The Secret of Love

by Wright, Cynthia

  Gabriel thought he heard the door close, but he was more concerned with a burning need to taste Isabella’s nipple. Her hand on his head urged him closer, and when his mouth fastened on the pink bud, Isabella gasped with pleasure. His own desire was like a fire that would only be quenched inside her body.

  His tongue swirled over her nipple, and then she was opening her legs to him. Sangdieu! His erection, still guarded behind his breeches, settled firmly between her thighs, as if their bodies had been created to fit together.

  Isabella began to pant, softly, and her small hand searched for the buttons that separated them.

  His kiss moved from her breast to her mouth as Gabriel steeled himself to end this madness. Somehow, his hands found her wrists and pinned them on either side of her.

  “Stop. For the love of God, we must stop.” The very words scorched his throat.

  He stared at her shocked face. Molten honey hair spilled free all around her on the pillow. Her cheeks and lips were stained deep rose with passion. Glancing down, he saw her breasts heaving and the wet nipple he’d just kissed.

  Averting his gaze, Gabriel pulled down her skirt and shifted away, sitting with his back against the wall. The cold, hard surface helped bring him to his senses. He raised a hand and raked it through his tousled hair. “I’m sorry.”

  In her eyes, he saw the embers that continued to smolder. The temptation to return to her arms was achingly powerful.

  “Adolphus Lynton is gone,” Isabella whispered at last. “That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  They shared a long look that confirmed their feverish, unspeakable secret.

  Gabriel climbed off the bed and buttoned his shirt. “Where the devil are my boots? We must be away—the sooner the better.”

  * * *

  St. Briac wondered if Adolphus Lynton had slept at the inn. Even though there were no rooms, perhaps Guennec had been bribed to provide a bed of some sort.

  Looking out into the yard, listening, St. Briac neither saw nor heard a rider leave. After an hour, as the sun was rising, he left Isabella in the room and went down the pondalez to seek out Guennec.

  “Do you all imagine that I alone don’t need sleep?” the old man inquired plaintively when he answered Gabriel’s summons.

  “Dawn has broken and we must depart,” he replied, ignoring Guennec’s question. “I was so pleased with our accommodations, however, that I wanted to leave you an extra franc to express my appreciation.”

  The innkeeper took the silver coin, nodding. “I regret that I had to burst into your chamber at an inopportune moment…”

  “Burst in?” Gabriel smiled, arching a brow. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “I can imagine that you wouldn’t have.” Chuckling, Guennec broke off a piece of baguette for each of them, adding casually, “Where might you and your lovely wife be bound today?”

  “We are traveling south, to Nantes. My wife’s aunt is ill.”

  “Indeed? Eh bien, I wish you a safe journey, m’sieur.”

  “I appreciate your concern, my friend,” Gabriel replied, managing to keep the note of disbelief from his voice. “Au revoir.”

  Chapter 13

  Saint-Malo, Brittany, France

  Izzie needed only one glimpse of the walled city of Saint-Malo to fall madly in love. It clung like an enchanted jewel to the jagged coastline, surrounded on all sides by emerald-green seas that sent their misty spray against the thick ramparts. An inviting cluster of slate roofs and chimneys peeked above the walls, crowned at the center by the soaring steeple of Saint Vincent’s Cathedral.

  They entered through the Porte de Dinan, the wheels of the broken-down fiacre rattling as they turned onto the ancient cobbles of Rue D’Orleans. Izzie leaned out the window to gaze up at the classical facades of the mansions that lined the street.

  When their little band of travelers had to wait while a wagon laden with furniture passed by, Gabriel brought his horse alongside and looked down at her.

  “What a beautiful city. It’s like something from a fairytale,” called Izzie. “And these homes are splendid!”

  “Would you feel so enraptured if you knew that this entire row of mansions was built with the ill-gotten gains of pirates? They call it Corsaires’ Row.”

  “Does your brother live in one of them?”

  “Of course,” came his laconic reply. “Only the best for Justin.”

  As he rode on ahead, Izzie realized that Lowenna was staring at her, wide-eyed. “What’s wrong? Don’t you think this city is beautiful?”

