The Broken Heart Read online

  “Oh, nonsense, he cannot be that omniscient,” Dain said impatiently. “Or so stupid as to put us deliberately in danger.”

  Isabelle bit back her retort. She felt as if the whole world was falling in on her, rumbling into fury with Torbridge, fear for Major Dain, his family, and herself, and horrible anxiety over what Armand would think of her. And yet struggling through that maelstrom of emotion came another—excitement because he was here, because she knew she would see him again, somehow. And blind faith that despite seeing her walking so intimately with a tall and personable man, Armand would understand.

  *

  Armand did not understand.

  Not in the slightest. At first, he thought he was hallucinating, his mind playing tricks by placing the face of the woman who occupied so much of his thought, waking and sleeping, onto a complete stranger.

  He blinked rapidly, but still Isabelle’s lovely face and distinctive golden hair remained. She smiled faintly, causing the familiarly seductive upturn at the corners of her brilliant eyes, which were focused entirely on the tall man at her side. They walked arm-in-arm, their heads close together, comfortable with the intimacy, like lovers or a married couple.

  He could not move. And then her gaze flickered to him, as though suddenly aware of the group of men by the café. For an instant, their eyes held in shock, and then the man drew her onward and she looked away, walking on as though nothing had happened.

  Nothing had happened? He seemed to explode in a welter of rage and jealousy and sheer curiosity as to what the devil she was doing in France. It had been his dream that she would care enough to come to him when the war was finally over. Unless he could somehow make it safe for her before that, and she could find the courage to risk it.

  But to see her here with another man… God help him, that had never entered his head. He had won her for a little on that clifftop. But he was a realist. He’d known he couldn’t expect this inconvenient surge of love to last unnourished forever. Yet, he had hoped for longer than a month.

  But without doubt, there she walked, already on terms of intimacy with someone else.

  Unable to be still, he threw himself out of his seat, threw a coin on the table, and with a muttered word to his companions, strode off in the opposite direction to Isabelle.

  Bitterly, he wondered if he could really have been so mistaken in her. Had she been Ashton’s mistress after all? If so, he could see no point in her pretense, unless it had been to win him to Torbridge’s shadowy cause? And she had tried. But her feelings, her kisses, those had been genuine, he could swear… Coxcomb, imbecile! He hurled insults at himself in a fury of hurt and regret, until he stopped dead in the middle of the street without much recollection of how he had got here.

  He was missing the important point here. Which wasn’t whether or not a woman loved him. But whether she was here to harm his country.

  He took a breath, pulling himself together, forcing himself to pay attention. Why had he walked this way instead of following them? Still, the town center was small. He could find them again easily enough. He walked on, until he saw them once more, a tall, distinctive couple with their backs to him.

  He followed them at a distance, suppressing another upsurge of jealous rage. They were not talking now, but her hand was still in the strange man’s arm. Who was he? Noir did not recall seeing him in the town before, though that meant little. He had not been here long himself, but had been sent to tighten up the smuggling. The government had little objection to British goods sneaking into the country, but they wished to starve Britain of trade with the continent. And they were worried about spies and agents provocateurs entering the country via smugglers’ vessels.

  Presumably that was how Isabelle had come. Had her companion come with her? Or was he already here? Her victim? Or her ally?

  He turned the corner into the Rue de l’Église, just in time to see them walk through a gate and up the path to a pleasant house at the end of the street. The man let himself in with a key, and she followed without looking back.

  Pain consumed him, threatening to drown his anger with her. But he wouldn’t allow that. He would fall back on duty and find out what he could.

  *

  Isabelle jumped when the knock sounded at the front door. She sat alone in the sitting room, for both Dain and Mrs. Dain were with the major. At the ominous sound, she froze, staring at the sitting room door, listening to the hurried tread of Madame Vosges’s feet along the passage.

  Her heart thundered. It’s him. He’s found me.

