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

by Cynthia Wright

  The pair went on, down more steep tunnels, past old wells and seemingly endless heaps of bones and, until they came into a larger chamber. In the center stood a huge supporting pillar made of enormous blocks of limestone, and a crude message was carved on the wall.

  George held the torch close enough to read aloud: “C’est ici de l’empire de la mort. ‘This is the realm of death’!” He turned back to Izzie, his face ghostly in the flickering light. “Good God, we have arrived. I was told to wait for them next to this inscription.”

  No sooner had he spoken the words than a strange clattering sound reached their ears, growing louder by the second. Izzie’s heart beat so hard that she felt faint.

  “Who goes there?” shouted George in French, his voice quavering, as the racket approached them.

  “Only me, my lord,” came a guttural reply, just as an old wooden cart filled with bones rounded the corner in the darkness. Pushing the cart was an old man who wore an old-fashioned tricorn hat, pulled low over matted gray hair, and a long, black coat. A small, splintered torch, fastened to side of the cart, was all he had to light his way through the catacombs.

  “Who the devil are you?” demanded George, clutching his paper-wrapped painting all the tighter. “And what are you doing down here in the middle of the bloody night?”

  The old man grinned, displaying brown teeth. As he came farther into the George’s torchlight, Izzie saw that the poor fellow was deformed, with a great hump on his back, and yet she was not repulsed.

  “I be the bone man. We do our work while the rest of Paris sleeps.”

  “Go on then, ogre! We have important business here.”

  The old man nodded, seemingly unoffended by the Englishman’s harsh tone. Very slowly, he began unloading the bones from the cart.

  “Must you leave them here, of all the thousands of chambers in the catacombs?” cried George.

  “Oui, m’sieur. You see, here are my orders.” The bone man hobbled closer, unfurling a piece of parchment. “Regardez!”

  Caught off guard, George looked down at the paper. “I can’t read those chicken scratches!”

  In that instant, the old man straightened and his entire expression hardened. Moving with lightening speed, he grasped George’s collar with his left hand at the same time he drew a rapier from under his voluminous coat.

  “Well met, my lord,” said the old man in deadly tones, touching the blade to the marquess’s throat.

  “Gabriel!” exclaimed Izzie. “You have come after all!”

  “Of course I have,” he said fondly. “Did you doubt me?”

  “Oh, no!” She wanted to throw her arms around him, but what about her brother? Surely Gabriel didn’t mean to harm him.

  “I demand that you release me!” cried George.

  “Do you indeed?” Gabriel trailed the point of the rapier down George’s breastbone and back up to his throat. “First you must give me your pistol.”

  “Criminal!” George accused as he grudgingly turned over his weapon.

  “You are speaking of yourself, I presume? Kindly sit down, there in the corner.” Gabriel glanced toward Izzie. “Cherie, we must tie him up.”

  “Is that really necessary? He has nothing to gain by interfering with our escape.” She put her hand on her brother’s trembling arm. “George, I know you are humiliated, and you would like to blame Gabriel and me. But the truth is, you have brought crisis on yourself through your own debauchery, thievery, and lies.”

  “Please,” George beseeched, nearly sobbing. “They will kill me!”

  “Messieurs Denon and Wicar?” Gabriel gave a soft laugh. “I hardly think so.”

  “Even if they spare me, tomorrow the moneylenders will murder me by tomorrow! I have been hiding from them for months. I have no place to go, no resources, no future. Please! I will change. Izzie, tell him that if he takes the painting and leaves me tied up, I will die!”

  It was a pitiful sight, to see her brother sitting on the stone floor, begging this way. Next to him lay the painting, wrapped in stained paper.

  “I am compelled to intervene on my brother’s behalf.” Izzie looked at Gabriel, praying that he would remember her words about copying the painting and realize now what she was doing. “Please, give him another chance to start a new life. If you love me, I beg you to not only leave him untied, but to also allow him keep the portrait of King François.”

