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

by Cynthia Wright

  What did it all mean? What could Caverleigh want with Isabella? Then he remembered the secret she had tried to share last night, and how he’d insisted she save it until morning. St. Briac groaned aloud at his own stupidity. Quite possibly, the secret was connected to her brother George, and if he had heard her out, Isabella would still be safely at his side.

  His flash of inner rage passed like a summer storm, as St. Briac realized that there was no time to waste berating himself. Instead, he must seek answers.

  Turning to Isabella’s maid, he said, “Lowenna, if I’m to find your mistress, I need you to try to remember anything else that might be helpful.”

  She looked frightened, but leaned forward to whisper, “It’s to do with that painting, I think.”

  Could it be true? St. Briac thought, stunned to realize that Isabella’s own brother, the Marquess of Caverleigh, might have been responsible for the theft of the King. As he considered this possibility, so many things began to make sense.

  He could only pray that Caverleigh wouldn’t harm his own sister, no matter how low he had sunk.

  “Monseigneur…” Eustache tugged at his sleeve, tears welling in his dark eyes. “Your forgiveness means everything to me. Pray allow me to assist in your search for Lady Isabella. I live to do your will.”

  “And I, too, am at your disposal,” interjected Nicholai Beauvisage. “Do you surmise that Caverleigh has taken her to Paris?”

  “I do,” he nodded. “And I appreciate both your offers, but I feel that I will have better luck alone, perhaps in disguise.”

  “Monseigneur, I beg you—” protested Eustache.

  “Kindly trust me, this once, without argument! You must return to Roscoff with Lowenna and wait for me there.” Hearing the sharp note in his own voice, he added, “Perhaps you will be reassured to know I have a feeling about this.”

  Nicholai said, “Allow me to accompany you as far as the village. If there is anything to be learned at the local auberge about Caverleigh, they will reveal it to me.”

  “Merci. I accept your offer.” St. Briac felt his purpose burning like a flame, lighting the way back to Isabella. “Eustache, pack my saddlebag and call for Victor. I leave immediately.”

  Chapter 28

  Izzie awoke to the sickening odor of rancid meat. Slowly opening her eyes, she took stock of her surroundings.

  Fully clothed, she lay on narrow bed in a garret room she didn’t recognize. One narrow, filthy window on the far wall admitted feeble rays of light. The ceiling was so low it seemed she could reach up and touch one of the rustic beams protruding from the plaster. The walls were stained. There was a broken gate-leg table in one corner featuring a blue plate with what appeared to be a potato and the offending piece of rotting pork. When Izzie shifted slightly, she realized that her lumpy mattress was stuffed with musty old straw. Her skin crawled at the thought of the creatures that doubtless shared her cell, for she had no doubt that she was a prisoner.

  George must have put something in my cognac, Izzie realized, for her memory of events since they’d left Château du Soleil was patchy at best. Her mouth felt like cotton, her eyes burned, and only brief impressions flitted through her memory: the sight of George shaking his head as he said they would not be going to his auberge after all, the hardness of the seat she’d occupied in his broken-down calash, waking in the dead of night and looking outside the window of the jouncing equipage before succumbing to sleep again. Even their eventual morning arrival in Paris was a blur, except for George grasping her wrist and pulling her up an increasingly dark and frightening elliptical staircase.

  That had been her last memory until waking just moments ago. Izzie’s body ached as she forced herself to sit up on the side of the bed. She still wore the muslin gown from yesterday, when she and Gabriel had dined at Château du Soleil, but it was now soiled and wrinkled.

  Rising from the bed, Izzie went to the narrow window. It looked out over a chestnut tree that struggled upward near her room, seeking the light. In the courtyard below, she could see rats scurrying about in broad daylight.

  He betrayed me! The realization stung her deeply. I was a fool to believe, even for a moment, that George might change. Worse, as a result of her misguided trust for her brother, she had put her own life at risk—and her future with Gabriel.

  These reflections were temporarily overcome by a physical need to relieve herself. How long had it been? Izzie’s eyes swept the room until she spied a chamberpot peeking out from under the spindly bed.