  While part of her leapt at that wonderful thought, the sane, sensible part was afraid, because he could have brought his soldiers to arrest her. And if she was taken, so would be the fragile major, and everything she and Dain and Mrs. Dain had done would be for nothing. God knew what would happen to them all…

  The front door closed, but she could hear Madame Vosges’s voice approaching the sitting room door.

  Dear God, she’s let him in, she thought in wild panic. He has come for me, for all of us.

  The briefest of knocks heralded the housekeeper. “Madame Levigne has called.”

  Isabelle stared at her, taking a moment to understand that it was not Armand. She didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed, but by then, a young lady in pink was sweeping past the housekeeper, and Isabelle rose mechanically to greet her.

  “Madame, forgive my unexpected call,” the lady cried gaily. “I only came to welcome you to St. Sebastien!”

  “How very kind of you,” Isabelle managed.

  “I’m Madame Levigne,” the lady explained in such a way that Isabelle knew she was supposed to recognize the name and be gratified. “My husband is the mayor.”

  “Then I am doubly honored by your visit,” Isabelle said hastily. “Won’t you sit down? May I offer you refreshment?”

  “Oh, no, I shan’t disturb you above a moment. I came merely to introduce myself and to ask you and your husband to call whenever you wish.” She presented a card of invitation, which Isabelle took with a murmur of gratitude. “I hold quite informal gatherings on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, so if you can spare the time, I would love to know you better and introduce you to our neighbors.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said. Her instinct was to turn the invitation down—surely a sick brother-in-law was excuse enough?—and go nowhere. Never to leave the house until she was dragged away by Armand’s soldiers.

  But that was not only laughable but foolish. Armand, surely, would do nothing until he had spoken to her. He must owe her that much. And her own and her companions’ safety depended on her blending in, on being the people they were pretending to be.

  “We should be delighted,” she managed, smiling. “It is difficult in a new place where one knows no one.”

  “Exactly.” Madame Levigne laughed. “And now you know me!”

  “And I’m very glad to do so!”

  “I believe you have come from Paris?”

  “Why, yes, we have…”

  Madame Levigne stood up. “I shall look forward to hearing all about it, and to meeting your husband, too! Good bye, madame.”

  “Goodbye—and thank you…”

  It was, of course, a good thing. To be accepted by the mayor and his wife would surely raise them above suspicion. If only Armand remained silent. She wrestled with conflicting courses of action, including going alone to the barracks and speaking to Armand. She could tell him the truth, explain about Major Dain. He was bound to be sympathetic. Although his duty must compel him to act against the enemy soldier. Telling him would merely put him in an awkward situation in which duty would win. Nothing he had ever said to her, nothing he had ever done, had led her to believe he would ever ignore his duty.

  Her frayed nerves made her start at any outside noise. By the time they had dined, she actively longed for Armand to come, to remove the uncertainty. To be there beside her. Just to talk to him, to see him…

  But he didn’t come, and she retired wond
ering desperately what he was doing, what he was thinking.

  *

  Mrs. Dain had made herself up a bed in her husband’s chamber, and in fact, he seemed to be sleeping so much more peacefully that they decided no further watch of the sick man was required. So, Isabelle could have enjoyed a long, undisturbed sleep, if only she had not been tossing and turning instead with anxiety and yearning over Armand.

  In the morning, she was delighted to find Major Dain awake and propped up in bed by a sea of pillows. Still deathly pale, he was being fed gruel by his wife and smiled at Isabelle when she entered.

  “I remember your face. I thought I was dreaming,” he said weakly.

  “Madame de Renarde,” his wife introduced her. “Whom you must remember to call Isabelle. She is Marcus’s wife.”

  “And he is Marc Renard,” the major said with a hint of humor. “I have it now. Except… Are you really his wife?”

  Smiling, Isabelle shook her head.

  “Pity,” the major observed. “I think I’ve had enough food, Louisa. Where is Marcus? Marc…”

  “I’ll fetch him for you,” Isabelle said. “I’m very glad to see you looking so much better, sir.”

