The Secret of Love (Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family Book 3)

by Cynthia Wright

  “Well, perhaps not, but I expected you to listen respectfully to my explanation! I could not have imagined that you would treat me as if I were a criminal!” She began to rise out of the chair for emphasis, but he put a hand on her shoulder and firmly returned her to the wooden seat.

  “I see.” He nodded, annoyed with himself for noticing the lush curves of her body inside her ridiculous male garb. “Was your life in peril? Perhaps you had no other means of escape from a ruthless murderer?”

  Isabella squirmed. “No, not exactly.”

  They were interrupted by a knock. St. Briac opened the door to find Louis, the cabin boy, holding a tray with another plate of bread, cheese, and ham, joined by pottery jugs of coffee and hot milk. Before the boy could speak, Gabriel snatched the tray and closed the door again.

  “Eat, my lady,” he told Isabella, and set the food on the desk next to her. “And, since you clearly won’t rest until you’ve ‘explained,’ I will hear you out.”

  “Thank you. Merci.” Her eyes shone behind her smudged spectacles when she looked up at him.

  A pang of emotion stirred inside him and he struggled to suppress it. “Have a few bites of food, then tell me the reason for your outrageous behavior.”

  As Isabella ate hungrily, St. Briac imagined he could see the wheels turning in her mind. He perched on the edge of the bunk, nearly facing her, when she poured coffee and milk together and lifted the mug to drink.

  “It’s quite simple, and once you hear me out, I’m sure you’ll agree,” she said brightly. “I really had no choice but to accompany you back to France—”

  “Accompany me?” he repeated in acid tones. “Are you in jest?”

  “Certainly not.” Isabella straightened her spine. “It’s so very sensible. You have lost something that is precious to your family—a painting that may well be a world treasure. In light of the many months I spent studying the techniques of Renaissance Masters, I am convinced that the stolen portrait of King François was the work of Leonardo da Vinci himself. I have come not only to help you find it, but to verify its authenticity after it is safely back in your possession.”

  “You have, have you?” He stared at her, incredulous. “I’m not sure I believe my ears.”

  “Oh, and I should add that I do have an additional reason for being here,” Isabella continued, sipping her café au lait. “Our mutual friend Madame Le Brun has invited me to visit her in Paris, but I know that travel in France is difficult now, especially for an Englishwoman like me.” Before he could speak, she added hastily, “I should mention that Madame will also aid in our quest to authenticate the portrait, once we have reclaimed it.”

  Gabriel knew an urge to laugh. “You say ‘we’ as if I actually had some say in this!”

  “I hope it doesn’t sound as if I intend to lead the search,” Isabella said earnestly.

  “On the contrary! It sounds as if you are mad, stowing away on board this ship for any reason!” He knew he was losing his temper, something that rarely happened, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Springing to his feet, he felt the words pouring out. “My lady, have you no idea what this little adventure means for your future?”

  She blinked and set down her cup. “I felt I had no choice.”

  “You have taken an immensely consequential step that could well change the future that was arranged for you at birth. Your father was a marquess and you are a lady; you’re meant to marry an aristocrat and live a proper life. That may not be possible now.” Pausing for effect, he added, “You’ve gone beyond the pale.”

  “Beyond the pale?” she echoed as a familiar flush crept into her cheeks. “How very stuffy you sound, m’sieur. I really wouldn’t have thought you capable of such conventional views.”

  “I may not subscribe to those views, but most of the world we live in does. And the British aristocracy, into which you were born, most definitely does!” Gabriel took a deep breath and sat down again.

  “I have quite a different plan for my life; I will not be governed by that humdrum code of behavior. I mean to be independent, like Madame LeBrun.”

  “Sangdieu! You don’t know what you are talking about.” He wanted to pick her up out of the chair and shake her. “Do you mean to live in disgrace, like your brother the marquess?”

  This clearly hit a nerve. After a moment of apparent speechlessness, Isabella said proudly, “You don’t know the first thing about George, and I have done nothing disgraceful. I am an independent woman. I am an artist.”

