by Regan Walker
Émile tilted his head back and forth, giving Jean an assessing look, as if trying to decide. “Oui, je suppose.” Drawing his heavy brows together, he said, “If a tiger can don the disguise of a kitten and be convincing. But I know ye well, Capitaine, and no matter what clothes ye wear today, I see ye all in black standing on the prow of yer ship, yer eyes full of menace, a sword and knife dangling from yer waist and pistols shoved into yer belt.”
Jean chuckled, his eyes darting to where Lady Joanna stood speaking to Lord and Lady Danvers. “In any event, mon ami, I would not frighten that woman. Her younger sister, Lady Matilda, possibly, though with all her giggles, I rather think the young one is fond of me. But her older sister is not easily fooled nor easily frightened. Au contraire, for a female, she is quite bold.”
The reception before the breakfast had afforded Jean time to study Lady Joanna’s profile against his memory of the woman he’d observed on the quay. He was certain the two were one and the same. Strangely, Émile had not recognized her as the smuggler they’d dealt with in Bognor. Perhaps her finery and extravagantly styled auburn curls overwhelmed the quartermaster with her aristocratic status even though the voice demanding to inspect their goods had not changed.
C’est aussi bien. Jean would keep the lovely sharp-tongued vixen’s secret for now.
Chapter 8
Joanna took her seat at the breakfast and looked across the table, surprised to see the French comte directly across from her. To her great relief, Tillie had been seated some distance away.
In the center of the table between Joanna and Donet stood a three-tiered dish spilling over with grapes, two pineapples and oranges. Above it, their gazes met.
He smiled and inclined his head. “Lady Joanna.”
She returned him a small smile. “Monsieur Donet.” Joanna recognized the two women sitting on either side of the comte. Both were attractive widows, older than she by several years. Perhaps Cornelia had decided to dabble in a bit of matchmaking. By the way the two women laughed and flirted with the Frenchman, they were charmed.
Why that annoyed her, she didn’t bother to wonder.
Even she had to admit Donet was devilishly handsome and his French-accented voice, seductive and melodious compared to the men around her, could not be ignored.
Forcing herself to focus on her meal, she exchanged pleasantries with the gentlemen sitting on either side of her. They introduced themselves as Jordan Landor, first mate on Simon Powell’s ship, the Fairwinds, and John Wingate, captain of the Abundance, another of Powell’s ships. Both had sun-streaked brown hair but Landor’s was curly and his eyes were green while Wingate’s hair was straight and his eyes were blue. The sea and sun tended to age a man’s face so she could not be certain how old they were. She guessed they might be in their thirties.
Realizing she could have been seated next to some man in the ton who thought himself a coveted match, Joanna delighted in the two seafaring men. They laughed easily and seemed unaffected by the elegance around them.
The meal, served on fine Sèvres porcelain, a floral pattern edged in gold, began with a green pea soup. She had just sampled it when Donet broke free of his conversation with the women beside him to greet Mr. Landor.
“Are you still sailing on the Fairwinds?”
The curly-haired first mate nodded. “For now, aye, but Captain Powell has asked me to take his new ship.”
Donet dipped his head to Landor. “Powell has paid you a great compliment. May I congratulate you?”
Landor smiled broadly. “Aye, you may. I’m rather pleased myself.”
Donet turned to the man on her right. “And you, Captain Wingate, are you well?”
Wingate returned Monsieur Donet a small laugh and held one hand to his shoulder. “The wound pains me not. I am entirely healed, thanks to your good surgeon, Monsieur Bouchet.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said the comte.
The meal continued in lavish style with hot foods served à la française—all the dishes on the table at once—presumably in deference to Jean Nicholas’ godfather. There would typically be a first course of fish, but with two ship owners and Powell’s men in attendance, perhaps Cornelia thought another dish might be more welcome.
They did not lack for choices. Among the dishes on the table were a haunch of venison, roast pork and capons. These were accompanied by plovers’ eggs, asparagus, French beans and potatoes served with butter.
