeated with a flinty smile. “None but you, Lady Isabella. Your bravado is unparalled.”

  Eustache was scrambling to his feet. “Monseigneur, I hope you do not object to my presence here. It has been fascinating to watch her ladyship ply her craft.” He paused, seeming to backtrack. “Of course, I’ve completed my duties. I put away all your possessions, in just the manner you prefer, with your neckcloths folded precisely—”

  “Stop talking,” Gabriel interjected, eyes narrowed.

  “As you say, monseig—”

  “And I have told you not to use that form of address with me. I am no one’s lord, and well you know it.”

  Izzie bristled. “See here, you are being completely unfair to M’sieur LeFait!” She wanted to say that Eustache idolized St. Briac, but that would only embarrass the manservant. “He has done nothing to deserve such treatment.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Gabriel’s nostrils flared, making him look like a pirate. “I’ve had a hellish day.”

  “Ah, monseigneur,” exclaimed Eustache, “I will bring you a glass of your finest brandy. Or perhaps you would prefer Calvados?” He was on his feet, eager to be of service.

  “Thank you, no. I want you to pack for a journey.”

  “A journey?” he echoed. “But you have just arrived. I have just unpacked!”

  “Eustache, you remind me again of the reason I never wanted a manservant!”

  Izzie watched the stout little man hurry out of her small bedchamber. Suddenly alone with St. Briac, she felt telltale warmth suffuse her cheeks. “Is it proper, m’sieur, for us to be alone in this manner?”

  He walked over to study her sketch, and while he was at it, he let his eyes wander over her from head to toe. To Izzie’s horror, her traitorous nipples puckered under the heat of his gaze.

  “Very nice.” His eyes met hers, faintly taunting. “The sketch, I mean. Your talent is evident.”

  “I know it must seem ridiculous that I brought my art box, but I become anxious when I can’t draw or paint. It is…” She tried to find the words, settling on, “my anchor.”

  Gabriel was listening, and she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes before he began to back away from her. Soon he was sitting across the room in a little wooden chair with a frayed rush seat that looked too fragile to hold someone so tall and strong.

  “Quite frankly, I have neither the time nor the inclination to make sense of you, my lady.” He propped one booted leg on the opposite knee and stared at her. “You tell me that you crave a life of independence. So do I. Clearly, you do as you please, without caring for the wishes of others. I am used to doing the same.” Gabriel came partway out of the chair. “Excuse me, would it be too much to ask you to put down your sketch and come over here to give me your undivided attention?”

  Izzie felt exceedingly warm. “The only other seat is there.” She pointed to her bed, within touching distance of his chair. “How shocked my mother would be to see me sitting on my bed, alone with a man like you…” As she spoke, Izzie set down her sketchbook and went to perch on the edge of the narrow bed.

  “But I thought that you had chosen a path free of such restrictions, like your mentor, Madame Le Brun. Do you not mean to take lovers, as she does?”

  “M’sieur! You go too far.” Dear God, it felt as if she had a fever, and surely he thought her heightened color must mean he was winning.

  Gabriel held up a hand to in mock surrender. “True, and clearly so do you, or we wouldn’t be here, alone together in a bedchamber in France.”

  “You are toying with me,” she accused him. “You have said that you intend to send Lowenna and me back to Cornwall. I also heard you tell Eustache that you will leave immediately on a journey. Clearly you have come to say goodbye, so why not just say it and leave me in peace?”

  “Would that I could.” When he paused to rub his eyes, Izzie felt her heart leap. Was it possible that he had had a change of heart? “I learned some things today that have complicated my plans.”

  “Indeed?” She took off her spectacles and searched for an invisible smudge so that he wouldn’t see her smile.

  “Do you know of a Customs Officer named Adolphus Lynton?”

  “Oh, yes! He was once my brother Sebastian’s avowed enemy, but he hasn’t any real power now. Why do you mention him?”

  “He is here in Roscoff.” Gabriel straightened a cuff before adding, “Looking for you.”

  Izzie’s thoughts were in a whirlwind. “I wonder how he knows that I left Polperro?”

  “Someone probably saw you boarding Deux Frères and sold him the information, knowing that he has a grudge against Sebastian.” He shrugged. “I am not afraid of him, but he could do a lot of damage to your reputation if he knew that you were here in my house. Do you think he is capable of that?”

  She quickly perceived that Adolphus Lynton had put St. Briac in a corner. “Oh, yes! He hates Sebastian—and Julia as well! He once had designs on her, and when he learned of her marriage to Sebastian, he sought vengeance on both of them. Lynton nearly killed Julia during a botched raid and had to leave Cornwall in disgrace. Unfortunately, he eventually slithered back, even recapturing a position as a Customs Officer.” She wrinkled her nose. “More recently, after I took my painting atelier in Polperro, he invited me to attend a ball at the estate of a local squire. Of course, I declined, but he has continued to…indicate his interest.”

  “Can you think of any reason why I should rescue you now from the odious Adolphus Lynton?”