  Gabriel blinked in surprise, but then slowly nodded. “Your happiness is a thousand times more important to me than any painting,” he said, to her immense relief. With a wry smile, he added, “Even one by Leonardo da Vinci.”

  George was making muffled sobbing sounds.

  “My lord, I suggest that you remember you are a nobleman,” said Gabriel as he returned his rapier to its sheath. “I will leave you here, unbound, if you give me your word that you will not mention us when Denon and Wicar arrive.”

  “Yes, I swear!” He turned his face away, seemingly filled with shame.

  Meanwhile, Gabriel reached under his coat and removed the bundle of clothing that had formed the hump at his back. “Put this on for our escape, cherie,” he said. “No one will recognize you in a monk’s robe.”

  When they were ready, Gabriel reached for George’s torch, but Izzie put a hand out to stop him.

  “My brother is afraid of the dark. We can’t leave him here without light,” she said. Then, leaning down, she put her hand over George’s and said to him, “Farewell, for now. I will always love you, but I have to do what is right. Your secrets were poisoning us both, George.”

  “Izzie…” he managed to croak.

  Standing, she took a deep breath and looked toward Gabriel, who was waiting near the doorway. In spite of the grim surroundings, she felt a surge of warmth in her heart. “I’m not Izzie any longer, George. My name is Isabella.”

  * * *

  Gabriel pushed the empty bone cart up the steep tunnels, Isabella clinging to the back of his old coat as they climbed. Finally, turning a corner, he saw Denon and Wicar coming from the opposite direction, holding a blazing torch up to light their way.

  Ducking his head, he mumbled an apology while clumsily attempting to push through with his cart. “Oh, excusez-moi, messieurs!”

  The two Frenchmen, talking excitedly to each other, barely spared them an annoyed glance as they passed in the narrow tunnel. Once they were free, Gabriel looked back at Isabella and smiled.

  “We did it!” she whispered from under her hood.

  “Of course we did.” Reaching down, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her trembling fingers. “Let’s dispose of this cart, my lady, and be on our way!”

  He was relieved that they had plenty of time, for Denon and Wicar were several minutes away from discovering Caverleigh. Holding Isabella close against him, he hurried them up the tunneled ramps, until at last they emerged from the damp underground into the fresh night air.

  Isabella leaned against him, shaking. “Deep inside, I was so afraid I would not see you again! George meant to take me away with him, and I believe he wouldn’t have hesitated to leave me alone in the country, just as we left him in the catacombs.”

  “He won’t be alone very long.” As they spoke, Gabriel led her toward Victor, who was tied to a post a few houses away.

  “I still can’t quite realize that you came,” she said in wonderment. “How did you find us?”

  “Easily enough, cherie,” he said. “I waited until you left your lodgings tonight and then I followed you.”

  Isabella pushed back her hood, smiling. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I was very determined.” St. Briac gave a jaunty laugh, but there was a note of steel in his voice. “Are you too warm? That robe is a disguise of sorts, until we reach Victor, but if you would prefer to remove it—”

  Awareness dawned on Isabella’s face. “Oh! Wait, where are we going?” She stopped, looking around as if to get her bearings. “Where is the carriage?”

  “I do
n’t have a carriage. You will have to share a horse with me, I fear.”

  “But we must find that horrid equipage my brother hired! My things are there—my painter’s box!”

  “There isn’t time for that; they may soon be in pursuit. Your brother may well have told them that I abducted you. I promise to get you a new one, much nicer than the one you’re leaving behind.”

  “No, Gabriel, you must listen to me!” Her voice dropped to an agitated whisper. “The painting is rolled up in my art box.”

  He couldn’t think what she meant. They had left the King with her pathetic brother, hadn’t they, and he’d told himself to put it out of his mind—at least until the day would come when he could find a way to reclaim it.

  “I told you yesterday, when you were outside the window,” Isabella continued. “I made a copy of the King while George kept me locked up in that room. He wanted me to repair a corner he had scratched, but instead I labored night and day to paint a forgery.”

