by Regan Walker
“Of course.”
As the captain strode off, Richard whispered into her ear, “He is in his early thirties and yet to wed, Sister.”
She whispered back, “No doubt he is married to the sea, Brother.”
“I do hope William will take on this smuggling menace,” offered Addington, having missed her exchange with her brother.
“By his own words, he intends to,” Richard replied.
Joanna worried for what it all meant. Between Pitt’s determination to deal with smuggling and the good commander’s pursuit of the free traders, she and her men were caught in a vise.
Joanna turned her attention to their guests and tried to act the calm hostess, checking the refreshment table where food was served and instructing the footmen as to what might be needed. Once that was taken care of, she went to speak with Aunt Hetty, who sat at one end of the room with two of her friends, ladies as old as herself.
When she inquired as to whether her aunt needed anything, Aunt Hetty replied, “Go see to your guests. I’m content to keep an eye on young Matilda from here.”
Joanna followed her aunt’s gaze to where Tillie was giggling with one of her friends, no doubt over some young man. “Ah.” She smiled at the three ladies. “Then I shall leave you. Have a good evening.”
Returning to Richard, she assured him all was well. He thanked her and resumed his conversation with Addington.
Joanna took solace in her wine as she surveyed the parlor’s occupants. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. She was pleased with her success as a hostess of the beau monde.
Suddenly, a man appeared at the doorway staring into the parlor with cold detachment. His dark eyes seemed to be searching for someone. His tanned olive skin was a stark contrast to the pasty white complexions of most of the men in the room. He wore his black hair unpowdered and tied back at his nape. His features were bold: a high forehead, black eyebrows, a straight nose and prominent cheekbones.
He cut a striking figure in a dark blue coat edged in cream silk flowers. At his throat and cuffs was a great mound of lace. Beneath the frock coat, an ivory silk waistcoat, embellished in the nattiest of fashion, shimmered.
She knew instantly he could not be English. Such ornate embroidery and so much lace would never be seen in Westminster where the current fashion for men favored a certain austerity. An Englishman attired like this one would be considered a popinjay. But to Joanna, his brooding dark elegance spoke of an uncommon masculine style.
He strode into the parlor, drawing curious glances from the gentlemen and nervous twitters from the ladies. Passing through the crowd, his searching gaze met Joanna’s for only a moment yet, in that moment, excitement coursed through her veins. His obsidian eyes flashed with an intensity she had not encountered before. When his gaze moved on, she felt a keen disappointment.
His dark brows lifted as he headed for someone he appeared to recognize.
“Who is he?” she asked her brother.
Richard turned from his conversation with Addington to follow the subject of her attention. “Oh. If I am not mistaken, Sister, that is the new comte de Saintonge.”
A French comte. Yes, he quite looked the part.
Addington huffed. “You invited a Heathen Frog to your reception for the Prime Minister?”
“Careful, old boy,” chided Richard. “Pitt speaks well of his travels in France and ’tis rumored the comte was once a pirate. You wouldn’t want him to get wind of your views or he might slit your throat some starless night.”
Addington sputtered.
Richard’s face took on a wistful look. “Besides, ’twas Lady Danvers who asked me if she could invite him. I can scarce deny the woman anything, no matter she is Lord Danvers’ wife.”
Joanna had long believed her older brother had a tendre for her friend, the baron’s American wife. Seeing the longing in Richard’s eyes as he looked toward Cornelia, she knew it to be truth.
“Well, Lord Hugh might have a different view. After all, he fought the Frenchies in the Channel.”
Joanna sighed. Addington could be such a bore. She could not imagine how his wife, Ursula, put up with his rigid views. No wonder the woman had stayed home with their children.
Richard and Addington continued their conversation, but Joanna had stopped listening. Instead, she watched the French nobleman as he arrived in front of a young woman with hair as black as his own and kissed her on each cheek.
Joanna wondered if so elegant a man could, in truth, be a pirate. Still, she could not deny the air of mystery about him or the intense fire in his dark eyes.
