by Regan Walker
“By now ye must have seen the little one’s babe.” Émile’s dark eyes burned with curiosity. “What do ye think?”
“A handsome lad with the black hair of the Donets. Claire thinks he will have the amber eyes of his father. You will see him at the christening.”
“Bien. I had M’sieur Ricard watch the ship for a short time when we first arrived so I could go ashore and buy yer namesake a gift. When Lucien returns tonight, I will be free to attend the christening with ye tomorrow.”
“Claire will be pleased to see you. What did you find to give my godson?”
“A brass spyglass. He will no doubt find it amusing as a lad and, if he does not drop it, ’twill be useful when he grows to manhood, non?”
Jean chuckled. “It seems you and I had the same thought, mon ami. I purchased gifts that will remind him his destiny is the sea. With his father and grandfather both ship’s captains, I think we may assume Jean Nicholas will be one as well.”
“Aye, the lad has saltwater in his veins. Ye have not mentioned the reception for the Prime Minister. Did ye enjoy yerself surrounded by the English?”
“’Twas an elegant affair. I quite liked the young Mr. Pitt. He is a man of novel ideas. As for the rest, I have been so long among common seamen, even the last few years serving the French Foreign Minister have not made up for a score of years away from my beginnings.”
“Ye were a noble son long before ye were a privateer, Capitaine. Ye’ll get accustomed to them soon enough. ’Tis what ye were raised to be.”
Jean allowed himself an uncharacteristic sigh. “Peut-être, but with the title also comes a burden. Not just the château but the care of its people who tend the vineyards and my niece, a girl I have yet to meet.” He returned his friend a wearisome smile. “I fear my footloose days at sea may be limited, mon ami, at least for a while.”
“Yer new life may be a better one, Capitaine.” Émile turned to watch a crewmember. “Excusez-moi, I must see to that one before he makes the same mistake again.”
Alone for the moment and happy to be back on the deck of his ship, Jean stepped to the rail, hands clasped behind him, and looked toward the quay, his tricorne shading his eyes from the sun. He relished the familiar sounds of shrieking gulls, men joking with each other as they worked on the ships moored nearby, tavern wenches calling to customers and carriages wending their way through the milling crowd.
London had become the busiest port in the world. Each time he sailed into the Pool of London, it seemed more ships vied for space on the river. La Reine Noire had, indeed, been fortunate. Other ships tying up next to her were so close one could easily step from one deck to another.
He much preferred the harbor in Lorient.
As he watched the people crowding the quay, a couple emerged from one of the warehouses fronting on the quay. A moment later, a hackney stopped in front of them. The man held the door open for the woman and, drawing her cloak around her, she climbed inside.
Jean recognized the man by his height, his brown hair, his bear-like build and the scar on the side of his face. The English smuggler who had boarded his ship at Bognor. Perhaps the woman was the one who’d assisted him, the one who did the talking. His wife?
Jean could not see her face, but when she leaned out of the carriage window, a thick lock of red hair fell from her mobcap. He was certain that profile and hair belonged to only one woman. Of all the colors of red hair Torrington and his siblings possessed, hers was the most distinctive: auburn, threaded with thick strands that turned bright copper in the sun.
Now what was the very proper Lady Joanna West doing with a smuggler on the London quay?
Chapter 7
Joanna and her sister were escorted to a pew near the front of St Martin-in-the-Fields, the parish church where the christening would soon take place. It was her first time in this church. While she thought its exterior of Portland stone daunting with eight Corinthian columns and tall steeple, the interior was beautiful.
Quiet shuffling and subdued voices echoed about the cavernous sanctuary as other guests filed in and found their seats.
As she had some minutes to wait, Joanna shifted her gaze to the tall side windows filling the chamber with cold sunlight. Behind the nave were more magnificent windows of clear glass. Tilting her head back, she looked up to the arched ceiling decorated with gilded scrolled relief. It looked like an ivory sky with scattered lacy clouds.
Tillie nudged her in the ribs. “They are about to begin.”