  The girl shook her head. “A nest of pirates? We be better off in Cornwall, my lady.”

  “Then you should have stayed in Polperro, which is merely a nest of smugglers,” Izzie replied testily. “You were not invited, you know.”

  “If I did know what lay ahead, I might have left you to it, my lady.” She blinked. “I were only trying to save you from ruin.”

  Izzie felt a pang of guilt as she thought of all that Lowenna had been forced to endure: nights spent sleeping in stables, wearing the same clothing every day, going without a proper wash-up, and eating whatever the servants were given at the inns.

  “I do appreciate your loyalty, and I believe our circumstances are about to improve,” she said, softening. “M’sieur implies that his brother lives very well. Perhaps we’ll have a clean bath and a comfortable bed.”

  They had come into a narrow lane just a stone’s throw from the ramparts, and Izzie’s attention was drawn to a pair of tall, green gates that were opening before them. Their sad conveyance entered a courtyard that revealed a three-story mansion built of granite, with a pitched slate roof. Izzie was immediately struck by its noble elegance. There was a horseshoe-shaped staircase that began at the grand entrance to the house, splitting into two parts to curve downward to the stone courtyard.

  As Gabriel swung down lightly from his horse, the tall doors flew open and an arresting figure appeared.

  “Can it be?” The man gave a lusty cry and started down one side of the staircase. “You weren’t due until July! Or was it August?”

  Izzie stared and Lowenna appeared beside her, craning her neck for a better look. “Who might that be?”

  “I believe it is M’sieur St. Briac’s older brother.” Noticing the warily sardonic expression on Gabriel’s face, Izzie added, “Our host, the pirate.”

  As he came down the steps, she saw that it must indeed be Justin St. Briac, for he bore a strong familial resemblance to Gabriel. However, he appeared older and more dissipated. His black hair, cut nearly as short as Napoleon’s, was fashionably disheveled. And, although he shared Gabriel’s tall, broad-shouldered physique, Justin somehow gave the impression of being more solid, as if he could merely laugh and push someone over who dared to challenge him.

  Soon, the two brothers were embracing and Eustache was climbing down from his driver’s perch to pry open the sagging door of the fiacre.

  Justin turned his attention to the conveyance. “Sacrebleu!” he cried in mock horror. “Brother, what has possessed you to bring this pathetic dog cart into my courtyard?”

  Arching an eyebrow in annoyance, Gabriel replied, “All of us cannot live at your level of splendor, mon frère. Apparently, decent coaches are exceedingly rare in France these days. I had to settle for what was available.” He paused, and Izzie sensed that he’d turned his annoyance back on himself as he added, “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

  “I perceive that you are in dire need of liquid refreshment,” Justin observed. He turned to speak to one of the hovering servants, who were all clad in sapphire-blue livery. “We’ll have food and drink for my brother.” Pausing, he glanced curiously toward the fiacre before adding, “And his…guests.”

  Izzie could feel Gabriel’s tension and realized that he dreaded introducing her to his brother, but he had no choice. She smoothed her muslin skirts and pinched her cheeks before taking Eustache’s outstretched hand and emerging into the sunlight.

  “
Bonjour, M’sieur St. Briac,” she said in her best French accent.

  A muscle clenched in Gabriel’s jaw as he forced a smile. “Justin, you have the honor of meeting Lady Isabella Trevarre.”

  Izzie now noticed that Justin was as impeccably garbed as Beau Brummell himself, in pantaloons of palest gray, a midnight-blue swallow-tail coat, polished Hessian boots, and a cravat intricately tied in the Mathematical. He bowed before her and captured one of her gloved hands in his, brushing his mouth across it.

  “My lady, it is indeed my honor to have you visit my humble home.” He slanted a fleeting, roguish gaze upward and their eyes met for an instant. “Welcome.”

  “How kind you are.”

  Gabriel drew near and surprised Izzie by slipping one arm around her back. His fingers were like steel as they closed around her waist. “I suggest that we all go inside. Lady Isabella is doubtless weary from our long journey.”

  “But of course.” Justin had no choice but to straighten, releasing her hand. “Baptiste…?” He glanced at a servant who, seeming to read his master’s mind, hurried away into the house.

