by Regan Walker
Émile slid his brawny frame into the chair adjacent to Jean’s as the dark-haired serving wench sidled up to the table. “What’ll ye be havin’, gents?”
Jean looked toward Émile, who nodded once. “Two brandies, please.”
“Ye’re French,” she remarked, sounding surprised. “And such a handsome one.” Drawing close, she pressed her ample hip against Jean’s arm. “Would ye like anything else, Lovey?” The invitation was clear and expected. ’Twas often how such women earned extra coin.
“Non. Just the brandy, merci.”
“And yer friend?” she asked, looking at Émile.
The quartermaster sputtered. “Non.”
She sauntered away, a frown on her face, clearly disappointed to have lost the shillings either of their company would have brought her.
“She’s none too pretty, Capitaine, but she appears to like Frenchmen.”
“And what about you?” Jean asked. “She seemed quite willing.”
“I do not think she really liked me.”
Jean’s quartermaster liked to tease, this being yet another instance. “In her business, Émile, she would like anyone in breeches. ’Twas best you declined, for we are here for our business. My own taste does not run to seasoned tavern whores with soot on their cheeks and God knows what disease under their skirts.”
“Mark my words, Capitaine. One of these days, ye’ll find a woman ye cannot say ‘non’ to.”
“If you are speaking of marriage, mon ami, ’tis highly unlikely. You will remember I have been down that road before.”
Émile smirked. “As ye would say, we will see.”
The crackling fire soon warmed Jean and he began to relax, ignoring the familiar smells of sour ale, unwashed bodies and the stinking tidal mud of the Thames.
The serving wench returned with their drinks. Jean laid a coin on the table and resigned himself to a poor version of the drink he loved best. Taking a sip, he tried not to wince. “We are expecting a man to join us,” he told her. “When he does, return for his order.”
“It’d be me pleasure.” She flung her dark hair over her shoulder and slowly walked away. She might have been pretty if one looked past the smears of soot on her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. A tavern wench’s life was a hard one, but some girls had little choice.
Émile placed the book on the table next to his brandy.
Jean had just taken another sip of his drink when a man left his stool at the bar and came toward them. He was not dressed in sailor’s slops, but more like a merchant with a dark brown coat over green waistcoat and brown breeches. His boots were not scuffed but shined and his tricorne well shaped. A man who did not mind Jean knowing he was reasonably successful.
“C’est lui,” muttered Émile.
The agent stopped when he reached their table. “Might ye be from the French ship, the Black Queen?”
“Oui,” said Émile, gesturing for the man to sit. “Join us.”
The man pulled out a chair and sat. The serving wench dutifully returned.
“What will you have?” Jean asked the agent.
The man lifted his eyes to the girl. “Another ale.”
While they waited for the drink to arrive, Jean inquired as to the man himself. “Are you from London?”
The man looked directly into Jean’s eyes, making him think the answer would be truth. “Nay. I am from Sussex, come to town only to assist with the trade. I represent many clients.”
Sussex had a long coast so Jean did not doubt the agent could service many smugglers.
“Ye have an order for us?” asked Émile.
“Aye.” The agent pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat and slid it across the table to Émile. “For Bognor one week hence.”
While his quartermaster read the list, Jean studied the agent. Somewhere in his thirties, but his clean-shaven face had lines enough to suggest experience. His dark hair was neatly tied back at his nape, but not a braided pigtail, the badge of pride for the English sailor. A former officer, perhaps, or a village merchant who had carved himself out a role in the lucrative free trade business. He would have to be trustworthy to have gained such a position, for his compensation would come from the one placing the order only after acceptable goods were delivered.
“We can handle the order,” offered Émile, “but we require more time. We do not leave London immediately, and the lace will require a stop in another port. A fortnight should be sufficient.”
The agent nodded. “That is acceptable. I will advise my client.” He stood and offered his hand. Jean took it, noting the man’s firm grip.
The agent picked up his ale and walked back to the bar where he reclaimed his stool.
Jean turned to his quartermaster. “Our business here is done, mon ami. Finish your drink.”
Émile pushed his half-filled glass away and stood. “’Tis not worth finishing.”
Jean cast a glance at his own glass. “My sentiment as well.” He got to his feet and the two of them wound their way through the other tables as they headed toward the door.
Jean reached for the handle and a seaman in grease-smeared slops stepped in front of him. “Me mate was killed by one of ye Frenchies!” The man’s words were slurred.
“We have all lost mates,” said Émile in a calm but firm voice, “some of us brothers. But the war is over.”
The drunken seaman pulled a knife from his waist, not the blunted rigging knife of a sailor, but a landsman’s blade, long and thin, with a wicked point. “Not fer me, t’ain’t,” he snarled.
Jean stepped back and slid his sword from his belt. The metal glistened in the light of the fire behind him. The conversations in the tavern died away. “You may wish to reconsider, mon ami.”
Perhaps it was the edge to Jean’s voice or the intensity of his gaze, but the man backed away.
Jean sheathed his sword, turning again to the door. He sensed a movement behind him just as Émile shouted, “Capitaine!”
Jean whipped around and hit the drunken man’s wrist, sending the blade he held flying across the room to land on the flagstone floor where it skidded to a stop. Drawing his own knife, a deadly weapon from his pirate days, Jean grabbed the man by his coat and held the blade to his throat.
His frown and narrowed eyes had the sailor trembling. “Only a coward attacks a man’s back,” Jean hissed, his voice dripping disdain. He slipped his knife into his belt, then drew his fist back and slammed it into the man’s jaw.
The seaman dropped to the floor.
Beside him, Émile looked glumly at his pistol. “Ye took all the joy out of it, Capitaine. I had no chance to fire my pistol.”