Joanna turned her attention to where the family had gathered in front of the nave before Vicar Hamilton who, according to the invitation, would be conducting the ceremony. Garbed in a white wig, black robe and white bands, he fit well the description of a somber Anglican clergyman.
“Look, Jo, there on the right,” Tillie whispered, her eyes darting to where the ebony-haired Claire Powell stood beside her father, the French comte. “It’s Monsieur Donet.”
Joanna thought she heard her sister sigh, a sure sign Tillie had not lost the tendre she had for the French nobleman. It was one thing for her younger sister to admire the well-dressed French comte and quite another if she were to be vulnerable to his seduction. Joanna would have to make sure her sister did not fall prey to the handsome pirate.
To Joanna, Donet appeared like a black panther that had crept in amongst the sheep. Only grudgingly did she admit to herself that for all his fearsome appearance, he had a noble bearing that announced itself in his erect posture, the proud way he held his head and the French brocade waistcoat of the deepest claret color that spoke of an elegance of a past era.
The pirate—if he ever had been a pirate—had dressed up for what was surely to him a momentous occasion.
To try and turn Tillie from her young girl’s affectation, Joanna whispered, “You make too much of what is customary for those participating in a christening. See Lord and Lady Danvers standing next to him? They wear their finery, too. Lord Danvers’ silver waistcoat shines beneath his light blue coat. He even sports a wig for the occasion. And while Cornelia wears her customary peach, this gown is adorned with many bows.”
Tillie’s mouth formed a small pout at being reminded Donet was merely one of the other mortals. “I suppose you have the right of it. Still…”
As they watched, the baby’s nurse carried the child down the aisle and placed him in the arms of his mother. Little Jean Nicholas made baby cooing noises as he looked up at Claire. The delightful sounds echoed in the vast stone chamber.
Dressed in a white lace cap and gown extending below his pretty blanket, the babe was well attired for this day. The stone sanctuary, despite being filled with warm bodies, was as cold as when they arrived. Joanna kept her cloak tightly drawn around her and thought well of the baby’s nurse for seeing the child was swathed in a blanket.
Mr. Powell moved to the left to allow room for Cornelia to stand between him and his wife. The two godfathers remained on Claire’s right.
A hush fell over the sanctuary as all waited for the vicar to begin.
“Who is the sponsor for this child?” he asked in a voice that boomed the church’s authority.
The three godparents silently bowed their heads, acknowledging themselves to be the sponsors.
“And the child’s intended name?”
“Jean Nicholas Powell,” announced Monsieur Donet in his richly accented voice, tinged, Joanna thought, with pride.
The vicar took the child into his arms and, with a small protest from the babe, baptized him with water from the bowl on a wooden stand while intoning the words that welcomed him into the family of the church.
When the ceremony was over, the vicar returned the babe to his mother’s arms, congratulating the parents on their splendid son.
Joanna watched the family file out of the church, irritated with herself for being unable to tear her eyes from the French comte.
Donet’s dark gaze fell upon her before he grinned at Tillie and walked on.
Narrowing
her eyes at his back, Joanna thought perhaps she was right in thinking he toyed with her sister. He was old enough to be Tillie’s father, yet his smoldering gaze seemed to convey some message. Was he a rake, trying to lure Tillie to her downfall? Joanna gritted her teeth, vowing not to allow that to happen.
Outside the church, Joanna spotted the carriage with the Torrington crest, one of several lined up and waiting. Not all of those who attended the christening would be going to the breakfast at the Danvers’ mansion in Mayfair. She felt honored to be included.
A short ride later, Joanna and Tillie arrived in front of the familiar gray stone mansion rising three stories into the air. Eight Doric pillars graced the front of the third story. But for the lack of a steeple, it could have been a church.
At the entry to the Danvers’ home, a footman took their cloaks. Higgins, the butler Joanna knew from her prior visits, greeted her and her sister.
“Welcome, Lady Joanna, Lady Matilda.” His diminutive size and thinning hair made Higgins look older than his thirty some years. Always prim, he wore a gray morning coat, waistcoat and breeches, white shirt and impeccably tied cravat. Not a thread or a hair out of place.
