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  The Secret of Love

  Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family, Book 3

  Cynthia Wright

  The Secret of Love

  Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family, Book 3

  Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Challed

  Excerpt from Surrender the Stars Copyright © 1987, 2011 by Cynthia Challed

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Thank You.

  Digital Edition published by Boxwood Manor Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9982295-3-9

  Cover Art by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Digital Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  ~ Table of Contents ~

  Copyright

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from SURRENDER THE STARS

  Meet Cynthia Wright

  Books by Cynthia Wright

  The Jewels of Historical Romance

  Final Word

  ~ Book Description ~

  A STOLEN HEART

  When Lady Isabella Trevarre first laid eyes on Gabriel St. Briac, she announced to her best friend: “That is the man I will marry!” Now a woman grown, Izzie has traded her girlish dreams for the independent life of an artist, but she never quite forgot the dazzling Frenchman who captivated her young heart. When he appears again in Cornwall, the seeds of desire grow between them…

  A STOLEN MASTERPIECE

  As Napoleon’s army loots art treasures throughout Europe, Gabriel St. Briac’s priceless Leonardo da Vinci painting vanishes from its hiding place. Bent on recovering his family’s prized possession, Gabriel sets sail for the chaos of wartime France—only to find Izzie stowed away on his ship. Though fearful for her safety, he allows her to join in his quest. But Izzie harbors a dark secret…a secret that could shatter their fragile trust. When danger puts them both to the test, will they dare risk all for love?

  ~ Dedication ~

  For Kimberly Cates: friend, fellow author, critique partner, and sister of my heart. How lucky I am to have you in my life. XO

  ~ Acknowledgments ~

  I couldn’t have brought THE SECRET OF LOVE to you without my fantastic team.

  Dear friends, critique partners (and great authors in their own right) Ciji Ware and Kimberly Cates, were incredibly helpful & encouraging. Each offered sage advice that closed “plot holes” and made this a better book.

  Kathryn Lynn Davis, the gifted author, did a brilliant job of editing.

  Kim Killion, my first-rate cover artist, created another stellar cover.

  Amy Atwell, my formatter and woman-of-many-hats, has put it all together brilliantly.

  Tim Campbell, audiobook narrator extraordinaire, has elevated my work to a new level!

  My 11 Jewels of Historical Romance sisters are there for me every single day.

  Thanks, too, to everyone in Cornwall and France who made my research trips so special and helpful. I can’t imagine writing THE SECRET OF LOVE without that magical first-hand experience.

  I couldn’t do this without my family, especially my husband, Alvaro, who bends to support me throughout the writing process, and my daughter, Jenna, who has been with me throughout this 40-year journey, since I started writing CAROLINE in 1976.

  And finally, always, warm thanks to my readers. I am grateful every single day for you!

  Prologue

  London, England

  September, 1804

  “Darling Izzie, I beg you to reconsider your decision and come to Lady Kingston’s reception tomorrow evening!” Mouette Raveneau exclaimed. “I shall be bereft if you don’t attend. My betrothal to Sir Harry may have elevated my position in Society, but I vow that nothing shall ever alter the bond of our friendship.” She was perched just-so on a gilded chair as the gifted artist, Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, painted a portrait to celebrate her betrothal.

  Lady Isabella Trevarre glanced over from her own easel, positioned next to the Frenchwoman who was her mentor. She felt her face growing warm, even though she loved Mouette as a sister. “I have told you privately that I don’t care for parties.”

  “We could make you look lovely!” Mouette looked toward her mother, Devon. “Couldn’t we, Mama? My gown of white muslin trimmed in silver could be altered by our dressmaker to fit darling Izzie! All she needs is a bit of…help.”

  Before Devon Raveneau could speak, Izzie held up a hand. “Madame Le Brun has asked that you sit perfectly still, Mouette. Let us postpone this conversation until later.”

  Izzie tried to will the hot blood from her cheeks. The thought of spending hours in the midst of London’s ton made her insides churn, and none of Mouette’s beauty tricks could transform Izzie from a duckling into a swan. She couldn’t bear to hear more whispers from aristocrats who expected her to fit in among them, but always found her lacking.

  They invariably began by pretending to be kind. Izzie had heard them sigh to one another about the loss of her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Caverleigh, in a carriage accident when she was just fourteen. Then the dowagers discreetly lifted their fans and whispered, “Tsk, tsk, but the poor girl has always been awkward and plain.” They remarked that the only reason she’d had a proper Season was because of her captivating London friends, the Raveneau family. Even so, nothing had come of her launch into Society.

