by Regan Walker
“Oh my,” said Joanna. She looked at the queen. “I do see what you mean.” Joanna felt sympathy for the queen whose age had to be near her own. Marie Antoinette had been very young when she assumed the French throne. How difficult it must have been to be married by proxy at fourteen to a young man she had yet to meet and then summarily packed off to a foreign country, the enemy of her own. What did such a girl know of being Queen of France?
“I admire your lovely hair, Lady Joanna,” said the queen. Joanna thought she was searching for a more pleasant subject. “My husband spoke of it.”
Joanna met the young queen’s brilliant blue gaze. “I must confess, Madame, when I saw you and your ladies today, my first thought was that I should have powdered it.”
Marie Antoinette shook her head. Her powdered hair, fixed in place, did not move. “Oh, no, I am glad you did not. You see, you and I both have red hair.”
Joanna was surprised but then she remembered what the king had said. “I did not know.”
“Mine is a lighter shade,” said the queen. “Few at Court have seen it au naturel.”
D’Artois leaned over Joanna to speak to the queen. “I think your hair is lovely.” Joanna was certain his arm pressing into her breast had been intentional. Relief flooded her when he sat back.
Joanna sipped her champagne thinking she might ask for another canapé to go with it. Above her, birds sang in the trees. A breeze wafted through the air. “The gardens are so lovely.” She spoke her thought aloud.
The queen leaned forward to speak to d’Artois. “Charles, you must introduce Lady Joanna to my ladies and show her around the gardens. The flowers are splendid this time of year.”
“As you wish, Madame.” To Joanna, he said, “Drink up, Mademoiselle. We must not disappoint Her Majesty.”
Joanna smiled at the queen and downed what was left of her champagne. A footman immediately collected her glass.
She rose and curtsied to the queen. “Thank you, Madame. I have so enjoyed meeting you.”
Chapter 24
The comte d’Artois introduced Joanna to the queen’s ladies and the few gentlemen who had been invited to the queen’s picnic. For the most part, the dozen men and women were all young. Only a few looked to be over thirty. Two of those, the duchesse de Polignac and the princesse de Lamballe, the comte introduced as the queen’s closest friends.
All the others were similarly of the nobility save one, who Joanna quite enjoyed. Madame Lebrun was the queen’s portraitist and, except for her unpowdered brown hair and eyes, she could have been the queen’s sister in appearance and age.
Joanna would have liked to get to know her better, but it was not to be.
She was still speaking with the artist when the comte took her arm and pulled her away. “I must show you the gardens of the Petit Trianon.”
Having consumed two glasses of champagne, Joanna was feeling lightheaded and wished she had managed to eat another canapé, but she went with him. She did want to see the gardens.
They took the path that ran by a stream leading them toward a white folly shining in the distance. In the trees, she recognized the pleasant song of the goldfinch.
The folly stood on an island, its domed roof set upon Corinthian columns circling a statue.
“What is that structure?”
“Le temple de l’Amour, so appropriate for what I have in mind.”
“And what is that, Monsieur?”
He answered with a question. “How long have you known Saintonge, my lady?”
“Several months, why?”
“Ah, yes. I recall now he told my brother he met you at a reception for Pitt.” D’Artois took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I find you not only beautiful, Lady Joanna, but sensual and with a keen wit. Your aristocratic birth gives you the speech of a lady and the graceful carriage of a queen. Above all that, you speak français remarkably well. To the point, a perfect mistress.”
Joanna quickly retrieved her hand as her anger rose. Of course he, like the queen, would assume that she was Donet’s mistress, but should he be so cavalier as to speak of it? “What business is it of yours, Monsieur, if I choose to become a man’s mistress?”
“None at all,” he answered blithely, “unless, of course, I want you to be mine. Which I do.” His manner was easy, even gay, but behind it she sensed a serious intent.
