The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  At the far end, the passage widened into a broad landing. Armand’s pursuers were leaping down the staircase after him. And they were catching up—until Armand suddenly threw himself on the curved, highly polished bannister and sped down it with a blatant cry of triumph.

  At the bottom, he jumped, landing on his feet which seemed already to be running. Isabelle almost laughed, for it really looked as if he was going to make the front door and freedom.

  Until he ran straight into two very large footmen rushing from either end of the entrance hall, and they all landed on the floor in an untidy pile.

  When they finally wrestled him to his feet, he had a footman hanging onto each arm and Captain Cromarty, Lord Overton’s son-in-law, held a pistol aimed at his heart.

  “My good man,” Armand said breathlessly to Cromarty. “Who the devil takes a weapon to a party?”

  This time Isabelle really did laugh, although she was obliged to turn away before it turned into tears.

  Chapter Ten

  Armand le Noir didn’t mind a little rough handling as they dragged him across the hall and shoved him into some kind of office. When they slammed and locked the door, the darkness appeared to be absolute.

  Picking himself off the floor, he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, but apart from the faint line of light visible under the door, he couldn’t see a damned thing. He felt along the wall, bumping into something that turned out to be a bookcase. Trailing his fingers over it, he found his way back to the wall, the corner, and the window. The shutters were fastened. There was no time to do more, for the two footmen entered again. One glared at him while the other lit two lamps. Another man walked in, and the footmen left.

  The man was a gentleman, perfectly dressed and groomed—one of those who’d been chasing him. His expression was mild, unthreatening. But his eyes were sharp.

  “Please, sit down,” this gentleman invited, indicating the chair at the desk in front of the window.

  Obligingly, Noir sat.

  The gentleman sat opposite and folded his arms across the desk, “Do I gather I am addressing Captain le Noir?”

  “You are.”

  “I’m Torbridge, a friend of the Overtons—your hosts—and a frequent patron, you might say, of the Hart Inn.”

  “Very comfortable place,” Noir allowed. “Interesting man, Villin.”

  “You’re quite an interesting man yourself, Captain.”

  “Really?” Noir eased his shoulder where the footmen had almost yanked his arm out of his socket. He hoped it hadn’t made his wound bleed again, because he hadn’t had time to have it stitched. “In what way?”

  “You didn’t kill Lieutenant Steele, though you could have. I’m fairly sure you made some kind of pact with the Villins and their guests that let you escape while leaving behind the prisoners you came for.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Surely your English is not failing you at this stage?”

  Noir, who had contemplated playing the uncomprehending foreigner, only grinned. He decided to be enigmatic instead. “What stage are we at?”

  “The one where we tell the truth,” Torbridge said mildly. “Why did you come back?”

  “I left the Hart in a rush. I did not properly say goodbye to Mr. Steele or Sir Maurice, or even Madame de Renarde.”

  “But how did you know how to find them?”

  “The ball at Audley Park on Friday was a frequent topic of conversation at the inn.”

  “Was it?”

  Noir smiled winningly. “And the occupants of the coach I held up gave me directions.”

  Torbridge blinked, but otherwise, he was very good at hiding his expression. Which was interesting. “The coach you held up,” he repeated.

  It was clear the young man from the curricle had kept his word and his silence, even after recognizing him here. Armand was happy to cover that silence with his own.

  He held out his arms and removed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Where else do you imagine I would have found these impeccable clothes? Besides, I had to bribe the smuggler to put me ashore again. He was very eager to get to France, and the detour is costing me a lot of money.”

  For now at least, Torbridge let the matter of the robbed coach go. “That is my problem, Captain. I can’t think why you are less eager to be in France.”

  Noir sighed. “Can’t you? I suppose you are English.”

  Torbridge withstood the taunt without obvious difficulty. “By which you mean…?”

  “The English are not known for affairs of the heart, so I am not sure you will understand.”

  Torbridge’s lips twitch. “You ask me to believe you came back for a girl?”

  “Not just any girl. Petite and dark and pretty as a picture, yet with some sense of mystery I cannot explain. The Villins don’t know what they have in that girl.”

  For some reason, color seeped into Torbridge’s face. It seemed Noir had made him angry at last. His next words, however, were calm enough. “Why do I not believe a word of that? To be frank, Captain, I believe you came back because you don’t really want to go home. I think you are discontented with your lot and disapproving of your government.”

  “If that was true,” Noir said, “there is nothing either of us can do about that.”

  “Perhaps there is. This war has gone on too long, too costly in lives and just about everything else. What if you and I could help put a stop to it?”

  “A truce has been arranged,” Noir mocked, “between the Frenchman Noir and the Englishman Torbridge. We expect everyone in Europe to abide by it.”

  Torbridge’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It is possible I speak as more than the Englishman Torbridge.”

  “Do you?” Noir asked with interest.

  “That needn’t concern you. This business is between you and me.”

  “What business?”

  “I’ll be frank, Captain, I have heard of you. Your exploits are not unknown in the Peninsula, and I have spoken to people in Germany and Italy. You are an asset to your country. A rogue asset who could help his country further by paving the way to peace.”