  The whispers had grown louder now that Izzie’s twentieth birthday had passed without a marriage proposal. “Such a shame she wears those spectacles,” one noblewoman had murmured at a recent ball, just loudly enough for her to hear. “And she is far too…robust, especially for a girl with only a fine family name to recommend her.”

  But Izzie had no desire to waste time mingling in Society and even less to marry. The thought of marr
iage to one of the languid bucks one met at routs made her shudder.

  No, she liked her life exactly the way it was. Her passion was reserved for her art; she vowed to devote herself completely to her craft. Every night before falling asleep in the Raveneau family’s Grosvenor Square home, she gave thanks that Madame Le Brun, one of the greatest portrait painters alive, had consented to be her teacher. And every morning, she awoke filled with excitement to hurry off to the Frenchwoman’s lovely apartments in Portman Square.

  Madame had only lived in London for two years, and Izzie never tired of hearing her recount her glamorous, adventurous past. Because Élisabeth “Louise” Vigée Le Brun had been a friend and portraitist to Queen Marie Antoinette, she’d been driven from France by the bloody Revolution and had spent the last decade of the 18th century in Italy and Russia, painting portraits of aristocrats and royals, and being fêted at a succession of grand estates. Now that Napoleon Bonaparte had come to power in France, Madame Le Brun had returned from Russia, and her sense of adventure had demanded a sojourn in England, where she was greatly admired by society and her colleagues alike.

  This lovely late-summer day was a special occasion, as Madame painted Mouette Raveneau in celebration of her betrothal. Izzie had so many reasons to be grateful to the Raveneaus, from the comforting warmth of their friendship after her parents’ deaths to her current position as Madame Le Brun’s student. It had been Mouette’s father, André Raveneau, who had contacted his old friend Louise Le Brun and asked if she might be willing to mentor a budding young artist, Lady Isabella Trevarre. Madame had quickly taken her under her wing, later revealing that she had known Izzie’s artist mother, long ago in Paris.

  The morning light was soft and flattering in Madame’s sitting room. The French portraitist, still fetching at nearly fifty years of age, tilted her head as she gazed at Mouette and strategically applied tiny dabs of oil paint to a canvas. Her silvery-brown curls were caught up in a striped turban and she bit her lower lip while pondering her creation.

  Izzie sat nearby with a sketchbook, drawing her young friend with a pencil. When she glanced over at Madame’s canvas, she saw that the older woman had gone past Mouette’s mannered pose to capture the hopeful light in her eyes. Izzie gave a tiny sigh. She knew that Madame Le Brun used special techniques, such as layers of glazing, to achieve the charm, luminosity, and emotional depth that distinguished her portraits. However, Madame also brought courage and vulnerability to her work, and a gift for reading her subjects. As her student, Izzie had witnessed this—but she felt nervous about attempting to develop that gift in herself. Like her own artist mother, Lady Charlotte Trevarre, Izzie was more comfortable painting landscapes.

  “Shall we all take a bit of sugar in our tea?”

  It was Mouette’s delightful mother, Devon Raveneau, speaking from her place before a low table. A ray of sunlight streamed over her upswept rosy-gold hair as she poured hot tea into wafer-thin cups.

  Before any of them could reply, an ear-splitting shriek filled the air. Mouette gasped in surprise, Devon nearly dropped the teapot, and Izzie smiled to herself.

  “Mon Dieu!” Madame Le Brun’s cheeks went pink with fury. “Don’t pay any attention to that screeching parrot,” she exclaimed in French. “My disagreeable neighbor refuses to move the monster’s cage to another part of the house, no matter how I plead. I fear that the constant disruption will force me to change my lodgings again.”

  Devon Raveneau blinked. “A parrot? In London?”

  “It is the most enormous bird you can imagine, with exceedingly long tail feathers. It was brought from the East Indies, and clearly the thing objects to being torn from its natural home.” She paused and took a deep calming breath while mixing blues on her palette to match Mouette’s scarf. “However, the parrot is not the only problem with this house. Would you be shocked to learn that there are people buried in the cellar?”