  “Ah, now I understand. It’s your intention to live beyond the pale. That’s fortunate, because I couldn’t save your reputation even if I desired to marry you. I not only don’t possess a title, my bastard ancestor permanently stains my own lineage. I’m unfit to wed the daughter of a peer.” Gabriel reclined against a pillow, propped his booted legs on a nearby trunk, and added cheerfully, “Supremely so.”

  “How convenient for you, m’sieur!”

  “Isn’t it?” He gave Isabella a wicked smile and watched as she betrayed herself by blushing. For the first time since he’d realized the identity of his stowaway, St. Briac began to feel as if he might have the upper hand. “But, I do have a role in your adventure, whether by choice or not. Do you suppose your brother, Sebastian, will see your point of view?”

  He was gratified to see her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps you have forgotten that Sebastian and I have been friends for many years. When he learns that you are alone at sea with me, your good name in tatters, I wonder what his reaction will be?”

  “Sebastian is not my keeper, though he enjoys acting as if he is somehow in charge of my life. I am—”

  “Yes, you have told me before, you are an artist and an independent woman. But my question is about my own relationship with your brother, your family, even the Raveneaus.” Grimly, St. Briac arched an eyebrow. “It’s quite possible that they will hold me responsible for this grand misadventure of yours.”

  “Oh no. I left them a letter, explaining everything. I can assure you, my family will listen to reason.”

  “Or Sebastian will follow us to France and challenge me to a duel.”

  Isabella sat up straighter and gave him a look of stubborn defiance. “You are being horrible, m’sieur. Kindly remember that I have come to assist you!”

  St. Briac watched as she caught her soft lower lip between her teeth, perhaps to stop it from trembling. Even though Isabella might be costumed as a dirty-faced boy, she possessed an artless sensuality that he found unnervingly potent.

  He sprang to his feet and crossed the cabin. God help him, he would need all his strength in the coming days to resist her. The sooner he could put Lady Isabella Trevarre on a boat back to Cornwall, the better for both of them.

  * * *

  While Deux Frères sailed into the fishing village of Roscoff, Brittany, Izzie paced to and fro in St. Briac’s cabin, listening to the rapid footsteps of the crew on the decks above her.

  Her thoughts kept circling back to Gabriel’s sardonic words, about not marrying her even if he desired to. Each time she remembered, her heart stung. And the stinging made no sense. There was nothing between them except Izzie’s foolish girlhood infatuation. Furthermore, she had outgrown it; she wasn’t interested in marrying any more than he was! Someone like Mouette would swoon at such a harsh rejection, but Mouette and her London friends were quite obsessed with romance.

  They loved romance and Izzie did not, at least not in the same way. No, she intended to dabble in romance with the same sophistication as Élisabeth Vigée LeBrun, who, Izzie knew, took lovers. Madame indulged her senses, but her heart was never at risk. Art was the true passion of her life!

  Izzie felt exactly the same way, even if she couldn’t yet claim to be sophisticated.

  “Now you are here in France,” said a deep voice.

  She turned quickly to see him standing there, arms akimbo, the embodiment of her feminine dreams. “I’m glad.”

  “O
f course, you won’t be able to stay. I intend to send you back to your brother in Cornwall, as soon as possible.” Gabriel walked across the cabin, reached for her portmanteau and crooked a strong, elegant finger. “In the meantime, follow me.”

  Before Izzie could speak her mind, a stocky young man wearing a flat-crowned hat appeared in the open doorway.

  “What do you want, Martin?” Gabriel asked in a tone that suggested he was out of patience with the world in general.

  “Capitaine,” the fellow exclaimed. “Look what I found hiding in the galley! A stowaway!”

  He drew a soiled, frightened-looking person out of the shadows and into view. After a moment of shock, Izzie saw that the stowaway was her maid, Lowenna.

  Chapter 8

  Roscoff, Brittany

  “Two stowaways on one crossing! Might it be possible that you two know one another?” St. Briac taunted, glancing from one trouser-clad female to the other.

  Izzie sensed that it would be better to be plain with him. “This is my maid, Lowenna Fletcher.” She gave the girl a severe look. “Kindly tell the captain that I did not invite you to stow away on his ship.”