  *

  Dain’s relief at these early signs of his brother’s recovery was clearly immense, even though the doctor warned he was not yet out of the woods. He could still die, and there could be no question of moving him anywhere for several more days at least.

  And so, they had to fit seamlessly into St. Sebastien. While the major slept later that morning, Isabelle shooed his wife and brother out for a jaunt in the carriage they had insisted on hiring, advising them to walk in the fresh air of the surrounding countryside for an hour. She spent the time discussing food and menus with Madame Vosges and refurbishing her favorite blue, but sadly crushed, day gown for the afternoon.

  A knot of nerves seemed to have taken root in her stomach. She needed more to do than primp and set the table for luncheon. But Major Dain only required that she look in on him occasionally while the others were out, and while he slept, she could neither nurse him nor converse with him.

  She was delighted by the return of the others, and even persuaded Mrs. Dain to eat luncheon with them before she went to feed her husband.

  Dain wrinkled his nose. “Do we have to attend this insipid gathering at the mayor’s?” he asked.

  “I think we do,” Isabelle replied. “It seems to be a sought-after honor. Madame Vosges was certainly impressed! So for us, people supposed to be out of favor with the powerful of Paris, it would look very odd if we did not go.”

  Dain sighed. “And what if that officer fellow is there?”

  “I hope he is,” Isabelle said stoutly. “I need to speak to him and find out his intentions.”

  “At least he hasn’t sent his soldiers to arrest us,” Dain said. “Presumably, he believes he was mistaken in recognizing you, in which case, why give him more doubts?”

  “I thought about that.” Isabelle had, in fact, thought about nearly every possibility, endlessly. “But in a town of this size, I’m not sure it’s possible to avoid him and still remain above suspicion. He is not a bad man but an honorable officer who is bound to have every sympathy for your brother’s plight.”

  She hoped. In fact, her worst fear was over his suspicion as to why she was here.

  By the time they walked round to the mayor’s large residence, just off the town square, Dain seemed resigned to the afternoon’s torture. And the knot in Isabelle’s stomach seemed to reach up to her throat. But pretense had become so much part of her character in the years following her disastrous marriage that as soon as the front door opened, she slipped into the role of Madame Renard quite easily.

  It didn’t stop her heart from jumping into her throat as the servant showed them into the salon. An initial sweeping gaze around the other guests did not reveal Armand, or indeed any officers, which at least gave her a moment to breathe in relief—and to realize that somewhere she was disappointed.

  Madame Levigne hurried across to meet them. Today, she wore a soft, powder blue, to match her doll-like eyes. Somehow, she suited all the frills and flounces that Isabelle eschewed, although she was not quite so young as Isabelle had imagined at their first meeting. “Madame Renard, how delightful that you came!”

  “My husband,” Isabelle murmured. “Marc, our kind hostess, Madame Levigne.”

  Dain, remembering his French manners, kissed her hand. They were presented with glasses of wine and introduced to several other people, mostly of a class Dain would not normally have encountered socially. Fortunately, he showed no signs of distaste, and Isabelle allowed herself to be separated from him.

  In time, she managed to maneuver close to the salon door, for ease of observing other people’s departures. In England, a morning call never lasted longer than half an hour, but this appeared to be more of a reception, and she didn’t know the customs.

  “Madame Renard,” murmured a quiet voice behind her.

  Her breath caught. Every nerve, every hair on the back of her neck stood up in shock that encompassed both alarm and thrill.

  She turned her head and faced Armand le Noir.

  Her heart lurched in painful appreciation. In causal civilian dress, he had been a handsome, oddly imposing figure. In the blue, red, and gold military uniform, his magnificence took her breath away. He was not her Armand but some distant, splendid stranger. Panic surged up from her toes, depriving her of breath.