Joanna sampled the dishes nearest to her, as was the custom with such meals. What she did eat was well cooked and delicious.
Monsieur Donet had brought Cornelia a gift of brioche, large loaves she shared with her guests. Joanna rather liked the light sweet bread, a welcome change from the plainer English rolls and white wheaten bread they typically ate.
Turning to Captain Wingate, Joanna inquired, “Might I ask how it came to be that you should need Monsieur Donet’s surgeon?”
“Have you heard that Donet once seized Captain Powell’s ship?”
“Why, yes. Mr. Powell spoke of it earlier today.”
“Well, I was wounded in the fracas off Dover and spent some time with my crew as Donet’s prisoner in Lorient, tended to by Monsieur Bouchet. He’s a fine surgeon, excellent at his profession.”
“Were you and your crew treated well?” She imagined them rotting away in some French dungeon presided over by the dark comte.
“Oh, aye. Donet was a fine host. He never intended to keep us, you see, only trade us for American sailors. From what I hear, we fared better in France than the Americans did in England.”
Joanna gazed across the table at the comte. His manners were impeccable and he appeared to be listening patiently to the prattling of the two women. Occasionally, he interjected a comment that made the two women laugh. She could not imagine such a nobleman seizing another man’s ship, but then, she knew little of his life except for a few salient facts: He had a grown daughter and he owned ships. And somewhere he’d lost a wife.
“Was Monsieur Donet commanding his ship when you were captured?” she asked Landor.
“Nay. ’Twas not la Reine Noire, but another ship he’d captured as a prize, a three-masted sloop flying the red ensign of a merchantman. One of his crew acted the captain. We had no idea ’twas Donet’s crew until they had slipped over the side in the fog off Dover, speaking in French to each other. My men overheard them saying Donet had given orders not to harm us.”
Jordan Landor set down his fork and leaned in. “’Twas war, you must remember, my lady. In truth, it took Captain Powell’s marriage to Donet’s daughter to bring all to rights.”
“I see.” She met Donet’s intense gaze across the table. His ebony eyes seemed to bore into her, speaking loudly what he did not say in words. Perhaps he had heard some of their conversation for the smile he gave her just then was more of a smirk. She supposed such a man should frighten her but, instead, she was fascinated.
As the dishes were cleared from the table, the footmen delivered desserts: sweetmeats, sugared fruits, jams, jellies and creams.
In front of Claire Powell, who sat adjacent to Cornelia at one end of the table, a footman placed an elaborate white sugar sculpture. A foot high, the plump cherub had a face that resembled her babe, Jean Nicholas.
“Oh my!” Claire exclaimed.
Conversation came to a halt as everyone paused to admire the work of art. Another sugar sculpture, just like it, was set before Simon Powell, sitting adjacent to Lord Danvers at the other end of the table.
“Amazing, that,” said Captain Wingate. “I’ve never seen the like.”
Joanna had viewed sugar sculptures before, but they were smaller, lords and ladies circling the top of a grand cake.
She admired any artist who could work in such a medium to sculpt such wondrous figures. “They are quite remarkable, but then Cornelia has a penchant for the unusual.”
With the desserts, the footmen also served wine, port, brandy and chocolate.
Joanna accepted a glas
s of wine. She noted Donet drank brandy but ate no dessert.
“Lady Danvers is a superb hostess,” she observed to her dining companions. At the men’s nods between bites of sweetmeats, her mind drifted back to Chichester and the villagers who scraped out a living as best they could.
Guilt assailed her as she thought of how much she and her aristocratic friends had in contrast to the poor, who existed mostly on bread and gruel. Because they lived near the coast, the villagers in Chichester ate fish, too. She thought of the Ackerman family and hoped the money she had sent with Zack would carry them through the summer.
When the guests began to take their leave, the comte stood. “Did you enjoy yourself, Lady Joanna?”
She rose from her chair. “I did. ’Twas a marvelous breakfast and my companions entertained me with some interesting tales.” With a smile, she added, “You featured prominently in them.”