  “Oh, my lady,” cried Lowenna, “I could not let you go alone, for I do know ’twould mean your ruin!”

  “At least someone has the sense to protect her ladyship’s good name.” He gestured to Martin to release her. “Thank you for coming, Miss Fletcher.”

  “Yes,” Izzie said quickly, “I am very grateful that you are here, Lowenna. I realize now that I should not have set out alone. It will be much better to have you with me during our travels in France.”

  St. Briac slanted a cynical look in her direction but said only, “For now, let us go ashore. You both will have a hot meal, a bath, and a night’s sleep at my home here in Roscoff before tomorrow’s journey.”

  Warily, Izzie accepted the hand he extended, and rose to her feet. “I am pleased that you are seeing reason.”

  Eyes agleam, he added softly, “I am referring to tomorrow’s journey back to Cornwall.”

  Their eyes met in a silent battle of wills. “We shall see,” she replied.

  * * *

  When Izzie climbed up through the hatch, she saw to her surprise that Deux Frères was approaching a great wood-and-stone building that opened onto the sea. As the sloop entered and soundlessly glided into the darkened interior, big iron gates swung shut behind them.

  “Where are we?” she asked Gabriel in surprise.

  “My brother and I own this warehouse for our business,” he said before going off to oversee their landing.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Izzie saw that the sloop was tying up to a quay. There were barrels and crates stacked on the dock, and many more in the distance. Water sloshed against the side of the boat and Izzie wrinkled her nose as she inhaled the scents of wet wood and rope, pitch, and canvas.

  She turned to the sharp-featured boy called Helivet, who had been charged with guarding the two stowaways. “You needn’t clutch my arm as if you think I’ll attempt to escape by jumping overboard,” she told him in fluent French. “Where would we go?”

  He shrugged, but loosened his hold on them. “I am but following orders, mam’selle.”

  “You are quite strong.” Izzie gave him an admiring smile. “It must be exciting to be a smuggler!”

  “Mais, oui!” He colored proudly. “I’d rather be working for the St. Briac brothers than picking onions or fishing, that’s certain.”

  The other members of the small crew rushed around them, preparing to disembark.

  “I never dreamed that Captain St. Briac owned a warehouse like this,” Izzie said. “It’s quite thrilling.”

  Helivet puffed out his narrow chest. “The Customs Officers aren’t permitted to enter here. It’s a private warehouse, so once inside, we’re safe; the cargo is safe.”

  “How ingenious!”

  “The St. Briacs assemble all the goods that have been ordered for their clients in this warehouse. Most times, they don’t deliver to England themselves. They are just the agents.”

  “I see…” Izzie vaguely remembered her brother Sebastian’s dealings with Gabriel St. Briac when she had first visited Roscoff with the Raveneau family, a decade ago. She’d been reunited with Sebastian on that long-ago day, and had met her new sister-in-law, Julia, but they’d been joined at the inn for dinner by Gabriel St. Briac. She’d been so young, and so mesmerized by him, that she hadn’t wondered what connection he might have to her brother. Now, Izzie understood. St. Briac had been in charge of assembling and delivering Sebastian’s cargo of contraband goods, especially the exorbitantly taxed salt needed so desperately by the fishermen back in Cornwall.

  She was roused from her memories by Helivet’s cold hand pinching her elbow.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Izzie tested her sore ankle and was relieved to find it much improved. Remembering Lowenna, she gave the girl an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine!”

  Lowenna nodded. “I know. I don’t think the splendid Frenchman would hurt you, my lady, but I do worry about the other happening. I felt it was my duty to protect your reputation, since you might need it one day.”

  Izzie saw the way her maid waggled her brows when she said the word “other,” and wanted to laugh. Fortunately, Helivet had begun handing them over to the quay, so she was spared a reply.

  How ridiculous! Clearly, Gabriel St. Briac wasn’t the least bit interested in Izzie’s virtue.

  * * *

  St. Briac loved the view of Roscoff from the sea. Windswept and fanciful, the slate rooftops were occasionally punctuated by a whimsically carved granite tower rising up against the crisp blue sky.