  Although he smiled, it did not touch his hard, mocking eyes. “How fortunate you found another husband with a name so closely resembling that of the last one. It must save a lot of confusion.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she managed.

  “Armand!” Their hostess fluttered up, throwing out her hand to the new arrival, who kissed it with just a shade too much enjoyment. Madame Levigne fluttered her eyelashes. Her cheeks were prettily flushed. “I was afraid you were going to let me down, but here you have found her already, just as you asked. Madame, allow me to present Captain le Noir, who has been dying to meet you.”

  “I have,” he declared, ushering Isabelle aside and leaving his hostess blinking after them. He handed Isabelle into a chair. But instead of taking the one beside it, he stood looming over her. “For many, many reasons.”

  She lifted her chin. “And now what? You are going to glower at me until everyone notices?”

  “Perhaps. Or at least until your husband notices and calls me out.”

  “You wish to make me a widow again? Already?”

  “You are quite right. Why resort to such drastic action?” He turned, throwing himself into the chair beside hers. “Why are you here, sweet love of mine?”

  The sarcasm of his endearment cut her so sharply, she couldn’t speak. She gazed straight ahead, a faint, meaningless smile on her lips, as though he bored her. Just as she had sat and smiled at other, much earlier parties when she had found Pierre and his latest mistress also present.

  “Why are you here?” she retorted into the tense silence between them. “Why did you ask Madame Levigne to invite me?”

  “I thought you might prefer it to—er—a raid on your rather charming little house.”

  “Is that the alternative?”

  He held her gaze coolly. “You think me unfair? It’s true I asked you to come home. However, I did not invite your husband, and I find I can’t ignore him.”

  She didn’t like this new Armand, but just for an instant, she imagined fierce jealousy behind his mocking dark eyes, even in the too off-hand tone of his voice. “You gave me more benefit of the doubt with Maurice Ashton.”

  “He was a coxcomb. Who is this conveniently named Renard?”

  She bit her lips.

  “You don’t wish to tell me?” he mocked.

  “No.” Not here. It was impossible here. She stood and walked away, her foolish heart in tatters, her mind in such desperate turmoil that she almost bumped into another familiar figure.

  “Ma
dame?” said Dr. Ghibert. “Are you well?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Doctor?”

  “Well, as always. I gather your patient is doing better, too? I intend to call in to see him when I leave here in a few minutes.”

  “My sister will probably be asleep,” she said hastily. “But Madame Vosges will let you in.”

  “I would not like to wake your sister. Perhaps, if there is no rush, I will leave your patient until the end of the afternoon.”

  “Perhaps that would be best,” she said gratefully, for she trusted neither the major nor Mrs. Dain to convince anyone they were French. This was a difficulty she had not foreseen—and another followed only a few minutes afterward when she glanced toward the door and saw Armand standing there talking with Dr. Ghibert.

  The blood drained from her face so fast, she felt dizzy. But this was foolish. The doctor would not discuss his patients with other people. Would he?

  Armand glanced across the room at her and smiled.

  She wanted to cry, because once she had treasured his smile. It had made her glad and excited, and whatever the situation, she had been unable to resist smiling back. Now, its only purpose seemed to be to hurt her.

  Dear God, when can I leave?

  “Madame Renard, you will ride with us tomorrow, will you not?” The mayor’s wife was smiling at her expectantly.

  “Ride?” she repeated, trying to pull herself together. “I’m afraid we have no riding horses with us, only the carriage horses we rented with the house.”

  “Oh, I shall lend you one for the day,” said Madame Levigne. “We mean to ride up to the castle ruin on the hill and enjoy the view, which is remarkably fine.”

  “It sounds delightful. Perhaps I will take you up on your kind offer.”

  Madame Levigne crowed with delight and linked her arm through Isabelle’s to draw her a little apart. “So, what of Captain le Noir, is he not delightful?”

  “I’m sure he is perfectly charming.”

  Madame Levigne was not put off by her coolness. “He was most eager to meet you.”