The Broken Heart

by Lancaster, Mary

  Isabelle glanced at her, distracted by some unexpected note in her voice. The other woman’s eyes were limpid blue, quite lovely, and, Isabelle thought suddenly, far too naïve for a woman of her years. Like everyone else, the mayor’s wife wore a mask.

  Madame Levigne smiled dazzlingly. “You must know I was jealous when he asked me to invite you. Every lady wants Captain le Noir in her court. So dashing, so brave and handsome.”

  “And whose court is he in?” The words seemed to be wrung from her. She forced a smile. “Yours, I imagine.”

  Madame Levigne laughed and tapped her wrist with her fan. “Discretion, my dear! Oh, monsieur…” She flitted off again, leaving Isabelle to wonder if she had just been warned off by the same woman who had thrown her in Armand’s path.

  If they were lovers… Her fist clenched at her side, and she had to force her fingers to unfurl, to ignore the pain. If they were lovers, then Madame Levigne was not secure in her position.

  What a perfect end to this awful party. At least, please let it be the end!

  A quick glance showed her Dain deep in conversation by the fireplace. Continuing her sweep, she came upon Armand, alone now, observing her.

  This was unbearable.

  In sudden decision, she walked across the room to him. He watched her coming, his face unreadable.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said abruptly.

  “Here I am.”

  “Not here. Everyone is staring, waiting for us to make an adulterous assignation—at the very least—right under the nose of my husband.”

  “Ah, yes, your husband of three weeks, or is it four? With whom you somehow managed to thrive in Paris before his unexpected disgrace.”

  By an effort of will, she prevented her eyes from darting around to see who could have overheard him. “You know who I am,” she said painfully. “There is no need to bait me.”

  “No? Then what do you suggest?” He bowed. “Don’t bother. I will find a way as always. Madame.” He strolled away toward his hostess without a backward glance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rest of the day was, for Isabelle, miserable and depressing. The most assurance she could give to Dain was that she didn’t believe her acquaintance had yet given them away, and that he probably wouldn’t, at least until she had explained matters to him.

  The question was, what did she tell him?

  She had not yet lied to him. Merely, he had picked up the lies that had been fed to other people. Her initial instinct had been to lay the whole matter at his feet and beg his silence. But this man, this stranger, was no longer her reckless, passionate Armand who had whispered I love you into her ear on a wind-swept cliff top. And she could not trust him.

  After dinner, her companions went to keep the major company in his bedchamber. Isabelle retreated to the sitting room alone, trying to think how best to proceed. If they should risk Major Dain’s life and simply go home, which could, in fact, be the lesser of the evils currently confronting them. She veered away from personal concerns, ignoring the almost physical pain clawing at her heart.

  She hadn’t known him. She hadn’t known him at all.

  Dr. Ghibert was pleased with his patient’s progress. Surely, if she could just buy Armand’s silence for two more days, they could just take Major Dain and go home. And if they succeeded, perhaps she would take up Lord Torbridge’s offer of future employment—with the stipulation that France itself was excluded from her duties.

  Torbridge. What exactly did he expect her to do with Armand le Noir? As things stood between them, she had less than no influence over the captain, and she was quite sure he never had any intention of doing Torbridge’s bidding in any case. Insane to have put them all in danger like this, where one word from Armand would have them all clapped up. What in God’s name was his obsession with one relatively lowly and extremely loyal enemy officer?

  A knock at the door made her jump. She stared at the window. It was long past the hour of social calls without specific invitation. Her heart in her mouth, she strained to hear the sounds of voices, marching feet. Was it a good sign she heard none?

  The sitting room door opened. “Ah, you are still up, madame,” the housekeeper said. “Do you wish to receive Captain le Noir, or shall I send him away until tomorrow?”

  Her stomach twisted. She had known it was him. But at least he had come alone. “I will see him. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  Radiating disapproval, the housekeeper stood aside for Armand. “Shall I inform monsieur?”