Joanna coughed and pressed her hand to her chest. “Surely you jest! I hardly know you. We only met last night.” She would have been righteously offended for her virtue had she not given herself to Donet but, since she was his mistress in truth, she could only despise the man who would try and take her from him.
“I know all I need to,” d’Artois replied indolently. He steered her into the woods that lay next to the folly and pressed her up against the wide trunk of an oak tree. “You obviously have an affinity for Frenchmen, Mademoiselle. But why would you want to be the mistress of Saintonge, a man with a dubious past, when you could be the mistress of a prince of royal blood?”
Before she could respond, he grabbed her upper arms, pressed his body into hers and kissed her. Not a gentle kiss but a demanding possessive one. She turned her head to the side to avoid his lips and they slid to her throat. “Ah, Lady Joanna, I think I have only to make love to you and you will be mine.” Raising his head, he gazed lustily into her eyes. She burned with anger. “You need not be shy. I can feel your rising passion. I can see it in your eyes.”
She pushed at his chest with both hands, but it did little good. He was stronger and very determined. “That is not passion, sir, that is anger!”
“We will see if you feel the same once I have made love to you. There are rooms in the queen’s house in the Petit Trianon that would avail.” He tried to kiss her again, but even with her mind fogged with champagne, she was very clear about the man she loved.
She fought harder, twisting in his arms. “Let go of me! The only man I want is Jean Donet. I care not for royal blood!”
The sound of a sword sliding from a scabbard caused d’Artois to freeze. A blade touched his chin, the metal reflecting the sunlight filtering through the trees.
“Let the lady go, d’Artois, or I will be forced to speak to the king about your lack of manners for a guest of the queen.”
Donet. D’Artois blocked Joanna’s view but she thrilled at the sound of his voice. He had come!
The comte slowly lifted his chest from her and, with the point of the sword still touching his chin, turned to face a scowling Donet.
“We could duel for her, Saintonge,” said d’Artois. “You might lose. I was trained in the fencing salle of the master, Monsieur Donnatieu.”
Donet lowered his sword from d’Artois’ chin but held it ready. “I, too, was trained by Donnatieu, but since then I’ve had much practice killing men. If I were to fight you, d’Artois, it would be to the death. Alas, as you are the king’s brother, I cannot kill you. Louis might not appreciate me spilling your royal blood.”
Freed from d’Artois, Joanna ran to Donet. He wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close. She wept into his shoulder. “I don’t think I make a very good mistress.”
“I, for one,” said d’Artois, not in the least subdued, “think you would make me a fine mistress.”
“We are leaving,” said Donet in a voice as hard as the steel in his sword. “I trust you will not again bother my lady, Monsieur.”
She raised her head and glanced at d’Artois.
“Very well.” Artois brushed his coat sleeve as if removing dust. “If that is how you feel. However, the invitation shall remain open, Lady Joanna, should you change your mind.”
She was tempted to spit at the arrogant prince but, reminded he was the king’s brother and a favorite of the queen, she glared. “Never!”
“Ah, the lady’s spirit draws me,” said d’Artois.
Donet clenched his jaw and returned his sword to its sheath, never taking his eyes off d’Artois as he led her away.
Jea
n held Joanna as the carriage made its way back to Paris. She had fallen asleep, presumably from the champagne, the excitement at fighting off d’Artois’ ravishment and the long ride. If any man, save the king’s brother, had tried to force her, Jean would have happily run him through.
He gazed down at her, nestled against him like a bird with a broken wing. Her wounded spirit called to his better nature. He was certain now that he had one. For many years, he had thought it gone forever.
The years following Ariane’s death had been bleak, lost to the drunken haze in which he had existed. He’d been reckless in his adventuring then, risking his life as a pirate, uncaring if he survived. Hoping he would not. Bouchet had patched him up many times, testing the miracle working power of the good surgeon. What finally brought him back to life was his friend Émile, sent by the crew to see if he could pull their capitaine back from Hell’s door.