  “With good intentions?” Noir asked flippantly. “Like hell?”

  “No,” Torbridge replied. “With information.”

  Noir met his gaze. “You want me to betray my country. I wonder what I ever said or did to give anyone the idea that I would do such a thing?”

  “France under Bonaparte has lost its way.”

  “So, I should do my best to hand it to you, who would put a Bourbon king back there instead? Thank you, I will keep my emperor and my honor.”

  Torbridge held his gaze. “And yet you came back.”

  “I did. But I can’t be bought.”

  “Not with money,” Torbridge agreed.

  Noir sat back, thoroughly intrigued. “What else do you have?”

  *

  Inevitably, in spite of the discretion employed in the ballroom, word of the Frenchman’s capture began to circulate around the ballroom.

  “The same man who escaped from the Hart?” Mrs. Cromarty said to her husband. “But why on earth would he come here? He is not after you, is he?”

  Captain Cromarty looked amused. “He has no reason to be after me. I’ve never met him in my life.”

  “Why do you carry pistols to a party, Captain?” Isabelle asked lightly. He, too, had been involved in the search for Verne the night Pierre had died—another man who was more than he seemed. Apparently, he had been brought up to be a city banker, but to Isabelle, he seemed more of a buccaneer.

  He laughed. “Old habits die hard. But I confess, I didn’t bring it. It’s Lord Overton’s. I merely took it out of the drawer in his study. It wasn’t even loaded.”

  “Where is he now?” Isabelle asked, trying not to sound too desperate to know. She didn’t even know why she asked. There was nothing she could do for Armand now. Nothing she would do. And yet that felt like betrayal, too. A hard knot
of discomfort, of fear, gathered in her stomach.

  “Locked up in the steward’s room downstairs,” Cromarty replied. “Until the authorities come to take him away.”

  “I caught the maids peering at him through the keyhole,” his wife said. “They seemed disappointed he wasn’t more horrific.”

  “Being French,” Isabelle murmured.

  Mrs. Cromarty gave her a mischievous smile. “Presumably. But he seemed quite personable to me.”

  Isabelle drifted away. For the first time, she understood Armand’s desperate search for distraction. She couldn’t think about this. There was nothing she could do. And yet she didn’t want him hauled off to prison.

  Something caught at her mind, some connection that tugged and then vanished, leaving her frustrated but none the wiser. She kept imagining the tramp of soldiers or constables through the hall, come to take him away.

  He should never have come here. Never. One dance was not enough to risk imprisonment, death. And yet she had enjoyed it. Precious moments that seemed obscene now because he was captured.

  Somehow, she smiled, made conversation, watched the dancers without really seeing them. At one point, she came across Matthew Lacey by himself, leaning against a pillar, deep in frowning thought.

  “Mr. Lacey,” she greeted him.

  He snapped to attention and bowed. “Madame! How do you do?”

  “A little baffled by all the excitement, as it seems are you. How is it you know our prisoner?”

  “I don’t,” Matthew said at once, although a slightly hunted look entered his eyes. “Never seen him before in my life. Might I fetch you some refreshment, madame?”

  Intrigued, Isabelle almost attached herself to him to dig out the truth. But the boy looked so anxious and so desperate to hide the fact that she took pity on him. “I thank you, but no. You will tell me, though, if you are in trouble?”

  “No trouble to get into around here,” he insisted, then, presumably remembering the ordeal at the Hart, he blushed and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  Isabelle laughed, and left him.

  Almost immediately, Lord Torbridge materialized by her side. “Would you care to dance, Madame? Or just take a turn around the ballroom, perhaps?”

  Since talking was easier in the latter than in some country dance, she chose to walk with him, her fingers delicately on his immaculate coat.

  “What will happen to him?” she asked abruptly.

  And of course, Torbridge knew exactly whom she meant. “Interesting question. The answer is, I don’t yet know.”

  She blinked. “I thought you would say, prison, even execution.”

  “It’s true he is a dangerous man,” Torbridge allowed. “And dangerous to our country’s war efforts. But it does seem a shame that a man of such obvious talents should simply…go away, one way or another.”

  She searched his eyes, afraid to hope. “I’m not sure I follow you. Have you…have you let him go?”

  “Of course not,” he said, apparently shocked, though Isabelle could have sworn he wasn’t in the slightest. “Though it’s interesting you bring up the idea. I would very much like to let him go…if he made an undertaking to work for us.”

  “He won’t. He is, literally, a child of the revolution.”

  “I talked to him,” Torbridge said, by way of agreement. “He was interested in what I had to say. But he was not even tempted.”

  Her heart ached. “Then is that not the end of the matter?”

  He shook his head. “No, for there has to be a reason he came ashore again. There has to be a reason he came here to Audley Park this evening.”

  She gazed at him, avidly waiting for him to reach a conclusion.

  His lips quirked. “You, madame. I think the reason is you.”

  Emotion surged, boiling, clashing with the sudden snap of fear. She too walked a tightrope here.