’Twas as if Lucifer himself had paid them a visit.
Chapter 3
Jean found his way through the crowded parlor to arrive in front of the two women for whom he’d been searching. He bowed to Lady Danvers and then kissed his daughter’s glowing cheeks. Claire appeared to be happy, as happy as he’d ever seen her.
“Please forgive my being late. I was detained.”
“Oh, Papa! I am so glad you are here!” Claire took his hands. “I have missed you so.”
He looked into his daughter’s dark blue eyes, her mother’s eyes that had captured him more than two decades ago. “C’est bien. The English captain treats you well?”
“Oh, yes.” Before Jean could comment, she looked up at him anxiously. “You will come to London, oui?”
“How else is your father to attend the christening?” asked Lady Danvers in her American accent. The baroness, in her mid-twenties, was a half dozen years older than his daughter, but her wisdom was beyond her years.
Always smartly gowned, typically in some pinkish color, her dark chestnut hair neatly swept up in a simple style, Jean had noticed her loveliness the first time he’d met her in London when he’d come for his daughter’s wedding.
Claire laughed. “You are right, of course, Cornelia.” Then turning to him, “But do you sail to London, Papa, or ride in our carriage with us?”
“If you still wish it, I will travel with you. My ship and my quartermaster M’sieur Bequel will meet me in London.”
“Yes, of course we still wish it. I will look forward to seeing M’sieur Bequel again. I hope you invited him to the christening.”
“I did. You know he will not have it otherwise.”
“Wait till you see Jean Nicholas, Papa! He has your black hair and his eyes are changing color now. We think he might ultimately have Simon’s golden eyes.”
“Jean Nicholas.” Jean rolled the name over his tongue. “I like the sound of it.”
“A most remarkable babe,” offered Lady Danvers. “And before you leave London, Monsieur Donet, I thought to have a soiree to celebrate the end of the war and our new friendship with France. In your honor, as it were. Not that the war stopped me from pursuing French fashion, you understand.” She touched the ruffle on her bodice. “By the bye, have you met the Prime Minister? He only recently returned from Paris where he visited your king and my countryman Dr. Franklin.”
Jean fought a smile. “I have not met the Prime Minister, but I have met our king and, of course, the American statesman Dr. Franklin.” He need not say more. His daughter and Lady Danvers were aware that, with France’s agreement, he had become a privateer for America, his letter of marque issued by Franklin himself. But neither knew of his work for Charles Gravier, the comte de Vergennes, France’s Foreign Minister.
“Where has that husband of yours gotten to, Claire?” asked Lady Danvers.
“Right here,” said a deep voice behind Jean.
Jean turned to see Captain Simon Powell carrying three glasses of champagne. As fair in coloring as Jean was dark, the Englishman and Jean’s daughter made a handsome couple.
“I did not wait for the footman to circulate,” Powell explained, as if in apology for leaving his wife, “but saw to the ladies’ thirst myself.”
Claire and Lady Danvers accepted the glasses of bubbling wine.
“I would never leave Claire for long,” Powell ass
ured Jean.
“Simon is a most jealous husband!” Claire exclaimed in what Jean took to be feigned annoyance.
Powell kissed her on the cheek and she returned him a smile. Jean was pleased at the affection he saw between them.
“’Tis not jealousy when a man guards what is his,” he told Claire. He had once guarded her mother, a woman he had loved more than his own life, only to discover that, while he could protect her from other men, he could not save her from the sickness that had taken her life.
Lady Danvers gave him an assessing look. “An astute observation, Monsieur.”
He acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of his head as Powell offered him the third glass of champagne. “Take mine, sir. I will get another.”
Accepting the glass, Jean inwardly cringed at the title “sir”. When had he crossed the line from youth to an age where a man in his twenties must pay him the respect due one’s elders?
Powell left them, heading toward a footman on the other side of the room.
Watching him walk away, Jean sipped his champagne and thought to ask his daughter, “How many ships does Powell have now?”