He had never met Tillie, of that Joanna was certain, but Higgins had a reputation for a quick mind beneath his drab appearance. He would know the names of all the invited guests.
She smiled. “Your memory is exceeded only by your efficiency, Higgins. ’Tis good to be in the home of my friend, Lady Danvers.” She had often wondered what a butler of strict manners thought of his American mistress who insisted her friends call her Cornelia. And then there was Cornelia’s guest, Monsieur Donet. What did the prim butler think of him?
They entered the parlor where two dozen guests had gathered. Standing beside her, Tillie stared wide-eyed at the elegantly appointed room. The Harrows was not so formal. But the cream-colored walls, decorated in raised relief where they joined the ceiling, were a reflection of Cornelia’s style. All the colors went well with peach.
A sand-colored carpet with floral designs in colors of deep pink and dark blue covered most of the floor. Blue silk curtains embroidered in gold thread framed the tall windows casting light onto the white brocade sofas and armchairs.
Over the marble fireplace, two gold sconces flanked a large portrait of an older man wearing court attire and a white wig. Cornelia had explained on the occasion of Joanna’s first visit that the portrait was of Lord Danvers’ father.
Tillie’s gaze paused on the ornate crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. “What a lovely room.”
Joanna agreed. “Yes, and so very much like Cornelia.”
In one corner of the large room, a hooded basket set on a stand and lined with white linens had been prepared for the child. Though, at the moment, the babe was being passed from his mother’s arms to his grandfather’s.
Joanna accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and listened with one ear to Tillie’s chatter. “I cannot wait to marry and have a child of my own.”
Joanna nodded but her eyes were fixed on the comte’s dark head bent to kiss the forehead of his namesake. The tender look on his face stole her breath. The smile he gave little Jean Nicholas was dazzling, rendering him an entirely different man. But then, she reminded herself, Donet is a charmer.
“Jo!” came Tillie’s sharp rebuke. “You aren’t listening, are you?”
“I’m sorry, Tillie.” She turned back to her sister, vaguely recalling what Tillie had said. “It was, indeed, a beautiful ceremony, as I’m sure will be the ones for your children when you have them. But there is no need to rush. You should enjoy your Season.”
While Joanna loved to dance, the small talk and rituals of the ton often left her eager to return to The Harrows. After three Seasons, she’d refused another. Thankfully, Wills, who was then the Earl of Torrington, had not made an issue of it.
Satisfied she now had Joanna’s attention, Tillie said, “I put our gift with the others on the side table.” The table, set against one wall, was already laden with gifts, including, Joanna noted, the comte’s extravagant clock. Beside it was a lovely silver cup and what looked like a brass spyglass.
Sometimes, only the godparents gave gifts to the christened child. But it seemed many of the guests invited by the Danvers were happy to bestow presents on the babe, for quite an array had accumulated.
Next to the side table on the floor Joanna spotted a beautiful oak cradle carved with flowers and set upon rockers. A large peach-colored bow graced its hood. “That must be the gift from the Danvers.”
Tillie nodded. “A beautiful cradle. Any mother would love to have one.”
Seeing the comte move away from the Powells, Joanna set her empty glass on a footman’s passing tray. “Come, Tillie. Let us pay our respects to the babe’s parents.”
Simon Powell had retrieved his young son, now falling asleep in his father’s arms. Claire, his young wife, gave her husband an adoring look.
“Mr. and Mrs. Powell,” Joanna began, “my sister and I are honored to be among the guests Cornelia invited to celebrate your son’s christening. As you may have gathered at the reception in Chichester, Cornelia has been a good friend of mine for some years.”
“We are so glad you could be with us,” Claire Powell said. “And you two must call me Claire. You know Cornelia will insist upon it.”
Joanna smiled. “Then it shall be Claire, Joanna and Tillie.”
Powell spoke up. “As long as you are in here in London, you must call upon my wife at our home in the Adelphi Terraces. I am often at sea and Claire would love your company.”