  Aware only of Armand sauntering into the room, Isabelle said hastily, “Not specially. I’m sure he will be down momentarily. Thank you, that will be all.”

  The door closed quietly behind Madame Vosges, leaving her alone with Armand. She rose to her feet, her heart drumming with nerves as he walked across the room and halted only inches from her.

  She still could not read his face, but at least, in private, she remembered it. The golden skin from a life spent largely outdoors, faint crows’ feet at the corners of his turbulent eyes, the lean, almost hollow cheeks, those expressive, sensual lips that had kissed her so sweetly, so…

  “You had better tell me everything,” he said abruptly.

  “Or what?” she challenged. Unwisely, perhaps, but his command irritated her.

  “There is no or what, no alternative,” he said impatiently. “That man, who is almost certainly not called Renard, is not your husband, and you have not entered France legally. If you want my help, or even my silence, you must tell me why,”

  Put like that, it was not unreasonable. She felt her shoulders droop and hastily pulled them back. Wordlessly, he took her hand. It jumped in his, but he only returned her to the sofa, and she sat almost without realizing it.

  He sat beside her, turned toward her with his arm resting along the back of the sofa behind her. Hemmed in. In every way. He was right. She had no choice. And no made-up story could be better than the truth.

  She drew a deep breath and looked at her clasped hands in her lap. “You are right. Monsieur Renard is not my husband. He is an English gentleman as I’m sure you have already guessed. His brother is a British army officer, wounded and sent home, but then shipwrecked and washed ashore in France.”

  “He will be the sick man being treated by Ghibert.”

  He knew everything already, it seemed. She raised her gaze to his. “His wife was with him. His leg was broken and his wound corrupted, causing a severe fever. She was afraid to move him. And so, we travelled here secretly to ensure he became well enough to travel. Or to bury him and bring his wife home.”

  “A married couple renting a house being so much less suspicious than one man living in a tent on the edge of town,” he guessed. “But what is your connection to these men? Family?”

  It would have been easier to nod. But she would not lie. “Lord Torbridge,” she said reluctantly.

  “He knew I was here?” Armand’s eyes were steady, unthreatening and yet quite opaque. She had no idea what he was thinking, let alone feeling.

  “I think he did.”

  He took that in with the same impassivity. Then, abruptly, he jumped to his feet and began pacing, and here at last was something of the Armand she remembered. At the window, he swung around to face her. “Will he live? The brother?”

  “He is improved,” Isabelle said carefully. “Dr. Ghibert seems hopeful but has not yet committed himself.”

  He strode back toward her, frowning. “How did you get here?”

  “Much the same way as you, I imagine.”

  “And I presume you plan to leave in the same manner. The irony is, I am here to stop the smuggling along this part of the coast. You expect me to give up promotion again?”

  Encouraged by his straight-faced humor, she allowed herself to answer back. “I suspect you’re more likely to get recognition by leaving the smugglers alone. They are at least as useful to you as they are to us.”

  “That is sadly true. But one picks one’
s way through to achieve the desired result. For a week or so, at least.”

  “Can it wait until we’re gone?”

  He held her gaze. “When will you go?”

  “When our patient can be moved. Or earlier if it becomes necessary.”

  “You expect me not to make it necessary?”

  “We let you and your men go. Even with your escaped prisoners in the end.”

  “You followed me with a pistol to prevent me,” he pointed out.

  “If it makes you feel better, you can follow us with one, too, though I’d rather you didn’t use it.”

  For the first time in France, she heard his breath of muted laughter. Their eyes met and held, and a glimmer of hope flickered through her veins. Perhaps he was merely angry, feeling betrayed and manipulated, as she had been the night of the Audley Park ball when he had finally left England. Perhaps.

  She caught her breath. “Armand—”

  “I have to go.” He swung away from her toward the door, and she sprang up after him. “I have smugglers to chase, and I don’t want to upset your marriage.”