  Gabriel, who had held her at a distance since their scene of forced intimacy at the Morlaix inn, now assumed a protective demeanor. He guided her up the wide, curving staircase and they came into a grand entry hall. Izzie looked up and saw an elliptical marble staircase with wrought-iron railings, seemingly unsupported as it curved up through the center of the mansion.

  “Your home is so very…French, m’sieur,” she said impulsively. All the surfaces shone and the furnishings, visible through a succession of lofty doorways, were in the latest Empire style.

  “My lady, I can only hope that you intend that as a compliment,” her host replied gallantly. “And I beg you to call me by my given name, Justin.” He pronounced it with a charming accent.

  Hearing Gabriel’s soft derisive snort, she impulsively replied to Justin, “I will try, but only if you call me Izzie.”

  To her surprise, Gabriel said nothing and remained in the background as his brother showed them all around the mansion. Her own mother, and perhaps even Devon and Julia, would have pronounced such grand décor “vulgar”, but Izzie decided that Justin’s taste must be the epitome of the new style introduced by Napoleon and his empress, Josephine.

  “Each room is more beautiful than the last,” she exclaimed after several minutes.

  Justin’s dark eyes shone with pride. “Do you think so? I am pleased. Here, we have reached your own suite of rooms. You must refresh yourself.”

  When he threw open the door, Izzie was surprised to find Lowenna in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by liveried servants who were laying out an enticing array of fresh fruit and delicate little cakes, each one a miniature work of art.

  The mind-reading man from the courtyard stepped forward to say, “My lady, not knowing your preference, we have provided tea, wine, and chocolate.”

  “Baptiste will take good care of you,” said Justin.

  To Izzie’s surprise, Gabriel came forward then and reached for her hand. “I’ll see you this evening, when we dine. If you should need anything—”

  “What else could I possibly need?” She swept out a hand to indicate the refreshments and the adjoining chamber that boasted a bed, carved of burnished mahogany in the shape of a boat, adorned with gold laurel wreaths and crowned by a pelmet of bronze silk. The bedclothes were fashioned of luxurious plum satin. Izzie imagined that the down pillows must be scented with lavender.

  “After you refresh yourself with food and drink, a bath will be delivered,” announced Baptiste.

  “How delightful. Merci!”

  “You may thank Napoleon,” Justin said with a charming smile. “He is obsessed with bathing, and so it’s become a national fashion. I’ve installed a copper bathtub in every dressing room in the house.”

  “Of course you have,” Gabriel said dryly.

  Izzie didn’t understand why everything Justin did and said seemed to rub Gabriel the wrong way, but decided that he was probably tired. This reasoning made sense because Izzie’s own father had been impossible to deal with when he was tired.

  “We will leave you then, my lady, to enjoy a respite from your travels,” Justin said. “I am going to provide my brother with a bit of cognac in the hope that it will improve his temper. We shall meet again in a few hours.”

  Moments later, the door had closed behind them and Lowenna bustled over to the table.

  “I’ll pour tea for you, my lady,” she said.

  “Lovely.” Noticing the way her maid eyed the little cakes, Izzie laughed. “You must pour a cup and make a plate for yourself, Lowenna.”

  “Oh! Thank you, my lady. I do long to taste the chocolate!” She hurriedly served Izzie before turning her attention to her own refreshments. “Isn’t this the most splendid house? Not as massive as the castles in England, but so luxurious!”

  As Izzie gazed out the tall window, over the ancient ramparts surrounding Saint-Malo, she gave a little sigh. “Yes, it is a bewitching place, but we should not become too comfortable. I suspect that Gabriel St. Briac intends that our stay shall be as brief as possible…”

  * * *

  Gabriel St. Briac followed his brother down through the labyrinth of arched stone tunnels that lay hidden beneath his mansion. Lanterns were hung at intervals along the passageway, fitfully illuminating their progress past storerooms filled with treasures from around the world.

  “Ah, here we are,” said Justin, and he threw open the door to a vaulted room. A small, barred window high on the far wall allowed just enough light to filter in so that Gabriel could see the casks of brandy. There were more than ever before, stacked nearly to the ceiling. “I have something very fine for you to taste.”