  “Mon Dieu, so that’s what you were saying!” As comprehension of the grand scheme she had managed to execute dawned on Gabriel, he caught her up in his arms and kissed her. “My lady, you are a true heroine.”

  To his surprise, tears welled in her eyes. “When you know the whole story, you won’t think so.”

  “Nonsense. And now, let us make haste. Where did you and your brother leave his equipage?”

  Isabella pointed the way. Thankfully, they found the young coachman guarding the miserable calash just round the next corner. St. Briac gave the boy a bright coin and moments later, they had the art box and were on their way toward the place where he had left Victor tethered to a post.

  He brought Isabella up in front of him on the saddle, the art box wedged between them, and rode hard for Madame Le Brun’s apartments in Rue de Clèry. It wasn’t until they were inside the courtyard and the heavy door leading to the street had been bolted behind them that St. Briac breathed easier.

  After they had both removed their disguises, they went into the house. Madame Le Brun herself appeared to greet them, her face alight with surprise, curiosity, and joy at the sight of Isabella. She held her former student’s pale face in her hands and wept.

  “My darling girl, he has rescued you. Dieu Merci!”

  “Thank God indeed,” said Gabriel. “But Isabella deserves the credit. She saved herself. And I believe she has a grand surprise to share with us.”

  Without waiting for another word from Madame Le Brun, he carried the art box into her candle-lit atelier and set it down on the long table amidst her sketches and paints. When he turned around, Isabella was at his elbow.

  “I confess that I am nervous,” she said. “I hope it hasn’t disappeared.”

  Madame lit a branch of candles, and the cluster of flames cast a golden glow over Isabella’s traveling painter’s box. “I love surprises!”

  They watched as Isabella pushed a small panel on the art box to reveal a hidden drawer. St. Briac thought he could hear the heartbeats of all three of them as Isabella slid the drawer open.

  A frayed canvas was rolled up inside.

  “Sangdieu,” breathed St. Briac in disbelief, his eyes stinging.

  “It is the King,” said Isabella as she carefully unfurled the masterpiece, painted by Leonardo da Vinci nearly three centuries earlier. In the flickering candlelight, King François I gazed at all three of them, as vibrant as he had been in life.

  “A few hours ago, I would have sworn that I had stopped caring about the painting,” he said, his voice breaking. “When you were lost to me, cherie, I forgot all about this object that I had been pursuing. But in this moment, it feels as if the circle has been completed. How can I ever thank you for the risks you took to bring about this miracle?”

  Color washed Isabella’s cheeks and she looked away. “I wish I could have had the courage to do a great deal more, much sooner.”

  Chapter 32

  “Of course, I want to hear everything, but first things first,” Madame said. “I have just returned from a midnight supper, so Adelaide is awake. I shall have her see that both of you have a good meal and a hot bath.”

  Isabella was so exhausted that she thought she might topple over at any moment, but now that she had come this far, she must complete the journey. There could be no real rest for her until her secrets were disclosed to Gabriel.

  “Would you think me terribly rude if I asked to postpone our reunion until tomorrow? It’s been a dreadful night. I am eager for that bath you mentioned, and even some hot food, and I am truly desperate for sleep.” Turning, she looked at Gabriel, her heart aching. “And although it might be improper, I must beg a few minutes of privacy with M’sieur St. Briac.”

  Smiling warmly, Madame Le Brun embraced her. “I am grateful that you have told me what you need. Have you forgotten that we are in France? You needn’t worry about propriety here. You are a grown woman and you know what is right for you.”

  And so, Adelaide brought Isabella to a charming bedchamber next to the one where Gabriel had slept since arriving in Paris. Soon, after eating some white bean soup with a flavorful dollop of pistou, she found herself in a steaming, soapy bath. Adelaide herself washed Isabella’s hair and dried her afterward with a thick towel. Finally, clad in one of Madame’s own fine batiste nightdresses, her spectacles back in place, Isabella sat on the edge of her canopied bed while the maid brushed out her long, damp curls.