  “No.” Izzie cast her eyes down in an attempt to look humble. “I realize now that I have brought a lot of trouble to your life. No one could blame you for sending me back to Cornwall, even though it would doubtless mean that Adolphus Lynton would know about it.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, stop pretending.” When he leaned forward, his knees brushing hers, she thrilled to the power of his hard, male body. “Look at me, Isabella. I may wish to send you back to Cornwall, but I cannot. I would not put you in Lynton’s path. He would not only delight in ruining your good name, but doubtless would also find a way to use this misadventure of yours against Sebastian.”

  Tears sprang into Izzie’s eyes. She hoped he couldn’t see them behind her spectacles. “Do you intend to wait until he is gone?”

  “I cannot wait. Who can say how long he may loiter in Roscoff?”

  Now her heart was racing with fresh hope. She leaned forward, mirroring his pose. “And so…m’sieur?”

  “I have a suspicion that some of Napoleon’s henchmen may be in possession of the King. I’ve learned that a pair of them were in Roscoff just two days ago, so I cannot tarry if I am to hunt them down.”

  Izzie held her breath, waiting, watching the play of conflicting emotions over his splendid face.

  “You will come with me.” Gabriel gave a harsh sigh. “God knows it is utter madness, but I cannot see a way around it!”

  Izzie was flooded with relief and joy. To her own surprise, she came up from the bed and threw her arms around his neck, a movement that also caused her to perch on one of his iron-hard thighs.

  “Thank you, m’sieur! Merci! I promise you will not regret it.”

  To her further surprise, Gabriel’s arms encircled her waist and drew her against him so that her s
oft breasts were pushed into his broad chest and she could feel his heart beating. Their mouths were inches apart. She was swept by a hungry longing to taste him, and for him to taste her. The mere possibility of this made her feel dizzy.

  “It’s madness,” he whispered.

  The flame in his eyes was so compelling that Izzie’s body responded with pulsing warmth between her legs. She tried to ignore it. “You won’t be sorry. I promise! I shall help you find the King.”

  Gabriel angled his face away from hers. A moment later, he rose and lifted her to her feet at the same time.

  “We leave in two hours’ time,” came his brusque reply. “Rouse your maid and make ready.”

  Chapter 11

  St. Briac found Eustache in his bedchamber, removing clothing from the armoire that he had just put away. The manservant stood with a freshly washed shirt in his hands, appearing to think for a long moment before he spoke.

  “Monseigneur, I know full well that you have never shared the private details of your life with me. I accept that. However, I shall make bold to say that, at this moment, there is a great deal I do not understand.”

  It was true. St. Briac had always sought to hold Eustache at arm’s length along with virtually everyone else who strove to enter his orbit, yet Eustache always seemed to mysteriously know his secrets. If St. Briac were able to ride away alone tonight, as he longed to do, he could laugh and wave away Eustache’s little speech.

  Instead he gave a rueful smile. “I fear that my life has become far too complicated of late.”

  “Perhaps I can help?”

  “I wish it were that easy! You know well enough that I am a man who takes a solitary path, on which I can make my own way and sort out my own challenges. However, fate is conspiring to make that impossible.” He fell silent, resisting the temptation to confide in the other man.

  “I am listening, monseigneur.”

  St. Briac went to the chest where he kept an emergency bottle of fine brandy. “I know that you never touch spirits, but I hope you won’t object if I indulge.”

  “You need not ask. I defer to you in all matters, monseigneur.” He made a little bow, and the candle flame flickered over his pomaded black hair.

  “Eustache, have I not asked you to stop behaving as if I were royalty?”

  “You are nobility,” he insisted. “The St. Briac title is one of the finest, oldest, most respected in all of France. Your ancestor was a trusted companion to King François I.”

  “Yes, but that was long ago, during the Renaissance! A century ago, the title passed over my misbegotten great-grandfather, to his aunt Marie.” Suddenly feeling tired, St. Briac sat down on a ladder-back chair in the corner.

  Eustache stubbornly shook his head. “Those are meaningless details, monseigneur. Your nobility is in your blood, whether you believe it or not. It is in your magnificent bearing, the bones of your face, your spirit, your—”

  “Cease!” St. Briac held up a silencing hand. “You are deluded and I do not have time for this conversation. Instead, you must listen as I tell you what has happened that causes me to travel in the dead of night to Saint-Malo, accompanied not only by you, but also by Lady Isabella and her maid.”

  The manservant’s eyes went wide. “As always, I am at your disposal!”

  Quickly, St. Briac laid out the story, including the details about the painting and Adolphus Lynton. “I would not ordinarily divulge so many private matters, but it is possible that I may need you to act on my behalf at some point, or to help me if we should find ourselves in some difficulty.”

  Eustache blinked rapidly, nodding. “I am honored that you have seen fit to confide in me, monseigneur.”

  “I hope it won’t be necessary again,” came his astringent reply. With that, he started toward the door, turning back only to add, “Bring the carriage.”

  “Carriage?” Eustache blinked faster. “But, surely you must be aware that we no longer have such a conveyance. Carriages are rare as hen’s teeth in France these days.”