  She had just smoothed down her skirts and pushed the cracked ironstone pot back under bed when a key rattled in the lock. Moments later, the door opened on creaking hinges and George appeared. He held her art box in his arms and carried a battered valise.

  “Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed with false cheer. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Only because you put a sleeping potion in that cognac you gave me to drink. And now I am being held prisoner in this dismal garret.” She stared at him with a mixture of pain and anger. “Explain yourself. You may as well tell me the truth—all of it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are very hard.”

  “You are welcome to prove my suspicions unfounded by letting me go.”

  “I may,” he said, pursing his lips. “After you repair the painting.”

  “You told me that I was going to fix it in your room in the village, and then I would be quickly returned to the château. Instead you drugged me, kidnapped me, and brought me to, I assume, Paris. Tell me what is really going on, George!” It came to her that he would never do so if she continued to show him her true feelings, so Izzie softened her tone. “Please. You can trust me. I am your sister, perhaps the only true friend you have left in the entire world.”

  Sadly she thought, Two can play your game, George.

  He blinked rapidly and set the art box and his valise down on the table. “I had to bring you with me, Izzie. I am turning the painting over to the men who will pay me for it tomorrow.”

  “Who are these men? Vivant Denon, the emperor’s Director of Museums?” she dared to ask. “And perhaps, his associate is Citizen Wicar?”

  George flushed. “Indeed, and both such fine connoisseurs of art! And, of course, Denon has the means to pay very well for this rather modest painting. He purchases it on behalf of Napoleon himself!”

  “Do you expect me to be impressed by your gang of thieves?”

  “It’s that insolent attitude of yours that obliged me to bring you along to Paris. This way…”

  “This way, you can use me as a hostage to hold Gabriel at bay if he should challenge you and try to take his painting back.” She had to clench her hands into fists so he wouldn’t see them trembling. “Why did you wait so long to come to Paris? You must have arrived in France days ago, but you could have traveled directly here!”

  He glanced away. “In truth, I can’t afford to be seen here until I have been remunerated for the painting. I will confess to you that I owe gambling debts to some very unpleasant Parisians. One or two are capable of inflicting torture on me, or worse!”

  “Oh, George!” Izzie wanted to weep, but she was too angry.

  “I’m afraid that you have no choice except to help me, as I have helped you many times in the past. And once you restore the painting and I have been paid, you may go on about your life.”

  “Am I to believe that you will simply set me free, to tell Gabriel St. Briac what you’ve done?”

  “Of course I will set you free, but why must you tell him anything? I am still your brother, after all, and you have a duty to help me.”

  This was so outrageous a statement that she had to swallow her immediate reply, saying instead, “All right then, give me the painting and my box, and I will set to work.”

  “There’s a good girl. It’s important we treat each other with loyalty.”

  “Loyalty—or manipulation?” Izzie couldn’t resist saying.

  George glanced up sharply in the midst of
opening his valise. “Is that what you think, that I manipulate you? Surely you don’t suppose that St. Briac’s motives are pure! He is only using you for your knowledge about Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “I don’t understand… What do you mean?” The words seem to catch in her throat.

  “Do you imagine that a man like that, an adventurer and a libertine who could have any woman he wants, has fallen in love with you?” He gave a cruel laugh that instantly reminded Izzie of their father. “Grow up and face reality!”

  To her dismay, she felt hot blood suffuse her face while tears stung her eyes. In that instant, it was as if time had evaporated and Izzie was back at Caverleigh House, recoiling under the verbal blows delivered by her father.

  Rather than look at George, she went over to the table and opened her box of artists’ supplies. God help me, she thought desperately, and in that moment the urge to weep was gone and new spirit stirred and rose up in her heart. Ever since she’d found the courage to come to France, the seedling of this strength had begun to grow inside her, but it had been overshadowed by the secret she’d dutifully harbored for George.

  Until now.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “You are right. Do you have the painting for me?”