He laughed. It sounded nothing like a nobleman’s laugh, but the hearty laughter of a lusty pirate. “I can only imagine.”
She shivered. The man’s presence was disconcerting.
He bowed and departed, telling her he would see her again and soon. She watched him walk away wondering what he could mean.
She and Tillie thanked Cornelia for a delightful morning and then returned to Richard’s townhouse. Tillie went up to her room.
Richard, who had been waiting for Joanna, asked her to follow him into his study.
Once there, he poured himself a brandy, offered her a glass of claret, which she declined, and presented her with an envelope.
Before she could open it, he said, “It seems Lady Danvers is having a party for Monsieur Donet. Did she mention it?”
“No, but at the reception for Pitt she did say she’d be having parties when she came to London.” Joanna opened the invitation and began to read. The words confirmed Richard’s description and the reason behind the comte’s telling her he would see her again. “Might you and Tillie attend without me? I will only be in London for a few more days.”
Aunt Hetty could act as chaperone for their sister for one evening. It would be good practice. But as Joanna thought more of it, she decided perhaps it was best she attend to guard her sister. Tillie was too enamored of Donet to resist him and Aunt Hetty would not be much of a hindrance should he lead Tillie to a darkened terrace.
Richard frowned. “I had been hoping you would stay for the Season.”
“I cannot spend months in London, but I will attend the soiree. Then I must see about returning to my work in the village. Besides, Freddie is at The Harrows alone while you are here. And, if I stay overlong, I will be subjected to bouts of sneezing from Aunt Hetty’s cat. At least at The Harrows I am free of that for a while.”
“Oh, very well,” said Richard. “If it must be only one party, make it this one. I believe Lord Hugh will attend. There might be an opportunity for you to catch his eye.”
Joanna lifted her gaze to the ceiling and let out a sigh. “I hardly think we would suit, but since it will ease my return to Chichester, I will go.” She looked again at the invitation. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Yes, plenty of time for you and Tillie to decide which of your gowns to wear.”
“I have some shopping to do tomorrow morning. If you have no objection, while Tillie and Aunt Hetty make their afternoon calls, I will see to those tasks.” Joanna’s shopping, ostensibly for Freddie, would allow her to buy some better-fitting breeches than the ones she had borrowed from her younger brother. “The day after tomorrow, Cornelia has asked me to go with her for some adventure.”
Richard’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ve no objection; however, I have a request. Nay, a condition.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“Before the party, Lady Danvers has asked us to attend a concert with her and Lord Danvers. More like the concert of the Season. With the invitation for the soiree, she sent three tickets for you, Matilda and me to attend the Commemoration of Handel at the Pantheon.”
At that, Joanna’s ears perked up. She loved Handel’s music.
“This is much like the performance recently held at Westminster Abbey that all of London is talking about. You know how involved Lady Danvers is with her charities. This performance at the Pantheon will benefit several of those for musicians.” Richard did not wait for her to answer. “I have already sent her our grateful acceptance. The soiree will occur immediately after.”
Raised to love music, Joanna answered quite truthfully. “I would love to attend.” That the comte would likely be there as well added to her excitement and her trepidation.
The next morning, mist settled over the waters of the Thames and flowed across the deck of la Reine Noire, rendering it near impossible for Jean to see the other ships, much less the people on the quay, though he could hear them.
Émile had arranged an appointment for the two of them with an agent at The Devil’s Tavern. Determined to reach it on foot, Jean stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and headed down the gangplank with Émile at his side.
Once on the quay, the heels of their boots made a sharp sound on the paved surface, echoing back to them in the thick fog.
For this meeting, Jean wore all black and had foregone his morning shave, allowing his rough appearance to speak of the pirate he had once been. ’Twould be a mistake to look the nobleman where they were going.
Émile hunched down in his heavy wool great coat, his collar meeting his tricorne. “The London fog is the worst, as thick as gutter mud.”
“I remember it well from the last time we were here,” said Jean. “Lucien was at the helm and almost ran into another ship.”