  And always, when he sailed into the safety of their warehouse, he felt a quiet thrill in this secret world he and Justin had created for their very own. It was a world where he made the rules, and that meant much more to him than the wealth and adventure.

  St. Briac left Martin to look after matters on board Deux Frères. Now that they had arrived in France, he could begin his search for the King in earnest.

  But first, he had to dispose of the beguiling Lady Isabella and her tenacious maid.

  * * *

  Gabriel kept a residence in Roscoff that was within easy walking distance of his warehouse. The house was located in a narrow, cobbled bend of Rue Amiral-Révelliere, and as the tall granite building with its sloping slate roof came into sight, his heart lifted.

  “That’s my house,” he said, turning back toward the two young women who followed him down the ancient street. For the first time, he noticed that the trouser-clad maid was lugging the portmanteau he’d found in the hold. Slanting a look at Isabella, he said, “Ah yes, of course that belongs to you. Only an aristocrat would bring luggage when attempting to stow away.”

  To his surprise, she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “When you put it that way, it is quite amusing. But I had to have my own clothing—and of course, my supplies.”

  He hadn’t the faintest idea what she could mean by “supplies” and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Of course.”

  “That is your house, m’sieur?” Isabella was asking. “The one with the ship carved in stone above the door?”

  “Yes. You can see fanciful carvings on many of the old buildings of Roscoff. Fish, dragons, ships, animals.” He gestured toward a nearby dwelling crowned by a carving of an old man wearing a cap, sitting in a chair, and smoking a long pipe. “That’s a favorite of mine.”

  They approached the front door of his house, which was so low he would have to bend to enter. Next to the door was a tiny lookout window, added by another smuggler who had built the house more than a hundred years ago. After Gabriel lifted the knocker on the door, the little window popped open.

  “Ah!” came a surprised voice from within. “It’s the master, returned safely once again from the sea!”

  The door flew open and his housekeeper, Madame Kerjean, appeared, clad in
a simple, traditionally embroidered gown. Because she was nearly as tall as he, she habitually crouched slightly when greeting callers. Without a moment’s pause, the old woman grasped the two strangers’ hands and drew them into the house.

  “Bonjour, bonjour!”

  Remembering that Madame Kerjean was an incurable gossip, Gabriel decided not to tell her the real names of their guests. It wouldn’t do for her to know that Lady Isabella Trevarre was gallivanting about on her own, dressed as a boy. “Madame, these two fine women are lost. I have promised to help them return to England, but first they need hot food, a bath, and a good night’s sleep. You’ll look after them, won’t you? Call Eustache to show them to a bedchamber and see to their comfort. I have an…appointment.”

  “An appointment?” she repeated, wide-eyed. “You have only just arrived, m’sieur. I sensed that you would return today and I have a fine tarte aux oignons baking at this very moment!”

  “I shall return shortly, chére Madame.” St. Briac smoothed her ruffled feathers with a brief embrace. Her iron-gray hair, combed into a severe chignon under her Breton lace coiffe, smelled of rosewater just as it had since his childhood.

  As he turned to leave again, he heard her whisper to the two women, “That is what M’sieur always tells me, yet always he is leaving!”

  * * *

  Madame Kerjean took Izzie and Lowenna into a small parlor and rang a bell. Izzie looked around, spellbound by the sight of shelves lined with rows of fine, leather-bound books, with more volumes stacked helter-skelter wherever there was space. Under a nearby window stood a grand desk covered with sheaves of parchment, pots of ink, quills, and more stacks of books.

  “You must be hungry after your journey,” Madame Kerjean said. Clearly she was bursting with curiosity, but held herself in check. “Let me see if the tarte is ready.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Lowenna, in halting French. “It smells delicious!”

  Izzie wandered over to have a closer look at Gabriel’s fine books. To her surprise, she saw that many had to do with Botany. She opened a volume entitled Hortus Kewensis and began to page through a lot of Latin names and descriptions for plants, interspersed with exquisitely rendered copper engravings of exotic flowers. It was hardly an interest Izzie would have expected a man like Gabriel St. Briac to have.