The Secret of Love

by Wright, Cynthia

  “How foolish I am. I forgot to ask Adelaide to mark our appointment in my book, so that she might remind me.” A winning smile lit Madame Le Brun’s face, and then she turned toward the young women. “Mes amies, I present to you the infamous and scandalously handsome Gabriel St. Briac. He is a smuggler, a corsair, and a libertine. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  * * *

  Izzie could only blink. For a long moment, it seemed that her heart had stopped beating and she was unable to breathe. Could it be?

  Gabriel St. Briac!

  It seemed utterly impossible. She thought she must be dreaming until Mouette turned to stare hard at her.

  “You must not swoon,” the girl whispered before suddenly leaning forward to pinch Izzie’s plump arm. “Sit up straight. Your prince has come!”

  “Hush up!” Izzie felt hot blood rush to her cheeks. Helplessly, she drank in the sight of him. He was perhaps thirty years of age, and time had only heightened his good looks. St. Briac’s dark-chestnut hair was wind-blown, his sculpted face was darkened by the sun, and a ready smile hovered at his mouth and lent a twinkle to his midnight-blue eyes.

  Izzie caught herself on the verge of sighing aloud and realized he was looking at her. Warm blood flooded her face.

  “M’sieur St. Briac,” Devon was saying, “do you remember Sebastian’s younger sister, Lady Isabella Trevarre?”

  He came toward her, gazing directly into her eyes. She noticed that he was carrying a leather-bound case under one arm. “How could I forget that magical evening in Roscoff? Lady Isabella graciously shared my company when I dined with your family.”

  Izzie felt him take her hand. His fingers were strong and warm, as utterly perfect as he was. Daring to look up at his face, she suddenly feared she might be sick.

  Right there, on his fine leather topboots.

  “Bonjour, my lady,” he said in a low, French-accented voice. It had a smoky undercurrent that made her feel that the two of them were all alone in the world. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you again.”

  Another wave of nausea filled her mouth with warm saliva. Somehow, she managed to nod and give him a brief smile. Please, don’t let me humiliate myself!

  To her relief, Gabriel continued speaking. “An unexpected pleasure indeed, and a coincidence. You see, I met your brother in Paris barely a fortnight ago.”

  “Sebastian?” she exclaimed. “In Paris?”

  “No, no,” he laughed. “Your eldest brother, the Marquess of Caverleigh. He was dining with Vivant Denon, the art connoisseur. When I stopped to speak to them, Denon introduced his lordship.”

  Izzie shook her head, too surprised to think of her own nerves. “That’s not possible, m’sieur! George has been in exile in Italy for a full decade. We have always understood that he lives in Rome, shunned by polite society.”

  Devon chimed in, “He lost virtually the entire family fortune and was forced to flee his creditors. None of the family have seen or heard from him since!”

  “Ah, well, perhaps I am mistaken,” Gabriel said in an offhand tone as he took a chair next to Izzie. Glancing over at her easel, he raised his brows appreciatively. “My lady, I did not know that you were blessed with artistic gifts.”

  “Izzie’s mother, Lady Caverleigh, was an accomplished artist,” Devon said. “So you see, she was born with talent, and Madame Le Brun has been gracious enough to guide her.”

  He was nodding thoughtfully as he studied her sketch of Mouette. “I am very impressed. Do you paint portraits, Lady Isabella?”

  “I fear I have no aptitude for portraits. Landscapes are my forte,” Izzie replied, basking in his praise. “Thank you for your kind words. I am very grateful for the opportunity to study with a great artist like Madame.”

  Just then, Adelaide came in with a plate of warm madeleines. When she had set them down on a table, she turned to St. Briac.

  “M’sieur, may I take your package?”

  “No, merci. It is something I intend to show Madame Le Brun.” Still holding the leather box, he glanced around the circle of clearly curious women. The amused gleam flickered again in his eyes. “But I have intruded at an inopportune time. Allow me to arrange a later meeting—”

  “Oh, no, that would not be right,” Devon protested.

  “This is true, it would not be right. You and I had an appointment, Gabriel,” said the Frenchwoman, looking contrite. “Why should you be inconvenienced by my forgetfulness? Can you not show me what is in your mysterious case while we all enjoy refreshments?”

