The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  Uneasily, Boucher believed him.

  *

  Isabelle did not have to wait long to discover who Cecily had picked out as a possible husband.

  Lord Torbridge, once the chief suitor of Lady Cecily herself, arrived during the afternoon to stay until after the ball.

  On the face of it, he was a strange, even bizarre match to even consider. For one thing, although good natured and pleasingly humorous, he was a high stickler for propriety and even before Pierre’s treachery was discovered, Isabelle had been considered somewhat fast. And then, there was the small point that he was one of the two people who had shot Pierre and killed him. Not that Isabelle objected to that, and it was certainly not common knowledge, but she couldn’t help wondering how Torbridge would be able to reconcile the killing with marrying the widow.

  The puzzle was merely academic, of course, since neither she nor Torbridge, she was sure, were considering marriage. But somehow, during that evening, it seemed to become accepted that she would go to the Overtons’ ball.

  In fact, after dinner as they left the gentlemen to their wine and repaired to the drawing room, a footman brought Cecily a letter, which she opened at once. Another note fell from inside, and when Isabelle picked it up, she saw this one was addressed to her.

  Cecily cast her a flickering smile and sat down. “From Lady Overton,” she said. “I wrote to her in the afternoon. She would be delighted to receive you tomorrow evening and only apologizes for the oversight. I imagine your letter says the same thing.”

  It did. And Isabelle, already beguiled by her pleasant day in the company of people who were, against the odds, her friends, gave in to the inevitable and resolved to write her acceptance in the morning.

  Jane, who had come to the drawing room for an hour before bed, clapped her hands with glee. “Then I can help you dress, too!”

  “I did not bring a ball gown,” Isabelle said. “So, you must help me dress up something else so that no one will notice.”

  Jane retired to bed, full of impossibly splendid plans.

  “She is thriving under your care,” Isabelle observed. “I’m glad. She was too…isolated with my cousin.”

  “Well, you must know I bestow respectability on Verne,” Cecily said wryly, “so she is certainly less isolated than she would have been.”

  Something about her voice or her eyes made Isabelle say, “And you, Cecily? Will there be a child of your own?”

  Cecily’s face broke into smiles. Her arm moved instinctively across her abdomen. “How did you guess?”

  “It isn’t difficult, and I am thrilled for you both.” Oddly, it was the truth. “When do you expect this interesting event?”

  “Early spring, we think.”

  “An excellent time to bring new life into the world. But Cecily,” she added, hearing the door open in the dining room and Verne’s voice raised in laughing dispute. “You are barking up the wrong tree with Torbridge.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I always felt there was more to him than met the eye. Like with you.” She sighed. “You sound very certain.”

  “I am.”

  “I suppose it has only been a few months since—”

  “To be frank, I have felt like a widow for years,” Isabelle interrupted. “I do not miss Pierre. I do not even mourn Pierre, for I did that years ago, too. And there’s no need to look at me like that either, for my reluctance has nothing to do with Verne.”

  Cecily blinked and then laughed. “I always liked you for your directness,” she observed. “So, who does it have to do with?”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to deride the idea that it was to do with anyone but her. Only the dark, intense face of Armand le Noir swam behind her eyes, and her heart seemed to melt into her stomach when she remembered his kiss.

  This was silly. Schoolroom girl silly.

  Cecily had begun to look intrigued, but fortunately Verne and Torbridge strolled into the drawing room and distracted her.

  Cecily was right, of course. There was more to Torbridge than met the eye. A lot more. He hadn’t just happened to be in the right place to prevent Pierre killing Verne earlier in the year. And Isabelle was reminded of this as the evening progressed and he casually worked the conversation around to last night’s troubles at the inn. And he was clearly aware that Villin had captured and hidden the French prisoners.

  “Now that I think about it,” she said with a frown, “that was really odd of him. Why hide them like that?”

  “Because I asked him to,” Torbridge replied unexpectedly. He smiled faintly. “We intercepted some communication between particular prisoners and…let us say channels that lead to France. So, we let these men escape in the hope of intercepting those who came to meet them.”