Once out of the stupor, Jean had resumed his life as a privateer. He remembered well those exciting days, seizing ships for bounty. Before he gained his letter of marque, he preyed on merchantmen with allegiances other than France. His prizes had gained him much wealth.
With the American War, his fortunes had turned. His battles on the Channel and his spying became legitimate efforts to win America her freedom and weaken the British threat to France. He’d accepted the praise that came after, knowing his men were proud of their service.
But now, because of this English vixen, he wanted more. He could not imagine his world without her. And letting her go or watching her live with a shame she could not accept were not acceptable. She had the right of it. She was not a very good mistress—because she was a lady born.
The remedy was clearly before him. He must make her his wife. He could no longer deny the truth. He loved her. Hadn’t he known it when he’d first invited her to his bed? Like an echo in the wind, love had come to him a second time and he was more than grateful it had. It meant risking again the loss of the woman he loved, but there was no help for it. He could not live without her.
Would she marry a Frenchman? A Catholic? He would not give her a choice. She would simply accept his decision. He would remain in Paris only to see them wed and dispose of the ones who threatened his very existence.
Joanna woke as the carriage entered Paris, rolling over the cobblestone streets. She regretted that she had not been able to say goodbye to the queen, but Donet had insisted, telling her he would send the queen a note saying they would be available should their presence be required again.
“You’re awake. Parfait. I have something to say to you.”
Joanna feared what might come. With his recent indifference and the embarrassing episode with the comte d’Artois, perhaps Donet would be returning her to England when he sailed. She sat up and faced him, ready for the blow that was coming.
“You will become my wife.”
Shocked, Joanna blurted out, “Your wife? Why?”
He shrugged. “I have decided it must be.”
“Am I to take this as a proposal?”
“More like a demand,” he said without humor.
“Because of what happened with d’Artois? I am sorry I was not more careful.” She did feel guilty for not paying proper attention to his warning.
“Non. It is merely something I have come to.”
“But you don’t want to marry! You have never before mentioned it.”
“I have changed my mind.”
Joanna wondered at this sudden change, from indifference to a desire to marry, with no mention of love. “I will think on it,” she said shortly.
“Do not think overlong, Joanna.”
She stared out the window as they crossed Paris. All she had wanted was to be his wife, but his jealousy and abrupt demand for her to become his wife seemed insincere.
“By the way,” she said, “I have seen enough of the streets of Paris to know they compete well with London for mud, filth and sludge.”
“Oui, peut-être.” His manner was curt. She could see he would not give her an inch in which to move. She needed some insight into what had happened to bring about this change. As she thought on it, she knew just the one to ask. His closest friend, the man who was ever at his side.
At the townhouse, Zoé ran to greet them, telling them about her day. “’Twas so exciting, the grand cathedral, the colored windows, the gardens and the paintings. I have never seen so many in one place. Paris is wonderful! And Monsieur Bequel bought us lemonades.”
Donet patted his niece on the head. “I must see M’sieur Bequel. Where is he?”
“Just here, Capitaine,” said the quartermaster in his gruff voice.
“Let us retire to my study,” said Donet. The two men walked off together, leaving Joanna to wonder what Donet might say to his quartermaster about what had happened at Versailles.
Zoé took Joanna’s hand and pulled her toward the glass doors. “Come, I want to show you the doll Monsieur Bequel bought me!”
Joanna and Zoé shared a cup of chocolate in the parlor and Donet’s niece told her of all she saw. Joanna listened, regretting she had not gone with them. When she heard the men leaving the study, she went to the doorway and watched Donet climbing the stairs.
Excusing herself, she went in search of the quartermaster.
He was just coming from the kitchen when she stopped him. “Might I speak with you for a moment, M’sieur?”
“Of course. In the capitaine’s study?”
“That would be fine.” She followed him into the same room he and Donet had left earlier. It was not unlike the study in Lorient with cases of books lining the walls and a desk in one corner, more elaborate than the writing desk in the parlor. The room’s windows looked out on the inner courtyard.