  “Or, let me take the girls into the garden,” Devon said. “Truly, we don’t mind a bit. No doubt you would prefer privacy, m’sieur.”

  “Absolutely not.” He waved away this suggestion. “There is nothing for me to say that all of you cannot hear, but I must request that you keep this meeting confidential.”

  As he put a silencing forefinger to his mouth and looked around, smiling, Izzie thought she might swoon. Did the man have any idea of the effect he had on women?

  “Of course, you have our solemn vow!” Mouette exclaimed, tugging her gilt chair closer to him. “It all sounds quite thrilling!”

  St. Briac’s attention was on Madame Le Brun. Slowly, he opened the case and lifted out a nearly flat, rectangular, linen-wrapped object, less than two feet in length. Could it be a large book? Izzie held her breath as he moved the linen aside to reveal a small, head-and-shoulders portrait of a man, in a frame of carved wood delicately painted with worn gold leaf. She saw that the man in the portrait had eyes both compelling and lively, a large nose, and a close-trimmed beard. He was garbed in a plumed hat and jeweled doublet, painted in muted shades of green and brown.

  “What a striking piece!” Madame raised her quizzing glass and leaned closer. “Is it not King François I? I’ll own, it does appear to have been painted during his lifetime. The frame alone looks to be three centuries old!”

  St. Briac’s gaze sharpened. “Yes, it is King François. My ancestor, Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, was a friend and companion to the king from the time they were boys. This painting has been passed down in my family with the legend that François gave it to Thomas and his wife Aimée as a wedding gift…and that it was painted by the great Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “It is a treasure,” said Madame, staring intently at the portrait.

  Izzie remembered the tale that St. Briac had told the long-ago night they met in Brittany, when he had dined with the Raveneau and Trevarre families. He had explained that his great-grandfather, Philippe, had been “misbegotten.”

  Because Philippe’s father had been killed in a hunting accident, causing his pregnant mother to enter a convent, he had been raised at Château du Soleil in the Loire Valley, by his aunt, the sole heir to the St. Briac estates. Although Philippe could never inherit, he was sent into the world as a young man, in 1695. Armed with only the St. Briac surname, he made his own fortune in Brittany.

  “How did this painting reach your branch of the St. Briac family?” Izzie asked, adding, “I remember the story of your heritage that you told us in Roscoff, m’sieur.”

  He gave her a heart-melting smile. “You are very tactful, Lady Isabella. And I am honored that you have remembered my humble tale.”

  “We all call her Izzie,” Mouette interjected. “You should as well, m’sieur, because you are our friend.”

  St. Briac glanced from Mouette back to Izzie and wrinkled his nose slightly. “But no, you must be Isabella, a name of grace and intelligence. It suits you, my lady.”

  Her face flamed again. “You are too kind.”

  “I am merely stating a fact,” he said, lifting a hand as if to dismiss the name Izzie. “As to the portrait…it was the one thing that my great-grandfather’s Tante Marie gave him to take into the world as proof of his heritage. You may imagine that although my branch of the St. Briac family felt tainted by his illegitimate birth, we have been proud to own this portrait of the great king, painted by Leonardo. We have guarded it c
losely, for more than a century, regarding King François as part of the family.” Smiling, he added, “We refer to the portrait as ‘the King’.”

  Madame Le Brun bit her lower lip. “Such a riveting story. Would you permit me to look more closely at your treasure, Gabriel?”

  “Of course.” He put it in her hands, watching her face. “Do you doubt that it is authentic?”

  “It is certainly very old,” she assured him, then leaned closer to study it through her emerald-studded quizzing glass. “It may very well be a true da Vinci. We know that he traveled to France at the end of his life, to live next to Château d’Amboise, under the patronage of King François. Although he had nearly stopped painting by then, it certainly seems reasonable that he could have made this portrait of his royal sponsor.” Madame fell silent, scrutinizing the old painting for long minutes. Finally, she looked up with a tentative smile. “I do see many hallmarks of Leonardo’s style here. The colors are precisely the earth tones he favored, yet…”

  “One of his protégés could have painted it,” St. Briac finished for her.