“He still has the two you are aware of, and he is acquiring another. He wants to have a shipping company one day.”
“A laudable ambition,” said Jean.
Lady Danvers scanned the room, her gaze pausing on a tall man surrounded by others. “Wait here while I retrieve the Prime Minister. I know he will want to meet you, Monsieur.”
Claire had only begun to tell Jean of her life since her marriage when Lady Danvers returned with the tall man on her arm and Lord Danvers at her side.
Since he recognized the baron, Jean acknowledged him. “Lord Danvers.”
Lady Danvers introduced Jean to the English Prime Minister, giving Jean’s title as the comte de Saintonge.
Jean added his congratulations to the others being expressed to Pitt. “A great victory, Prime Minister.”
“Thank you,” returned Pitt. “We are most pleased. I was in your country only a few months ago and my companions and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. I must ask, do you find France much changed now that the war has ended?”
“Changed?” Jean considered carefully what he might say. He would not speak of the unrest. “Only that France now struggles under a mountain of debt.” It was true and all knew it. The decision to aid America had been the right one, but the war had left his country in grave financial trouble.
“France is not alone in that, Monsieur Donet,” admitted Pitt.
Lord Danvers nodded his agreement.
“It will be my first task once my cabinet is convened to see what I can do about England’s debt.”
“I wish you well in that effort,” said Jean. “’Twill not be easy. I doubt the common people in either country can bear more taxation.”
Pitt gave him a knowing smile. “Then I shall not tax the common people.”
Jean raised a brow. “You would tax the aristocracy?”
Pitt’s eyes gleamed with purpose. “And the wealthy merchants.”
Jean liked the young English Prime Minister and his enthusiasm for what would be a difficult task. “We should do the same in France, but I fear the effort would not be welcomed. Our nobles and clergy remain blithely ignorant of the mounting danger from a people taxed to support their luxurious lifestyle while having no political liberty.”
“Monsieur le comte,” said Pitt, “I grant that you may have fewer political liberties in France. But as to civil liberty, from what I observed, the French have more of it than you may suppose. Voltaire was a great defender of such liberty, as I recall.”
“You may be correct,” offered Jean, “though at the moment, the civil liberty we possess does the French people little good.” Jean enjoyed the conversation, but he would say no more. His last trip to Paris suggested a storm was coming. What good was civil liberty when the people had nothing to eat? Jean had been raised the son of a nobleman yet had made his own way the last score of years in a world that favored only the bold. The wealth he had amassed did not come from the noble birth so long denied him.
As the Prime Minister made to leave, he offered his hand to Jean. “Until we meet again, Monsieur. Perhaps in London?”
Jean shook Pitt’s hand. “It would be my great pleasure.”
Claire’s husband returned, a glass of champagne in hand.
Lady Danvers addressed Jean and the Powells. “You must meet our host and his sister.”
Lord Danvers agreed. The three of them finished their champagne and followed him and his wife across the room. Judging by the smiles she garnered from those they passed, the American woman had made many friends in the years she had been in England. Jean was unsurprised. She had an unassuming charm the staid English often lacked.
Moments later, Lady Danvers stopped before three auburn-haired young aristocrats.
Joanna watched the French nobleman approach with the black-haired girl and handsome blond gentleman, who, like the comte, had the tanned skin of one who spent much time in the sun. With them were Joanna’s friend, Cornelia, and her husband.
“Joanna, my dear friend,” said Cornelia, “and Lord Torrington and Mr. Frederick West, may I introduce Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, his lovely daughter Claire Powell and her husband Captain Simon Powell?”
Richard inclined his head. “Monsieur de Saintonge and Captain and Mrs. Powell, welcome to The Harrows.”
Freddie chimed in, “Yes, welcome.”
Joanna was glad Addington had taken his leave, for his views on Catholics might make for an uncomfortable encounter, particularly when the Catholic in question was a French nobleman. Freddie, on the other hand, had no such biases.
She extended her hand to the comte. “Indeed, we welcome you to our home and to England.”