  “Why should I keep track of such matters? You know full well that I only travel on horseback or by sea,” Gabriel replied brusquely. He took several gold coins from his desk and put them in Eustache’s hand. “Go and procure one, then. This should be enough to purchase the finest carriage in Roscoff!”

  * * *

  “I don’t understand why we must leave at such an hour,” Izzie murmured, stifling a yawn. “All the world is going to bed now, not setting off on a journey.”

  “Precisely.” Gabriel accepted a woven basket from Madame Kerjean, filled with warm food wrapped up in a large printed napkin.

  It came to her then that he probably hoped to not only elude Adolphus Lynton, but also pursue the men who might have his painting. Nonetheless, she was still suffering the aftereffects of her night in the coffin, and the thought of riding in a carriage instead of sleeping in a bed was extremely unappealing.

  The sounds of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels drawing closer on the cobbled lane outside caused Gabriel to straighten his shoulders. Izzie thought he was looking particularly handsome in riding boots, snug buckskin breeches, a moss-green cutaway coat, and a plain, yet elegantly knotted cravat. In spite of everything else that was happening, Izzie thought of the moments tonight when she had been on his lap and it seemed he had come very close to kissing her.

  “Madame, I beg you remember,” Gabriel was instructing his housekeeper as he set the basket down near the doorway with their baggage. “If anyone at all should ask for me—or for someone who fits the description of this lady—you must deny her presence here, and say that I have gone to the Loire Valley to visit relatives.”

  The Frenchwoman pursed her lips and sighed. “As you say. And when will you come home?”

  “If it is in my power, I shall return anon.” He gave Madame Kerjean an irresistible smile. “I trust you will keep my home in a state of readiness?”

  She made a little tsk-tsk sound and touched the edge of his coat sleeve. “Mais oui. Always.”

  The door opened to admit Eustache along with a misty rain. He and Gabriel carried the bags outside, followed by Izzie and Lowenna. All four stopped in front of the conveyance that waited on the wet cobbles.

  “What the devil is this?” demanded Gabriel. “Where is our carriage?”

  Izzie beheld a dilapidated, ancient-looking means of transport that was barely large enough to carry two passengers. Furthermore, the thing was partially open to the elements.

  Eustache seemed to screw up his courage. “It is a fiacre, monseigneur. A modest vehicle, to be sure, but I suspect only Napoleon himself rides in a coach these days, unless you wish to travel by public velocifére?” He paused. “Of course, that is not even an option at this hour.”

  “Incroyable,” muttered Gabriel, clapping a hand to his forehead. “This isn’t fit for the farm animals.”

  “I think that means ‘incredible’,” Lowenna whispered loudly, leaning toward Izzie.

  “I suggest, mademoiselle, that you refrain from commenting.” Gabriel glanced their way, clearly furious. “If I were able to simply mount my horse and ride off alone, I could reach Saint-Malo within hours. Instead, I am burdened by a hideous equipage, as well as two English females who have no business in France.”

  With that, he handed the two women into the fiacre and pushed the door closed behind them. Izzie perched on the hard, narrow seat and inhaled an odor of damp, stale pipe smoke.

  “I suspect that Eustache took this from the former owners just minutes ago,” said Izzie, wrinkling her nose as the cloying stench of hair pomade wafted up to her. “If I ever am tempted to wear oils on my hair, I implore you to remind me of this horrid stench.”

  “As you say, my lady,” Lowenna replied with a sigh, “but I’ve not had much success at stopping you from doing anything up to now…”

  * * *

  As Gabriel watched the fiacre jounce wildly along under a moonless sky, he was shocked, even embarrassed, by the state
of the roads in France. It had been a long time since he had traveled by horseback, preferring to sail when visiting Justin in Saint-Malo. Now he remembered why.

  During the long years of Revolution, the already-rutted French roads had fallen into a worse state of disrepair. Napoleon had made grand promises to improve the country’s roads and bridges, but it seemed that all the money he’d raised from schemes like selling Louisiana to the United States had gone to pay for his wars.

  Of course, Gabriel reflected, his own problems were multiplied by the black, rainy night and that deplorable conveyance. Every time the fiacre lurched through a water-filled rut, he held his breath, expecting a wheel to fly off.

  He found some consolation in imagining Isabella’s horror at the ordeal she was being forced to endure. He’d seen the expression on her face when he put her inside the smelly old fiacre, and by now, she doubtless regretted this entire impulsive adventure.

  Pulling a handkerchief from a pocket inside his greatcoat, Gabriel wiped the rain from his face and sighed. His proud stallion, Victor, paused before a particularly deep, muddy rut, and seemed to look back at him, brows lowered in pronounced disapproval.

  “I perceive,” he said to the horse, “you are angry with me. Do you imagine that I am happy about this turn of affairs? I can assure you none of this—” St. Briac gestured carelessly toward the fiacre carrying the two women “—is my doing.”

  Victor snorted doubtfully and sidestepped a dark puddle.

  “You remind me of my brother,” muttered Gabriel. Why the deuce did Justin keep popping into his thoughts? The last thing he wanted to imagine right now was his arrogant older brother’s reaction to this situation. There would be plenty of time for that when they reached Saint-Malo.