  “Possibly,” Madame agreed. “Leonardo’s faithful assistant Salaino was with him at Amboise, and this could be his work. Unfortunately, I am not expert enough to give you a definite answer.”

  Isabella found that she was holding her breath as she watched a shadow cross St. Briac’s face.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that it isn’t any more legitimate than our St. Briac name.” Slowly, his customary smile returned. “Don’t apologize. I really didn’t expect that you’d be able to validate the portrait.”

  “Why then did you bring it to me?”

  “As you know, my brother, Justin, and I have a shipping business, and I live much of the time in Roscoff.” He lifted a brow and amended, “Well, I should be frank. We are smuggling agents. I am used to hiding valuable goods, and I found places to keep this painting safe during the French Revolution. However, now that Napoleon’s army has begun to confiscate works of art with terrifying, persistent efficiency, I resolved to bring King François to England.”

  “I have heard that Napoleon transformed the Louvre Palace into a great museum filled with works of art stolen from Italy,” said Mouette.

  “Indeed. The Louvre is now the Musée Napoleon.” He frowned. “Denon, who I mentioned to you earlier, is the museum’s director. He spends his days overseeing the trove of priceless masterpieces that have become the spoils of war.”

  “I am well acquainted with Vivant Denon,” said Madame Le Brun. “Of course, I knew him in Paris before the Revolution, but we became better friends during my time in Venice, a dozen years ago. He was kind enough to act as my cicerone and guide, and although I know he has often sacrificed his principles to the prevailing political tides, his dealings with me were always amiable.” She wore a thoughtful smile. “He commissioned me to paint a portrait of his intimate friend, the lush beauty Madame Marini, and I am particularly proud of it.”

  St. Briac looked doubtful. “I have nothing good to say about Denon, especially since he began to carry out Napoleon’s plan to fill the Louvre with plundered masterpieces. I am determined that my painting of the King will not fall into his hands.”

  “Did you imagine that I could hide it for you?” Madame Le Brun asked as she put down her quizzing glass.

  “You know me too well, Madame. Who would notice my humble painting in the midst of all of these?” He waved a hand to indicate the stacks of canvases arranged near the fireplace. “And I suspect that you have many more tucked away in a storeroom, yes? It would be easy enough to add this to the collection.”

  “Ah, your charm is quite irresistible, mon cher! I would love to help you, but I intend to return to France in the New Year and then what would we do?” As she spoke, the parrot next door began to shriek as if someone were trying to murder him.

  St. Briac nodded and reached for the painting’s storage box. “Of course, you are right. I should not have put you in this position, Madame.”

  Izzie sensed the pain concealed by his casual tone. Without thinking, she exclaimed, “I think that your portrait is a treasure. And I know the perfect place where it can be kept safe from Napoleon’s henchmen.”

  “How kind you are. Where is this perfect place?”

  “In the wilds of Cornwall! My brother, Sebastian, has a remote estate near Fowey.” She beamed. “He used to be a smuggler, as you know, and Cornwall abounds with hiding places. No doubt Sebastian would be pleased to guard King François until it is safe for you to return him to France.”

  “That’s an excellent plan,” Gabriel St. Briac said warmly. “I already intended to travel through Cornwall next week, en route to France. I will rest for a night at Fowey and reunite with my old friend, Lord Sebastian Trevarre. He may have renounced smuggling, but I suspect he would still enjoy a bit of intrigue.” A twinkle returned to his eyes. “No doubt his lordship will have just the place to hide King François away until Napoleon and his art thieves have been vanquished.”

  Madame Le Brun clapped her hands. “A fine scheme indeed!”

  St. Briac gave Izzie a roguish wink and raised his teacup. “Salut to you and your friends, Lady Isabella. I am in your debt.”

  Chapter 1

  Cornwall, England

  May, 1808

  “You must admit, I have a perfect life,” Izzie declared to her sister-in-law, Julia Trevarre.

  “Do you indeed?” Julia opened the door to Lupine Cottage and sunshine streamed into the hilltop artist’s atelier, which was charmingly cluttered with an array of painting supplies, easels, and canvases in various stages of completion. “If perfection equals independence from male tyranny, then I suppose it’s true. Are you ready to go?”