  “My lady,” Adelaide said in English, frowning, “you grow thin. Tomorrow, I will make madeleines for you!”

  Just then, there was a soft tap at the door and Adelaide went to open it. Gabriel entered, carrying a bottle of sparkling champagne and two crystal glasses.

  Soundlessly, Adelaide backed out of the room, leaving them alone.

  At the sight of him, Isabella had to close her eyes to hold back the tide of emotion. How breathtakingly handsome he was, freshly washed himself, and changed out of his “bone-man” disguise into fawn trousers and a white linen shirt that was open at the neck. His hair, damp and curling slightly, shone in the candlelight.

  He was the man of her dreams, in every way, and all she could think was, I don’t deserve him. And the fact that he believed she was a heroine for saving the King only increased her shame and guilt.

  Setting aside the wine and glasses, Gabriel perched beside her on the edge of the bed. “It must feel wonderful to be bathed and fed, after all you have been through the last few days,” he said, turning toward her and touching her cheek. “Can I get you something else to eat?”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “My body may feel better, but my spirit cannot rest until I unburden myself to you.”

  “Unburden?” His expression scarcely changed as he spoke the word. “That sounds very serious. Does this have any connection to the secret you wanted to tell me at Château du Soleil?”

  “Yes!” Isabella felt like weeping. “Please, let me speak to you from my heart.”

  “I am listening.”

  “My secret is quite terrible.” She saw that he wanted to touch her, but she kept her hands fisted at her sides. “I knew all along that my brother George had stolen the King. I knew, but I didn’t tell you.”

  “How did you come to know?” Gabriel asked. The only reaction she could see was the muscle that flexed in his jaw.

  Isabella related the story of her encounter with George on the Hall Walk, and his insistence that she swear on their mother’s memory not to tell anyone, especially Sebastian, that he was in Cornwall. “It was the same day that I accidentally burst in on you at Trevarre Hall. I had begged George to show himself to Sebastian, to stay at the Hall with us, so when I heard that we had a mysterious house guest, I thought I would find George in your room.” She bit her lip, smiling slightly. “You see, I wasn’t wearing my spectacles.”

  “I can assure you, I remember that episode vividly,” he said.

  Isabella saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes and felt an answering spark of hope. “I believe that I
saw George moving outside the Hall that very night, as we all dined together. The next day, when the painting turned up missing, his button was there on the ground. I had seen it dangling by a thread during our encounter on the Hall Walk. I felt absolutely sick to think that my own brother might be responsible for the theft of your Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece.”

  “I see.” Gabriel stood up, poured himself a glass of the champagne, and drank of it. “So…are you telling me that you came to France to save Caverleigh from discovery?”

  She saw the wariness in his face, heard it in his voice, and it broke her heart. “No! Well, I was very confused. All I knew for certain was that I must help you find the painting. That was my main intent.” Her eyes stung. “Can you not understand why I felt so certain that you would change your mind about loving me once you learned the truth?”

  “One of the reasons I have guarded my heart against love is that such a surrender doesn’t really allow for mind-changing.” His tone was faintly ironic as he returned to the bed and offered his glass to her. “I am in much deeper than that, cherie.”

  She took a sip and leaned toward him, encouraged. “There is so much to say about George, about our past and our parents, but it is late and I am very tired. When I was young, only George seemed to understand or care about my loneliness. Then he was ruined and went abroad, but I never stopped praying that he would come back one day and make it all right.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I have not forgotten the stories you shared with me the night we shared a room in Morlaix, about your parents and your brother George.”

  The notion that he had listened closely to what she had said that night, which now seemed long ago, made her reach for his hands. “It is difficult to explain, the sense of shame that our father imbued in us when we were very young. Even today, when I am so much stronger, it can overtake me. I have understood the poison that eats at George in a way no one else can. I made excuses for his behavior.”

  “Isabella, your brother is addicted to gambling and alcohol. He has surrendered his better nature…”