  Eagerly, he brought a rolled-up canvas out of the soiled bag. Even though Izzie cringed inwardly at the thought of a da Vinci masterpiece being taken from its frame and transported around France in this manner, she would not let him see her feelings.

  “It’s a shame you had to remove it from the frame,” she remarked calmly.

  “Oh, but I had to, to get it out of England without being detected by those deplorable customs men.” He waved a hand in the air as if he were above them. “I kept the pieces of the frame, but it really wasn’t worth saving. In any event, I feel certain M’sieur Denon will want to have it reframed for the Louvre—or should I say, the Musée Napoleon. Such a grand title, is it not?”

  Izzie held her breath as her brother clumsily unrolled the canvas and she had her first good look at the painting since the day when Gabriel had brought it to Madame Le Brun’s studio in London, four long years ago.

  That had been before her own year-long study of the Italian master, examining many of his paintings and even, at the behest of her last teacher, copying some to better learn his techniques.

  “Here it is. I find the colors awfully muddy,” sniffed George as he pointed to the damaged corner. “You can restore it, can’t you?”

  As King François was revealed to her once again, Izzie nearly gasped aloud. Even if the companion portrait of Queen Claude hadn’t provided more proof of this painting’s authenticity, she was now absolutely certain that it had been created by Leonardo da Vinci. The King, who had lived three centuries ago, appeared so lifelike that she expected him to wink at her, or even reach out and touch her. Perhaps even more relevant was Izzie’s feeling. It extended from the painting into her heart, guiding her as she formed an audacious plan.

  * * *

  Gabriel pushed Victor as hard as he dared to reach Paris by nightfall. Whenever he stopped to rest and water the great stallion, he worried about every lost minute.

  The last time he’d been in Paris, it had been in a sad state of disrepair after years of neglect by the Revolutionary government. Monuments were defaced, gelatinous mud and stinking sewage had filled the streets, and citizens were ordered to purchase their own water to clean not only themselves and their houses, but also their gutters. At night, the poorly-lit city teemed with all manner of disreputable, even life-threatening, characters.

  This evening, however, as he rode over the Pont Neuf, Gabriel saw the changes Napoleon had been effecting in the great city. There were countless new quays and handsome, much-needed new bridges. Even the Seine, polluted though it might be, gleamed pink and violet in the soft twilight.

  On the Right Bank, he passed through Place Vendôme, where the battle of Austerlitz was being commemorated with the installation of a towering column, now hidden by scaffolding. It would be one more monument to Napoleon’s own towering ego, St. Briac thought dryly.

  Darkness was closing in around horse and rider now, and he was grateful to be near his destination. Easy women called out to him, one even stepping into the Rue de Clèry as he passed by, and he could see people watching from doorways.

  St. Briac had taken a risk, coming here tonight, without making other arrangements for lodging. It was possible that his old friend might not even live at this address now.

  Reaching Number 19, he dismounted and knocked at the tall door. Victor nudged hopefully at his shoulder and he absently replied by stroking the stallion’s nose. Just when he was giving up hope, the great door swung open and a neatly-dressed stableboy appeared, holding a lantern.

  “Oui, m’sieur?” Behind the boy, St. Briac could see the long stone passageway leading to an open courtyard with gardens and decorative trees, and surrounded by outbuildings and a stately house.

  “Is your mistress at home? My name is Gabriel St. Briac. We are old friends and I have come on a matter of urgency.”

  The boy looked him up and down and, to Gabriel’s surprise, did not bid him wait while he went to inquire. Instead, he gestured for man and horse to follow him. Minutes later, Victor had been led away to the stables and St. Briac was being ushered into a spacious entry hall lit with oil lamps. A riotous bouquet of fresh flowers stood on a table near the stairs and the walls were graced by exquisite paintings.

  “Mon ami!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you!”

  St. Briac felt a great surge of relief as Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun entered, still holding a paintbrush. She had grown older, her lovely face softer perhaps, but time could not dim the light in her eyes or the compelling vivacity of her spirit.

  “No more pleased than I am, dear Madame. I wasn’t sure if I would find you living here since your return from England.”