  Izzie glanced toward her latest painting of the Cornwall cliffs and reluctantly set down her palette. “Let me move the easel into this sunny window so this layer of glaze will dry more quickly. Madame Le Brun taught me that, you know. She always kept an easel in front of the hearth, where a fire burned even in summer. I once attended a rout with her and she suddenly realized she’d forgotten to move a painting from the fire. Fearing it might be ruined, Madame announced we would have to depart immediately. Our hosts thought we were quite mad!” She laughed at the memory.

  “Izzie…” A note of fond impatience crept into her sister-in-law’s voice. “We were meant to leave a half-hour ago.”

  “Oh my, I didn’t realize it had grown so late! Where is my spencer?”

  “There, on the bench, under your bonnet. Do hurry, darling. Primmie is cooking dinner for ten and I shudder to think what could happen if I am not there to oversee the finishing touches.”

  Izzie was tying the ribbons of her chip-straw bonnet as they rushed down the steep flower-lined path leading from the cottage to Julia’s little horse-drawn gig. Below them, in a bowl-shaped cove, lay the village of Polperro: a jumble of whitewashed cottages with a stone quay at its center. No sooner had the two women climbed into the gig than Julia snapped the reins and the dappled mare trotted off. Soon they reached the dramatic cliffside path leading west along the English Channel.

  “I know you would rather stay here and paint,” Julia said after a few moments.

  “I’m grateful that Sebastian gave me Lupine Cottage to use as a atelier,” Izzie replied, adjusting her spectacles. “I can’t begrudge him the right to make me return to Trevarre Hall in the evenings.”

  “Your brother wants you to be happy, but he feels a responsibility to guard your reputation.”

  “Whether I show it or not, I am grateful.”

  Izzie was well aware that she led a singular life for an aristocratic young lady. After absorbing all she could from Madame Le Brun for two years, her mentor returned to Paris and Izzie had remained in London to study art, especially the paintings and technique of Leonardo da Vinci. Finally, when she was ready to immerse herself in her craft, she had returned to her family and the wild beauty of Cornwall. Sebastian may have given her Lupine Cot
tage, but he drew the line at Izzie living there alone, even with her devoted maid Lowenna. To appease him, she traveled several miles to sleep each night at Trevarre Hall, their ancestral manor.

  “No doubt you miss your London friends.” Julia kept her eyes on the winding cart track, but her expression was reflective. “It’s been several weeks since you wrote to Mouette Raveneau—I mean, Lady Brandreth—inviting her to bring her little son for a visit to Cornwall. Have you had a reply?”

  “No.” Izzie couldn’t suppress a sigh. “I wish I could say that I’m surprised, but I am not. Mouette seems to be intoxicated by London Society. Her infrequent letters are filled with gossip and news of the latest parties. Sometimes it seems that I don’t know her any more.”

  “Well, in fairness, most young women dream of a life like Mouette’s, so it’s not as if she’s behaving outrageously.” Julia’s tone was careful. “It is you who have chosen an unconventional path.”

  “I know that you and Sebastian question my desire for independence,” Izzie replied. “But, I can only assure you of my happiness. Perhaps it’s part of being an artist. Madame Le Brun told me that she wasn’t meant for marriage, that her energy must be saved for her art.”

  “Truly, we admire you for making your own way in the world,” said Julia as the breeze dislodged a few of her sable curls. “But, what of love? Have you despaired of ever finding it?”

  “If Father were alive, he would declare that, at four-and-twenty years of age, I’m hopelessly ‘on the shelf!’” Izzie felt her cheeks warm. “Perhaps I shall have affairs of the heart, like Madame Le Brun. She has enjoyed the most spectacular adventures.”

  “Indeed?” Julia’s eyes widened.

  “Have I shocked you? I depend upon your honesty.”

  “How could I presume to give romantic advice?” Julia replied with a rueful smile. “After all, I chose a singularly shocking path which led directly to my marriage to Sebastian.”

  “Ha!” Izzie clapped her hands together in delight. “I will never tire of imagining my brother’s face when he realized that you had switched places with his presumed bride.”