He closed the door and turned to face her. “How may I help ye, Mademoiselle?”
“Did Donet mention that he intends to marry me?”
“Oui. He spoke of it briefly. ’Tis a good thing, no?”
“I cannot help but wonder why he insists upon this after so much time. He gave me no reason. Perhaps it is only because of the comte d’Artois’ actions today. Did he tell you of that?”
“He mentioned it. D’Artois has long had a reputation. I expect the capitaine went to find ye, suspecting the comte might try something like that.”
“But don’t you see, M’sieur? I don’t want him to marry me out of jealousy. I know Donet is still in love with his wife.”
Bequel shook his head. “Not as ye think, my lady. He loves her as ye do the memory of one lost forever. Ye must remember when he married Ariane, he was passionately in love as only a young man can be. She was the woman he needed then. Ye are the woman he needs now.”
“But surely, I am nothing like her!”
“Dieu merci for that,” he said, beckoning her to take one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. He took the other.
“Ariane was fragile and fearful. She begged him not to take up smuggling. Always, she felt guilty for what he gave up to have her. He regretted naught, such was his love for her. Ariane gave him the strength to do what he must to keep her and the little one fed. After she died, he would sometimes drink a bit too much brandy and then he would speak of those early days.”
Joanna listened as he described Donet’s life as a smuggler.
“They were hard times, but he was clever. Smuggling was his daily pursuit and he was good at it. Very good. Brandy, lace and tea passed through his fingers on their way to England’s aristocrats, often them none the wiser.”
“My own family—” She had suspected they had been customers of the Bognor smugglers long before she became involved.
“Aye, I do not doubt it, living so close to the coast. The goods passed right through Sussex. Did ye ever wonder why the brandy came to ye at so reasonable a cost? Or why yer vicar never lacked for tea?”
Joanna felt a pang of guilt. “Nay, I never asked, not until I joined the smugglers.” She could hardly criticize Donet without finding fault in herself.
“He doesn’t like that ye risk yer neck that way.”
“I know. In his demanding way, he has told me it must end.”
“Only because he cares for ye.” The quartermaster leaned his elbow on one arm of the chair, looking toward the window but seeing, she thought, the distant past. “The capitaine served the poor of both England and France, helping them to feed their families as he fed his own. He never asked more than a fair price but, in time, his wealth grew. When Vergennes suggested to Monsieur Franklin, who was then in Paris, that the capitaine could outrun the English frigates plying the Channel, the two met. And the capitaine accepted America’s letter of marque.”
Turning to face her, his dark eyes gleaming in his swarthy face, he said, “He will never tell ye this, but he is respected by King Louis, who personally thanked him.”
“You make Donet out to be an heroic figure.”
“To me and his crew, he is. And I daresay to ye, as well.”
The light in the study was dim, giving her hope Bequel could not see her flush at the truth of his words. “But why was he indifferent to me before this demand we marry? I fear he will regret his hasty decision.”
The quartermaster let out a huff. “Peut-être only I have seen it. The capitaine has been like a wild animal caught in a trap, fighting to be free, thinking he should drive ye away but hoping ye’d not go. He thinks ye young and he fears loving again.”
“He is afraid? But that is absurd.”
“It only seems so to ye, my lady. There is one thing the capitaine fears more than war, more than another man’s sword, even more than a storm threatening his ship: a bond of love that can be severed by death.”
“Because of Ariane.”
The quartermaster folded his arms over his broad chest. “I saw it when the English captain abducted his daughter, Claire. And sometimes, I see it when he looks at ye.”
Joanna let out a sigh. It was so hard to believe Jean Donet feared anything at all.
Bequel continued. “The capitaine loves in a way few men do. When Ariane died, it nearly destroyed him. His recent indifference, as ye call it, is only the death throes of a losing fight.”