  “Do I have to defend myself still from such accusations?” she managed. “I thought you of all people understood that I was never part of my husband’s actions. Of any of his life. I have never betrayed this country that took me in when my own would have killed me for the crime of existing. I never will betray it.”

  “I know that.” He sounded surprised, genuinely apologetic. “Forgive me, I never meant to imply otherwise. Nor do I wish to be indelicate, but it is nonetheless true that attraction can often be inconvenient.”

  With an effort, she continued to meet his gaze in silence.

  He smiled faintly. “It was noticed in the Hart by several people. He liked you. It was you who talked him into leaving the prisoners and avoiding a costly pitched battle with Brandon’s men. In short, he listens to you, and it’s my belief he risked coming here for you. At the back of his mind, somewhere, he wants to stay here with you.”

  Blood seeped into her face. “But he won’t.”

  “There are options. The man undoubtedly has information that could help us. He could spend the rest of the war in a relatively comfortable prison, simply talking to us. He would be able to read, write, receive visitors, even go on excursions under parole.”

  “He won’t,” Isabelle said again.

  Torbridge went on as though she had not spoken. “Or, he could go home as our agent. Oh, not to help us win the war as such. I know he won’t do that. But to help bring about peace. To remove Bonaparte. I have reason to believe the French people are tired of constant war. He could help bring it about without betraying a single French life.”

  A frown flickered across her face. “Did he agree to that?”

  “No.” Torbridge paused by the table near the window, where Armand had appeared only an hour ago. He picked up a glass of champagne and gave it to her with a slight bow. “However, I am not you.”

  Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it makes a difference who asks.” He picked up a glass of his own and raised it to her. “You would be doing your country a great service.

  *

  And so, five minutes later, one of the large footmen who had finally caught Armand, crouched down and peered through the office keyhole before straightening, unlocking the door, and standing aside for her.

  “We’ll be right out here, ma’am,” he said darkly. “Just shout if he gives you any trouble at all. Even if he looks at you the wrong way.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle managed and walked into the room. Her heart pounded.

  Armand, sitting behind the desk, sprang to his feet. His black hair was tousled, and a bruise had formed at the side of his face. She came to a halt in the middle of the room as the door closed behind her.

  Desperately, she tried to squash the insistent voice in her mind whispering that this was possible, that happiness could be hers, a happiness she had never even hoped for in ten years. This man, this man…

  “Isabelle.” A tender smile flickered across his face. He came out from behind the desk, walking inexorably toward her.

  Her mouth went dry. Something very like panic hit her, and yet she let him take her in his arms. She even raised her face to his, and when he kissed her, her eyes closed of their own accord. She threw her hand up to his rough, warm cheek, just to bring him closer. Her mouth opened wide to his passion, matching his hunger as she kissed him back.

  And then, with a sob that was only half-laughter, she murmured against his lips. “They watch through the keyhole.”

  He drew back reluctantly, dragging one chair back from the desk and out of view from the door. She sat and watched him bring the other from behind the desk.

  “How did you get in?” he murmured, sitting and reaching for her hand.

  “Torbridge sent me,” she said frankly.

  His smile was rueful. “That man sees too much. Who the devil is he?”

  “I think he does some kind of work for the government, but he doesn’t like people to know.”

  “He reminds me of someone, though I can’t put my finger on why.”

  “Who?” she asked, distracted.
/>   “The defrocked priest who educated me. Why did he send you?”

  “He thought I could persuade you to stay in England. Or return to France on his agenda.”

  His smile was lopsided. “Don’t try. You can tempt me, but you can’t persuade me.”

  She looked him in the eyes. “Come with me,” she quoted. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Impulse. You are not happy here. It struck me that I could make you happy in France. That we could make each other happy.”

  She clung to his fingers. “And is that really why you came back? Why you came here tonight?”

  He hesitated. “Out of many possible courses, it’s the one I chose. I thought of climbing through your bedchamber window, but it seemed a trifle presumptuous.”

  Laughter caught in her throat. “Still, I would not put it past you. Armand, do I delude myself? Do you think we have the beginnings here of…of something more?”

  “Of love?” he said steadily. “Perhaps. If we meet again.”

  “Can we not make that happen? Help bring peace through our connection?”

  The tender smile faded from his eyes. “Are you his bribe?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “Am I not enough?”

  “Oh, my sweet, if I thought you meant it…”

  She whipped her hand away, her eyes flying open to glare at him. “Of course I mean it! What do you take me for? Dear God, I do not even know if you have a new wife! Mistresses and children scattered across France—across Europe! I try to give us this chance, and you throw contempt in my face!”

  “Isabelle!” He leaned forward, seizing not her hands this time, but her face, holding it between his palms. “No deals. No Torbridge. Just come home with me.”

  Angrily, she tried to tug his hands away and ended by clinging to them. “Armand, that will be after the war.”

  “Will you wait?”

  “Will you?”

  “I’m beginning to think I would wait a lifetime for you. That I already have.”

  In pain, she kissed his palm. “They’ll put you in prison. I don’t think Torbridge will let them execute you. For some reason, you are too valuable to him.”