  Gabriel watched as his brother took a bottle from a wooden box and poured each of them a small glass of cognac before leading the way to a pair of massive armchairs constructed of carved, gilded walnut and upholstered in gold velvet.

  They sat together and Justin raised his glass. “Salut.”

  “These chairs are a bit out of place in this dungeon, don’t you agree?” Gabriel remarked

  “Yes, our friend, the corsair Surcouf sold them to me a few years ago, claiming they belonged to Louis XV, but now they’re hopelessly out of fashion. When I refurnished the entire mansion in the new Empire style, they had to come down to the cellar.” He gave an ironic laugh before prodding, “My brother, will you not raise your glass?”

  Gabriel reluctantly complied. As he drank, he felt himself soften inside. “Mon Dieu, it’s ambrosia.”

  “I know.” Justin sipped, grinning. “There is a Duke in Oxfordshire who offers a fortune for nearly all of it. He means to send men to meet me in Plymouth, if I can find a way around the cursed blockade. I was hoping you would help with the delivery, but I can see that you’re otherwise occupied.”

  Gabriel felt his face darken. “It’s not like that.”

  “Is it not? You are traveling with an unmarried British noblewoman, who is accompanied only by her maid.” He arched both eyebrows, looking like Satan himself in the dim light. “Pray tell, dear brother, what is it like?”

  “Lady Isabella’s situation is none of your concern. However, I see I must explain, if only because of the painting.”

  “The painting…” Justin straightened attentively. “Are you referring to the King?”

  God, the last thing Gabriel wanted to do was tell his brother that he’d lost their family treasure, even if Justin had insisted years ago that he should have it, along with the accompanying responsibility to guard the masterpiece.

  “Yes.” Gabriel nodded and drank down the cognac. “You’ll recall that I took it to England to keep it safe from Napoleon’s men.”

  “I do! It was just before Napoleon’s coronation as emperor. You went to see Louise Le Brun in London, for advice. I distinctly recall my surprise upon hearing that she recommended you hide it in a smuggler’s hole in Cornwall.”


  “Only those closest to Madame Le Brun presume to use her second name ‘Louise.’ One might suspect you’d been lovers,” Gabriel said testily before continuing, “As it happens, when I sought counsel from Madame in London, Lady Isabella was present, as her painting student. Her ladyship volunteered that her brother would gladly help me hide the painting.” He paused before adding, “He is Lord Sebastian Trevarre.”

  “Aha! Now I begin to glimpse a thread of logic in this tale. Izzie is the sister of our old comrade in smuggling who is now the law-abiding Lord of Trevarre Hall.” Justin was nodding to himself as he lifted the bottle and poured a second glass of cognac for them both.

  “Just so,” Gabriel replied. He sighed, but reluctantly continued with his story, ending with the disappearance of the King and his return to France to begin searching for it. “I am convinced that Napoleon’s men somehow got wind that the painting was hidden at Lanwyllow. Someone took it from the smuggler’s hole before I could get there—”

  “But what makes you think that person is French? Why not an Englishman? The thief could be in Scotland by now, while you are blindly charging about in France!”

  Gabriel bristled. He burned to challenge his arrogant brother to a duel and be rid of him. Instead, he replied evenly, “Because the evidence points to Vivant Denon.”

  “Now you have my attention.” Justin’s gaze sharpened. “I’ve heard that Denon was the architect of Napoleon’s art-looting enterprise for years before he was appointed Director of Museums. He would certainly have a motive to acquire a rare da Vinci painting. It would be quite a coup for his Musée Napoleon.”

  “Yes. And did I mention that Denon was in Roscoff at the same time we sailed back from Cornwall? He was seen there with Jean-Baptiste Wicar—who, as you doubtless recall, masterminded his own share of art looting in Italy. I suspect that they either stole the King from Cornwall themselves, or hired someone else to do it, and it was transferred to them in Roscoff.” He watched with satisfaction as Justin’s eyes widened. “Perhaps you now understand why I am in France rather than Scotland?”