  “To learn more about these channels?” Isabelle hazarded.

  “Yes. And also, perhaps, to infiltrate this channel, to have our own man there. It is an important time for us. Bonaparte’s Russian adventure leaves France vulnerable as it has never been since he came to power. We must utilize every possibility. Unfortunately, everything moved faster than we expected. I had thought it more likely the prisoners would be met on the Cornish coast, and by the time Villin’s message reached me, it was just too late to catch everyone together. To be fair, Villin didn’t know that I was more interested in the rescuers than the escapees.”

  His gaze developed that unexpected sharpness she had seen before, even while his lips smiled with perfect amiability. “What did you think of Captain le Noir? Is he a man appreciative of the finer things of life?”

  Isabelle blinked. “If you mean can he be bribed into betrayal, I would very much doubt it!”

  Torbridge merely shrugged and changed the subject, and yet several times he came back to it, as though trying to piece together the puzzle that was Captain le Noir. Isabelle knew how he felt.

  *

  “Damn, it’s the mail coach!” Noir yelled. “Retreat!”

  Cursing under their breaths, his galloping men on their hired horses obeyed. Noir hoped they looked like a group of foolish young men out for a lark. Mail coaches—like the stagecoach they had already let fly by unmolested—were just too well defended to risk. Even if they succeeded, they would have the authorities on their tails, complicating matters.

  “What matters?” Boucher had demanded.

  “All matters,” Noir had retorted. “We don’t want them waiting or us at Finsborough jail.”

  “Then why don’t we rob the coach after we break out our men?” Caron asked.

  “I thought of that, but we’ll probably need to make a speedy escape, and if we don’t already have the money, our smuggling friends will leave us in England to rot.”

  They had seen the sense in that, although it was frustrating to have wasted two hours watching and waiting in increasing boredom, just to let two coaches and a farmer’s cart go by.

  However, before they could retreat to their hiding place, Noir’s keen ears picked up another set of hooves approaching. As a curricle swept around the bend, drawn by a pair of matched bays, Lefevre on the other side of the road signaled that no other vehicle was following.

  Noir grinned. “Ours!” he yelled, and they all closed in on the unfortunate driver, pulling scarves up over their mouths and waving pistols in the air, forcing him to stop.

  At first, the very young gentleman—he could not have been twenty years old–seemed more amused than frightened, as though he really did suspect them of being his fellow, callow youths larking about. Only when he was fully surrounded and he had peered around all his captors, did his smile fade, and a frown of confusion replaced it.

  “What the devil?” he demanded. “What do you fellows want?”

  “Um, your money or your life,” Noir stated, since he understood that to be the choice given by English highwaymen.

  “You’re joking me!” the young gentleman fumed.

  “Sadly not,” Noir said cheerfully. “Cough up, my friend!”

  “No, damn it, I won’t. I
t isn’t fair, five of you ganging up on me, and I won’t give you my dashed money. It’s mine!”

  “Robbery isn’t fair,” Noir pointed out. “And I don’t see why you’re so bad-tempered about it. We could just shoot you and take your money. At least we’re giving you the choice.”

  The young man scowled at them. “I just won that money,” he said bitterly. “I never win at cards. And now that I finally have, I also have the appalling luck to be held up on my way home! Here, Walton didn’t put you up to this, did he?”

  “I am not acquainted with any Walton,” Noir said. He glanced at Caron and waved his pistol toward the gentleman’s valise. “Come, down you get and pay your toll,” he added, and the young man stepped down with ill grace.

  He scowled direly at Noir as his greatcoat pockets were searched and a large wad of bank notes extracted. From his position at the horses’ heads, Boucher grinned. More than enough to keep the smuggler captain on their side. So much, in fact, that it gave Noir another idea.

  He glanced at the valise, which Caron had opened to reveal a few shirts and an evening coat, and then considered their victim who, by now, seemed to have recovered his temper and become resigned to his poverty. Noir rather liked that he showed no fear, only wariness.