  Even the obediently still Mouette turned her head at this. “How positively horrific! Was there a gruesome murder?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Madame continued, a twinkle in her eyes. “The previous tenants were diplomats from India. When their slaves died, they chose this cellar as their burial place. I suppose it has something to do with their religion, but I’ll own that I do find it quite unnerving.”

  Izzie paused in her sketching and smiled at the Raveneau women. “Madame suspects that the Indian cook, now deceased, might be haunting the kitchen. There have been a few inexplicable accidents.”

  “I may have an explanation after all,” the Frenchwoman amended. “I caught our kitchen maid drinking from a bottle of my best brandy yesterday. So perhaps there is an earthly explanation for the broken crockery and the guinea fowl that caught on fire.”

  As they all laughed, Izzie removed her spectacles and brushed off a speck of charcoal that clung to the right lens, silently thanking the parrot for steering the conversation away from tonight’s rout. Now, if only Madame’s faithful servant, Adelaide, would bring a tray of delectable petite madeleines to accompany the tea Devon Raveneau was pouring. Izzie’s stomach made a little rumbling sound as she thought longingly of the buttery little cakes.

  Mouette glanced over at her, brows raised, and Izzie blushed. Had her friend guessed her thoughts? She straightened her back in an effort to make herself look slimmer. As long as she could remember, she’d found comfort in food. And what was wrong with that? After Izzie had been orphaned and stranded at Florence Jarrett’s horrid Academy for Young Gentlewomen, food had numbed her pain, her fear, her deep loneliness…and sweets never rejected her or abused her trust.

  Mouette often urged her to think of her figure, so that she might attract an eligible suitor, but the very thought of romance made Izzie nervous. Only one man, a Frenchman she’d met six years ago, had ever inspired her to dream of romance, but Mouette scoffed at this fantasy. And perhaps her friend was right. What could she have known of true love at fourteen, and after one brief evening sitting beside him at dinner? Besides, Gabriel St. Briac was far too splendid for the likes of Izzie. True, he’d been charming and gallant, but in the way one might behave toward a young niece, and the table had been lined with other distracting guests, including Izzie’s brother Sebastian, his new bride, Julia, and the entire Raveneau family.

  She sketched more vigorously, scolding herself to stop thinking of St. Briac. No doubt he was long married to a sophisticated, slender beauty…with perfect vision.

  No, it was Izzie’s intention to follow Madame LeBrun’s example, making her own way in the world with her wits and artistic talent. It was the sort of independent life her own mother could have enjoyed if she had not become imprisoned in an abusive marriage to the Marquess of Caverleigh.

  Just then, the bell inside the front door jangled.

  Madame glanced up in annoyance. “Who can be bothering us?”

  “Allow me to see who it is,” said Devon Raveneau, looking relieved for a reason to get up and move around. “Adelaide is busy in the kitchen and I don’t mind in the least. I should make myself useful.”

  * * *

  The door was crimson, a rather surprising color, since all the other doors to nearby residences in Portman Square were painted a shade of green so dark it looked black unless the sun was shining.

  Gabriel St. Briac inspected the paper, inscribed in Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun’s own hand. Confirming the address, he lifted the knocker again. Before he could release it, the door opened to reveal a very lovely petite woman with a cloud of dawn-colored curls. She widened her eyes at the sight of him.

  “Oh, my! How very unexpected to see you again, m’sieur!”

  “I might say the same of you, Madame Raveneau,” he replied. Bending slightly, he reached out, caught her hand, and carried it to his lips.

  “You must be in search of your countrywoman, Madame Le Brun.”

  “I am. We have an appointment.” Looking over her head, he saw that Madame was standing in the middle of her sunlit atelier, a p
aint daubed palette in one hand and a long, delicate brush in the other. “Or perhaps I have mixed the dates?”

  “Madame is painting a portrait of my daughter, Mouette, who will soon be married. Perhaps you recall meeting her when we were all together in Brittany a few years ago?”

  “Of course…” As his gaze fell on the exquisite Miss Raveneau, he noticed the young lady sitting nearby, sketching. A spark flared in his memory. “How interesting that I should encounter the Raveneau family again, during my first journey to England after many years.”

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Madame Le Brun. “I thought I recognized your voice. Was our meeting arranged for this morning?”

  She had set down her palette and brushes and was rushing toward him, arms outstretched. As they embraced, he caught a whiff of her scent, a mixture of violets and, inevitably, her oil paints.

  “Yes,” he murmured with a trace of irony, “So soon, I am here.”