  She made a dismissive motion with the paintbrush. “My husband, you know, is cursed with the gambling affliction and he brought me many debts to settle when I arrived in Paris. I was fortunate eventually to be able to purchase this home from him, thereby releasing myself from all he stood for.”

  “Providential for both of you, it would seem.”

  “Ah, well, you know that we make our own fortune in this world, don’t you, Gabriel?” Madame Le Brun gave him the subtlest of winks. “Come with me now. I must order dinner for us, have a room prepared for you, and you shall tell me what pressing matter has brought you to my doorstep.”

  * * *

  Gabriel was taken in hand by Adelaide, Madame’s longtime servant, and shown to fine rooms. A bath and a glass of wine arrived, while a manservant unpacked his saddlebags and put his few pieces of clothing away in an armoire. It was difficult not to insist that Madame Le Brun hear his story about Isabella immediately, so that he might set out to look for her without delay, but common sense told him that nothing could be done until morning. In the meantime, he would eat, confer with his hostess, make a plan, and then try to sleep so that he’d have all his wits. Tomorrow he would surely need them.

  Soon, St. Briac found himself seated across from Madame in her private dining room. The table was dressed with another charming bouquet of mixed flowers, while the china and silver gleamed in the candlelight.

  “Tell me what brings you here,” she said as a serving maid set an assortment of fragrant covered dishes on the table. “I am bursting with curiosity.”

  Gabriel tasted the excellent Beaujolais wine. “I hardly know where to begin. First, I suppose, I should explain what has happened since I visited you in London. That now seems like a lifetime ago…”

  She smiled at the memory. “Did you take your painting to Lord Sebastian, as my dear Izzie suggested?”

  As they shared a delicious meal of chicken and vegetables cooked in white wine, followed by a salad of fresh watercress and beets, Gabriel brought his hostess up to date on all that had transpired in his l
ife—and Isabella’s—over the past four years. Madame was an accomplished listener, merely encouraging him with the occasional exclamation of delight or amazement.

  When at last he related the events that had transpired at Château du Soleil, as well as his suspicion that Caverleigh was behind the theft of the da Vinci masterpiece, Madame Le Brun gasped.

  “Our poor Izzie! How could her own brother do something so brutal?” She shook her head, but arched a knowing brow. “I have heard stories of his lordship. He is afflicted with the gambling fever, like my husband, and no doubt that is what drove him to steal your painting. You must tell me, mon ami, how can I help you? I perceive that you have come to me for more than just lodging and friendship.”

  Flooded with relief, St. Briac covered her small hand with one of his. “I knew no one else who might help me find Caverleigh—perhaps through your friend, Vivant Denon? It was Denon who introduced me to the dissolute marquess four years ago, the last time I was in Paris.”

  She considered this for a moment, sampling one of the meringues that had just appeared with halved figs and apricots on a paper-thin Limoges plate. “Now that you mention this, it was M’sieur Denon who spoke disparagingly of Lord Caverleigh to me, one day when his lordship was late for an appointment.”

  His heart threatened to jump from his chest. “You remain in touch with Denon, then?”

  “I do, but we are not the friends we once were!” Madame Le Brun gave a little laugh and rolled her eyes. “You see, it was M’sieur Denon who arranged for me to make a portrait of Caroline Murat, Napoleon’s sister, last year.”

  She was offering him the plate of sweets, so he accepted a fig, trying to rein in his impatience. “Ah, yes, the wife of the new King of Naples. It didn’t go well?”

  “How can I describe to you the torment she inflicted upon me, day after day? She often missed our appointments, and when she did appear, she would have invariably changed her hairstyle or made a different selection for the gown she wanted to wear in the portrait! I had to scrape off parts of the painting to make the changes! I can tell you that our tragically martyred Queen Marie Antoinette never treated me in such a manner.” Her cheeks turned pink as she spoke, and then she seemed to remember the more serious matter at hand. “Oh, mon cher, can you forgive me for prattling on about my own insignificant problems?”