“’Tis very kind of you,” said Joanna. “I will not be here long, but my sister is staying on.”
Tillie smiled. “I would be pleased to accept your invitation as I will be here all spring and summer. I am in London for my first Season.”
Claire shared a knowing look with her husband. “I never had one, but then, I was raised in France.” Her accent was not unlike her father’s. “Do not misunderstand me,” Claire went on, “I have no regrets.” Shooting a glance at her husband, she added, “Even without a Season, I managed to marry a wonderful Englishman.”
Simon Powell kissed his wife’s cheek and handed the babe back to her. “He’s asleep, sweetheart.”
Claire excused herself to carry the baby to the hooded basket. When she’d left, Powell leaned in to say, “Actually, I abducted her from a convent near Paris and held her for ransom.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “You didn’t! Why ever for?”
Powell gave them both a wry smile. “Her father, Monsieur Donet, had seized one of my ships, thinking to trade the crew for American prisoners being held in England at the time. ’Twas the war, you see. Still, I thought it most ungentlemanly of him, don’t you agree?” His amber eyes twinkled as he flashed them a brilliant smile.
Joanna couldn’t tell how serious he was, but if it had happened as he said and he had at one time been angry, he no longer was. “I do, but then, perhaps to abduct his daughter was a bit ungentlemanly, as well.”
He laughed, telling her he carried no grudge. “At the time, it seemed the wisest course.”
“And did you get your revenge?” Tillie asked.
“Aye, I did. And more besides, for I kept my ship, my crew and my prize.” He welcomed his wife back to his side with another kiss. “Donet’s daughter.”
Claire appeared amused. She must have heard her husband’s last remark.
“’Twas generous of you to name your first son after the man who stole your ship,” said Tillie.
Powell wrapped his arm possessively around his wife’s shoulder. “A promise I willingly made to secure his blessing for our marriage.”
“How romantic!” Tillie sighed.
Joanna smiled at her sister’s soft heart. “We had best pay our respects to Cornelia and Lord Danvers.”
“Do not be long,” said Claire. “You will not want to miss breakfast. Cornelia has planned a feast to rival the one she serv
ed for our wedding.”
On their way to greet Cornelia and her husband, Tillie walked straight into the path of the comte de Saintonge.
“Oh!” Tillie drew up short and placed her hand over her heart. “Forgive me.”
“But of course, Mademoiselle. Good day to you both.” The French comte gave Tillie a smile that Joanna feared was designed to lure her sister. Tillie responded with a giggle and a blush.
The comte was not alone. Beside him, his companion stifled a laugh. The stocky fellow appeared to be about the same age as Donet, but a bit shorter and with a less refined appearance even though he dressed in finery fit for the occasion. Here, too, was yet another man who spent his days in the sun.
Inclining his head in a gracious manner, he introduced himself. “M’sieur Bequel at yer service, Mam’zelles.”
Joanna looked up at the comte. For a moment, she was lost in his inscrutable midnight eyes. Gathering her wits, she said, “This must be a memorable day for you, Monsieur.”
He returned her an impenetrable look. “Oui, certainement.”
She searched for something to say. “You can congratulate yourself on a fine grandson.”
The comte acknowledged her compliment with a nod. Suddenly aware Tillie was staring at Donet with a wondrous look, Joanna took her sister by the arm, wished the men a good day and guided Tillie to where their friends were standing.
As they walked away, Joanna had the feeling she had met Monsieur Bequel on another occasion, though she could not imagine where. Before he had said a word, she knew exactly how his voice would sound.
“The older one is a beautiful woman, n’est-ce pas?” asked Émile. “Though, as I think of it, she appeared nervous around ye, Capitaine. Do ye frighten her?”
Observing no one close, Jean swept his hand over his waistcoat drawing Émile’s attention to his splendid attire. “Dressed as I am with lace spilling over my elaborately embroidered waistcoat, I doubt I would frighten any woman. Do I not appear the French gentleman in all ways? Might not the English even consider me the fop?”