  “Armand, don’t!” Impatiently, she seized his arm and he spun around to face her. Too close. Much too close. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell his familiar, clean, earthy scent, make out every detail of his skin, of his suddenly desperate, clouded eyes. She couldn’t breathe.

  Her hand dropped to her side, and she stepped back, but it made no difference. He followed her, standing just as close yet still not touching. His turbulent eyes, no longer masked, lowered to her lips, and butterflies soared in response. She could feel his quickened breath on her cheek, her lips as if he had bent toward her, or she had tipped her face closer to his.

  And then he flung away from her. The door opened and closed so fast it left a draught. She heard the front door all but slam behind him, too, and then his tall, lean figure, strode past the window.

  He was gone, with nothing right between them.

  But nothing felt quite as wrong as before.

  *

  Unwilling to go into details about her conversation with Armand last night, Isabelle told Dain only that she thought they were safe for now. They were breakfasting at the time, and Isabelle was dressed for riding in order to join Madame Levigne’s party.

  “Will he be there?” Dain asked, frowning.

  Her heart leapt at the thought, even though she had wondered about it too often already. “I don’t know,” she replied calmly. “It’s possible, I suppose, but he does have military duties.”

  Dain nodded curtly. “Well, keep him sweet, if you can, without…endangering yourself.”

  “Of course,” she muttered and fled, unsure whether the emotion bursting out of her was laughter or sheer, sudden lust. It had been so long since she’d known a man’s embrace…And neither of those men had been Armand le Noir. If he made love as he kissed…

  Hastily, she diverted her thoughts. Her purpose today was not to flirt with Armand, let alone seduce him—if he was even present! It was to play her part of belonging to this town, this country, so that Major Dain could recover enough to return home. So, although she could not like Madame Levigne, not her girlish frills or her mask of fun-loving innocence, nor whatever calculation lay beneath, she walked around to her house and smiled as though there was nowhere else she would rather be.

  The party consisted of Madame Levigne, who invited Isabelle to call her Lucie, Lucie’s swaggering young brother Auguste, two of the younger women who had been present yesterday afternoon, and two army officers, neither of whom were Captain le Noir. They were Lieutenants Linville and Bernard.

  Noir’s absence was not lost on Lucie, who pouted at the officers and demanded to know, “Where is my Armand?”

  Which grated on Isabelle’s ears. Was it his own faithlessness that had made him suspect hers?

  “He’s sleeping,” Lieutenant Bernard replied. “He was on duty all night. But he says he may catch us up later.”

  “I hope you told him Madame Renard is with us,” Lucie said archly. It felt like a barb. As though he were pointing out Isabelle’s presence was not enough to make him stir out of bed. In which case, of course, neither was Lucie’s.

  They rode out of St. Sebastian to the east, in the opposite direction to the one Isabelle knew and then turned inland across country. It was a pleasant day to be outdoors—bright, sharp, and cold—and Isabelle was happy to be able to give her spirited mare her head.

  It was pretty countryside, with rolling farmland and gentle hills, interspersed with thick woods and burbling streams. What was left of the ruined castle they had come to visit stood on a rise slightly higher than the others, enough to provide a spectacular view in all directions. Everyone dismounted to admire it, leaving the horses free to rest and crop the grass and other foliage in the vicinity.

  In wonder, Isabelle turned a full circle, drinking it all in—St. Sebastien laid out before the sea, farmhouses and little churches dotted among the well-kept land, fields of cows, sheep and goats, long, winding streaks of roads, and glistening streams, a majestic river joining up several of the villages in the distance.

  France.

  Her throat closed up as it had threatened to do when she had first landed. It wasn’t home. But she felt something, some recognition, some awareness. The king, the national convention, Bonaparte, whoever or whatever followed—all had come and would go, like war and peace and revolution, famine and prosperity. And through it all, France remained.