“Worse than rain in Paris,” added Émile, clutching his coat to his chest. “At least in Paris, the rain washes away the stench of raw sewage. Here, I can still smell it.”
Jean drew his collar up against the sodden murk, his mind on the meeting ahead. “What do you know of this agent?”
“’Tis an acquaintance of the go-between who arranged our last delivery. His message said the goods were for Bognor, same as before.”
Bognor. Perhaps he would see again Lady Joanna acting the smuggler.
“Only this time,” Émile continued, “the English customer wants lace as well as brandy and tea. I thought it best ye and I meet this new agent rather than send one of the crew.”
So she wants lace, does she? “And how are we to find the agent in a crowded tavern?”
Émile pulled a small leather-bound volume from his coat pocket and held it up. “He’ll be looking for two Frenchmen, one carrying a book.”
“Very clever.” Jean admired his quartermaster’s plan. “There are many countries’ ships in the Thames, but it’s unlikely any man in this tavern would be carrying a book.”
Émile returned him a satisfied smile. “I borrowed it from one of yer shelves.”
Jean glanced at the book’s cover. “You chose well. Gulliver’s Travels is one the English would recognize in the unlikely event any in the tavern can read.”
“My reading is confined to ship’s matters, but I knew ’twas English.”
Jean had a sudden thought. The English seamen by and large didn’t like the French any more than his crew liked the English. “You don’t suppose because we are French this new agent thinks to have the goods at a bargain?”
Émile gave him a side-glance. “Je ne sais pas. But when he sees ye, he’ll soon drop any such notion. Still, it brings me comfort to feel my weapons beneath my coat. Some of the crew know this place and told me ’tis known to serve smugglers, thieves and pirates. They offered to come along as chiens de garde.”
Jean laughed, peering ahead into the mist as they strode along. “The day you and I need a guard dog to see our way out of a tavern fight would be a sad day, indeed. ’Tis more likely we will be greeting some of our old friends.”
“I was of a similar mind and highly offended when M’sieur Ricard offered to come along.”
Jean raised a brow and inclined his head
to Émile. “Does Lucien worry we are not up to a fight?”
“Non. ’Tis only that the men have become very fond of their capitaine and would not like ye to lose yer life in some squalid London tavern.”
Jean smiled to himself but said nothing.
A quarter of an hour later, they neared the tavern. The mist had begun to clear and the fingers of fog were pulling back from the ships tied up at the quay. Riding the tide, their hulls caused the river to slap against the wooden piles.
Jean stopped in front of the door. Hanging over the entrance to the building, looming over the waterfront like a slumbering stone giant, was a sign. In gold letters lavishly painted on blackened wood were the words The Devil’s Tavern. Above the sign, silhouetted in skillfully worked iron, snaked a long lean dragon, its open mouth breathing out black flames.
A bell on the door jingled as they entered, telling everyone inside a new customer had arrived. Jean was certain the ensuing silence, as heavy as the earlier fog, had likely been boisterous conversation a moment before.
He paused in the shadows, scanning the smoke-filled room. Half the tables were occupied by what appeared to be the crews of various ships, men hardened by the sea, sun-browned, weather-creased and lined with salt and tar. They stared back at him with scrutinizing looks. He recognized no one. After a minute, the men turned back to their conversations.
To his left, stretching into the murky depths of the tavern, was a pewter-topped bar. Every stool was occupied, the men focused on their drinks or engaged in hushed conversations.
To his right, a dozen feet away, paned windows looked out on the quay and ships tied up on the Thames. Directly in front of him was a huge stone fireplace at least five feet long where a fire blazed.
In the corner, between the fireplace and the windows, Jean spotted an empty table. Catching the eye of the serving wench approaching from the bar, Jean jerked his head toward the table and, with Émile at his side, crossed the flagstone floor to settle into one of the chairs. With his back to the corner, the light from the windows fell over his shoulder so that anyone looking in his direction would be staring into the glare of the gray light outside.