  “I’ll tell you what, my friend,” he said. “I’ll give you this amount of money back if you swear silence about being robbed.”

  “Oh, no! My father’s the dashed magistrate! Under no circumstances will I keep silent about you.”

  “Nonsense,” Noir cajoled. “You’re a man who likes a wager, clearly. I’ll fight you for your silence.”

  “Boxing?” the young man asked with a hint of hope.

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t have a pistol and even if I did, one of you would kill me.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll fight with swords for first blood.”

  “Captain, for the love of—” Boucher began.

  “Oh, very well,” Noir said reluctantly. “We won’t fight.” He yanked Caron’s hat off his head and threw it in the air. “If you hit the hat while it’s in the air, I give you back half the money and you may blab all you like. If you don’t hit it, I give you back this small handful of notes, and you swear silence.”

  The young man thought about it, then laughed. “Very well, but you will have to give me your pistol.”

  “I will. But bear in mind as you shoot that my men all have their pistols trained on you.”

  “If you think that will upset my aim, you’re wrong,” the gentleman declared.

  Solemnly, they walked a little way from the curricle. Lefevre’s and Boucher’s weapons followed their progress. Noir handed over his pistol, gave the other man a moment to weigh it and take aim, then threw Caron’s hat into the air.

  The gentleman fired, and the hat fluttered to the ground. The young man strode after it and picked it up. His face fell. “Damn, I missed.”

  Noir extracted the pistol from his fingers and examined the hat, too. “You did. But never mind. You still have some money back, so you’re better off than before your card game.”

  “Double or quits,” the young man suggested.

  Noir laughed and plonked the now grubby hat back on Caron’s head. “No.”

  Caron was stuffing the evening coat back into the valise, shaking his head to show he’d found no more money or anything else they could use.

  “Going somewhere agreeable?” Noir asked, taking the coat and holding it up. It was a fine garment.

  “A neighbor’s ball. The coat needs altered for me. I didn’t grow as much as my father assumed I would,”

  “But it would fit me perfectly. I’ll buy it from you.” Noir added another few notes to the bundle he gave back to the gentleman. “So, who goes to this ball, besides your family?”

  “Everyone,” the young gentleman replied. “It’s at Audley Park, Lord Overton’s seat, and all the world and his wife will be there.”

  Noir began to smile. Now, he had a plan.

  *

  Preparing for the ball was surprisingly light-hearted fun. Isabelle slept late and enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of the house. She had been here many times before, and it had never felt like this. Clearly, it was Cecily’s doing. She had saved Patrick, and Isabelle could almost have imagined that the house knew it.

  Cecily, Jane, and Cecily’s dresser, Cranston, all gathered around Isabelle’s only decent evening gown, which was a diaphanous garment of a deep, pleasing shade of midnight blue. She had packed it to have something pretty to wear while dining with Sir Maurice. For that reason alone, she would have been happy never to see it again.

  “It is so delicate,” Cecily observed. “It would be a shame to weigh it down with masses of lace and ribbon.”

  “Tiny diamonds,” Cranston said.

  Isabelle regarded her sardonically.

  “Just a few,” the maid said defensively. “Just to make the gown shimmer and sparkle like a starry night.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so poetic,” Cecily said admiringly.

  Cranston blushed.

  “It is a lovely idea,” Isabelle said. “But unfortunately, I have left my collection of tiny diamonds at home.”

  “I have some,” Jane said unexpectedly.

  “No, you don’t,” Isabelle disputed.

  “I do! They were Mama’s.” With that, she sped off, presumably to her own chamber.

  “If they were,” Cecily observed, “I can’t imagine Elvira Longstone letting her keep them, let alone escape with them.”

  But soon enough, the child returned with a box, inside which were, indeed, a collection of about ten glittering little stones.

  “Uncle Patrick gave me them when I came to stay,” she confided. “It is a secret, but I would love you to wear them, Cousin Izzy.”