  And maybe, just maybe, she could forgive Pierre his betrayal of England for France. Not that she would follow in his footsteps. For one thing, she was sure he had done it mostly for personal, monetary gain. Still, to some degree at least, it had been for this country, this land, these people.

  “Captain Armand!” Madame Levigne’s playful greeting gushed over her, snapping her attention back to her more immediate surroundings.

  Armand arrived among them, reining in from a gallop up the hill, to be greeted by a flurry of jokes from the other officers and the excited adulation of the ladies who, of course, took their lead from the mayor’s wife. With him, a surge of energy seemed to sweep through the little gathering, even to Isabelle who stood a little apart to enjoy her first sight of the favored scenery. It was more than his handsome person, although that helped. Even at the Hart, trying to blend in at first, he had possessed a magnetism that had, perhaps, been the cause of the attention and suspicion that had led to his disastrous duel with Lieutenant Steele. Here, with permission to flourish, it hit Isabelle like a blow.

  He greeted the ladies, smiling and responded to the jokes of the men, made some general remark about the view, and then strolled around, somehow shedding the women almost hanging on his arm before he walked inexorably toward Isabelle.

  Aware of his approach, she kept her gaze on the view. Last night’s almost understanding, almost embrace, clung to her mind, trying to dislodge her appreciation of the scenery. She had no idea how he would be with her, what he would say, what he thought.

  He did not bow or even greet her. So, she didn’t acknowledge him either as he stood beside her, apparently also admiring the view.

  “So, what do you think of France?”

  “I think this small part of it is very beautiful.”

  “Where did your people come from?” he asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

  “South. The Dordogne. Mostly.”

  “Will you travel to see it?”

  She blinked, turning to him in surprise. “Of course not. I have no time. Nor inclination. I neither know nor care who holds my old home now.”

  “Then you feel nothing for the land of your birth?”

  She dragged her gaze free of his. “Not nothing. But it is not my home.”

  “Neither, I think, is England.”

  A faint smile tugged at her lips. “The curse of the exile.”

  “It is not impossible for you to stay. My foster father, who I told you about, has influence enough to smooth e
verything over.”

  She felt his gaze burning into her face. “And then the country that nurtured me when my own would have killed me, becomes my enemy.”

  “We need peace,” he said flatly.

  “Is it any more likely?”

  “Perhaps. The emperor is retreating from Moscow. Such failure does him no good, and it will get worse as the winter closes in. It will take months to get the army home, and God knows what state it will be in.”

  He had comrades, friends in that massive army. She thought he was already grieving for them. Then, just when he had won her sympathy, he said abruptly, “I want to see him.”

  “The emperor?” she said blankly.

  His lip twitched. “Your wounded soldier. If you want my silence, I must see who and what he is.”

  She stared at him. “You are not a trusting man, are you, Captain le Noir?”

  “I don’t believe you are a trusting woman, Madam Renard.” With exaggerated politeness, he offered his arm, and she took it to avoid the appearance of rudeness. All the same, there was a secret thrill in touching him, emphasizing her gnawing need to know where they stood. If his last words to her in England were true.

  No, she wasn’t a trusting woman.

  Since they were going to ride on to an inn where Madame Levigne had ordered luncheon, Armand boosted Isabelle into the saddle first. Just as she had done earlier, the spirited mare tossed her head, performing a brisk, swaying little sidestep with the aim of dislodging her rider before she was secure in the saddle.

  Isabelle held firm, tightening the reins until the mare snorted and submitted. With the leisure now to glance at her fellow riders, she found Lucie Levigne’s oddly assessing gaze upon her. There was a discontented curl to those pretty lips, though it vanished at once into a sizzling smile.

  “What a fine rider you are, Isabelle. Did you have so much practice in Paris?”

  “In Paris, not really. I was brought up in the country. How far is the inn from here?”

  The subject was effectively changed, but Isabelle harbored the suspicion that Lucie, who rode a well-mannered, docile animal, had chosen the livelier, more spiteful mare for Isabelle in order to show the newcomer to disadvantage.