With an unmistakable air of distinction, the comte bowed over her hand and returned her greeting. “Bonsoir, Lady Joanna. I am at your service.”
His hair, clubbed back in a queue and tied with a fancy velvet ribbon, was not solid black as she had once thought, but was threaded with silver, rendering him a very distinguished man in his ivory-filigreed coat. He spoke in a melodious French-accented voice and his lips, she noticed, were seductively curved.
Joanna wondered if the comte had a wife. If he did, she did not attend.
Turning to the couple just introduced, she echoed her eldest brother, “Captain and Mrs. Powell, it is so nice to meet you.”
“We’ll have none of that,” interrupted Cornelia. “Claire is my good friend as are you, Joanna. Amongst us women, I’m afraid it must be Cornelia, Claire and Joanna.”
Lord Danvers laughed. To the men, he said, “You see how it is. My darling wife remains the American and will have it her way, formalities be damned.”
“We are delighted to be here,” Captain Powell graciously put in, “no matter how we are addressed. I was most interested to meet the Prime Minister.”
Powell was a tall golden man, so different from his French wife, though he obviously adored her, his amber eyes ever looking her way.
“Pitt is impressive,” observed the comte. “Clever, too, I think. I envy you his enthusiasm for change.”
Richard nodded his agreement. “England is lucky to have him.”
Freddie listened intently, obviously happy to be included.
Captain Powell looked to Richard. “Your home is magnificent. ’Tis not often we get to West Sussex since my ships home port in London.”
The comte smiled before he said, “And mine are most often in Lorient.”
Ah, he has ships. But then a pirate would. Joanna met his intense gaze. “Are your ships engaged as merchantmen?”
“Often,” he said, amusement dancing in his jet eyes.
His cryptic response left Joanna wondering what other business he might be engaged in. Most definitely he was a noble son of France, but she detected a flash of defiance in the depths of his dark eyes, making her wonder if his elegant attire and noble
manners were merely a ruse. Beneath them might lurk a beast, tamed for the night, who could well be the pirate Richard had spoken of.
Despite her reservations, she found herself thoroughly fascinated. “Was I correct in addressing you as Monsieur le comte? Or, is it more proper to say Monsieur de Saintonge, Monsieur Donet, or my lord?”
“M’sieur Donet, s’il vous plaît,” he responded. “The title is new and unexpected. I am… unused to it. And in France, we do not speak of lords and ladies as you do here. My surname will do.”
“Very well.” Monsieur le pirate probably would not be well received. Besides, Richard had said it was only a rumor.
“My papa is here for our son’s christening,” ventured Claire Powell, her eyes lit with excitement. The young woman strongly resembled the comte, save for her blue eyes and feminine features.
He must not have a wife, Joanna thought, for a wife would not miss such an auspicious occasion as a grandchild’s christening.
Freddie, only a few years younger than Claire, could not seem to take his eyes off Powell’s beautiful young wife.
“The Powells’ young son is named after Monsieur Donet,” said Lord Danvers. “And he along with my wife and I are to stand as godparents.”
“You must see him, Joanna,” urged Cornelia. “He’s a beautiful baby. We are so proud to be asked to be godparents with Monsieur Donet.”
The comte’s piercing gaze fixed on her. “Will you be coming to London, Lady Joanna?”
An hour ago, Joanna would have defied her brother’s insistence she go with him to London, but meeting the comte’s dark eyes the only response that came to her lips was, “Why, yes.”
Chapter 4
The village of Chichester
The next morning, Joanna, Freddie and Nora set off for Chichester. Freddie drove the wagon, the three of them sharing the bench seat. The day was sunny and cold and, since they had only a few miles to travel, Joanna had not covered the supplies they were bringing to the Ackerman family.
Chichester had long been a market town, although no more than four thousand souls called it home at present. Joanna had always referred to it as “the village” because of its size in contrast to London. It might be a quiet, unassuming place, but in the center of town stood a great medieval cathedral, its spire visible even from the Channel.