  Isabelle picked up the box, examining the treasure within. She was no expert, but she rather thought that while some of them might be glass, the others were almost certainly real diamonds. Either way, they would have the desired effect.

  “They are beautiful, and if you trust me with them, I would be honored to wear them,” Isabelle said at last. She cocked her head at Cranston. “If you can manage to sew them on securely enough?”

  “Cranston can do anything,” Cecily assured her.

  And so, it proved. Cranston not only made the dress sparkle in an entirely subtle yet eye-catching manner whenever it moved, she also came to dress Isabelle’s hair for the ball, bringing with her a tiara Lady Cecily had decided would go delightfully with the ensemble.

  Isabelle had to admit it was perfect for the occasion. Beautiful and yet understated as befitted a recent widow who had thoroughly disapproved of her husband. She could carry it off, and do so just for herself and her friends. Not for any man.

  And if no one else was brave enough to ask her to dance, both Patrick and Lord Torbridge would. It wasn’t until she actually sat in the carriage bound for Audley Park for pre-ball dinner, that she suddenly remembered the probable presence of Sir Maurice Ashton.

  He had been invited. That must have been why he had agreed to their assignation being at the Hart, close to Audley Park. He hadn’t mentioned that other London acquaintances, who might easily have recognized them, were liable to be traveling at the same time in the same direction. But then discretion had never been his aim.

  She drew in her breath, very conscious of Jane’s excited presence in the carriage, squashed between her uncle and Lord Torbridge. “Sir Maurice Ashton was at the Hart on Wednesday night, too.”

  “I know,” Torbridge said without expression. “I spoke to him.” He met her gaze, and a faint smile flickered. “Even the sternest watchers over propriety must count the sheer quantity of your chaperones on Wednesday night as superior to a mere maid.”

  Well, if Torbridge remained on her side, she might still brush through the evening without any slights. At any rate, however reprehensible her decision to go to the Hart, she had done nothing wrong and refused to behave as i
f she had.

  At Audley Park, they were welcomed with genuine pleasure by Lord and Lady Overton, who were, in fact, the parents-in-law of Cecily’s brother, the Duke of Alvan. Also present for dinner were two of their daughters and their husbands, Lord Dunstan and the scandalous Mr. Cromarty, heir to the old Earl of Silford. Like the rest of the family, they were lively and witty and easy to like. Besides them, there were some local gentry, including the Laceys, whom she knew slightly, and her cousin Elvira Longstone, escorted by her son Henry.

  In the flurry of introductions and greetings, it was easy to be quickly civil to her cousins and pass on. And though Isabelle had once hoped to mend the rift between them, she found she was actually glad of this distance.

  Looking back, they had always wanted something from her for their charity. An unpaid companion and housekeeper, an equally unpaid governess. And then, despite knowing her innocence, they had dropped her as soon as the scandal of Pierre de Renarde was public.

  They had supplied an occasional place to stay, even a purpose in life in allowing her to teach Jane, but it had never been her home.

  Even her house with Pierre had never been home. Not after he had brought his first mistress there.

  Come with me. Come home.

  She blinked away the memory yet again.

  Among the London guests was, as she’d suspected, Sir Maurice Ashton. She was glad to discover there was no need to initiate distance between them, since his greeting was only barely civil. Unfortunately, she was placed beside him for dinner, but at least Torbridge was on the other side, so she barely needed to converse with Ashton at all.

  *

  The ball was a lavish affair, the first the Overtons had held since their return from abroad a year or so ago. The rumor was, they had been flat broke until their least marriageable daughter had somehow caught the Duke of Alvan, the country’s most eligible bachelor, in matrimony. If that was true, Lady Overton was certainly enjoying the opportunity to splash out now. The ballroom was decorated with greenery and what seemed like miles of draped silk. It was lit by hundreds of candles, which Isabelle couldn’t help hoping were secure enough not fall into the silk at the first draught.