Jean chuckled and laid his arm over Émile’s shoulder as they walked through the open door. “There will be other opportunities, mon ami, I am certain.”
Chapter 9
Joanna considered the Pantheon one of the most elegant assembly rooms in London with its great domed ceiling. The large room beneath the dome was sixty feet on each side. She had once attended a masquerade there and enjoyed herself immensely. To see it adorned for the concert in commemoration of the composer, George Frideric Handel, would be a once-in-a-lifetime event.
She regretted that Freddie was not in London to attend with her. Already there was much talk of the earlier concert held at Westminster Abbey where hundreds had vied for too few seats. And because this would be the first concert held in the Pantheon, the royal family would attend.
She had just decided upon her gown when Tillie, looking quite frantic, appeared at her bedchamber door. “What should I wear?”
Remembering her own first Season, Joanna gave her sister a look of sympathy. “Since Cornelia is having a soiree after the concert, I rather think a gown that will serve both purposes would be best.” She thought for a moment, mentally sorting through Tillie’s gowns purchased for the Season. “The satin gown that is the color of butter with the Verona green ribbon crisscrossing the bodice and lace at the elbows would suit the occas
ion. ’Tis truly the most eye-catching of all your new gowns. The evening will be warm, so you will not need a cloak.”
“Oh, yes! The yellow gown is perfect.”
“And a welcome change from pink,” muttered Joanna.
Tillie flounced farther into Joanna’s room, one hand on her hip. “You cannot fault me for preferring one color above another. Your friend, Cornelia, almost always wears peach. You told me so yourself. And she looks marvelous in it.”
“She does. But still, for you, I think the yellow satin will do nicely.”
Mollified for the moment, Tillie asked, “And what will you wear, Jo?”
Joanna was tempted to say her new breeches in which she delighted, but Tillie had no idea of her unladylike pursuits and would not find the prospect amusing. Instead, Joanna had chosen a gown that looked like it had been crafted in Paris.
“I thought I might wear the robe à l’Anglaise.” At Tillie’s puzzled look, Joanna said, “The striped one with the ivory satin petticoat.” She gestured to the gown lying on her bed. “When the modiste first suggested it, I thought it most unusual.”
Tillie walked to the bed and touched the silk gown, shining in the candlelight. “Isn’t this the one the modiste modeled after a fashion doll from Paris?”
“It might be.” The close-bodied gown with its fringed ivory satin petticoat, around which hugged the blue-green and ivory striped silk, had become her favorite. Unfortunately, it was too fancy to wear most evenings and the neck dipped precariously low for practical wear. She hoped it was low enough to distract a certain French comte from her sister.
“That will be lovely on you. But first, can you come to my room and help me? I can’t find Nora anywhere.”
Joanna followed Tillie to her bedchamber and retrieved the yellow gown from her sister’s clothes press. “Now that you’re out, we will need to find you a maid of your own. Perhaps one of the girls Richard employs here in London might appeal.”
“There is one I like and she is my age.”
“If you think she will suit, she can be trained as a lady’s maid.”
“I’ll ask Nora about her.” Tillie smiled, obviously happy to finally have her own maid. Then, taking the gown from Joanna, she said, “I’m glad you suggested the yellow one, Jo. I had forgotten it has sequins. I love how they sparkle.”
Tillie laid the gown on her bed, took a seat at her dressing table and picked up a brush.
Joanna reached for it. “Here, I can do that.”
Tillie sat, looking into the mirror at her hair, a lighter shade of red than Joanna’s and with more curls. As she pulled the brush through Tillie’s long hair, Joanna’s thoughts turned to their family.
So much had changed.
Their father had died early in the American War and, two years past, they had lost their mother to illness. Joanna had become as much a mother to Tillie, then seventeen, as a sister. The whole family had mourned deeply, but it was worse for Tillie and Freddie because they had relied so much on their mother.
They had barely finished mourning their mother’s death when the next year, their eldest brother Wills was killed in Italy. Richard became earl, steeling himself against the pain, and Joanna had become his hostess, running the household and guiding her younger siblings. That Freddie had joined her in smuggling still caused her much guilt.
Tillie met Joanna’s gaze in the mirror. “I wonder if we might see Monsieur Donet tonight.”
“I expect we will, for Cornelia is giving a party in his honor after the concert and we are invited.”
Tillie’s eyes lit up. “I shall look forward to that.”
Inwardly Joanna groaned. It would be a long evening for Aunt Hetty would be staying home and Richard was seemingly unconcerned with Tillie’s infatuation.
Nora came into Tillie’s room just then. Seeing Joanna brushing her sister’s hair, the maid reached for the brush. “Let me, mistress.”
Joanna relinquished the job to more capable hands. “When you are done here, Nora, can you help me dress?”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” The petite Nora had been a stalwart soul during the days the family had mourned the passing of so many members. Joanna was grateful for both her and her brother Zack. The two Barlow siblings were like family.
She returned to her bedchamber and sat at her own dressing table, pulling the pins from her thick hair and rubbing her scalp. As she brushed her hair, her gaze was drawn to the porcelain figurine her mother had given her a decade earlier. Ironically, it portrayed a young woman wearing the court dress of France with an elaborate white wig.
The figurine made Joanna think of the comte, part of her wanting very much to see him and another, saner part of her wanting him back in France.
A short while later, Nora appeared at her door. “Lady Matilda is dressed and has gone down to meet his lordship.”
“Thank you for helping her, Nora. Did she mention she has thought of a girl who might serve as her maid?”
“She did. I agree the young woman is a good choice.”
Once Joanna was dressed, Nora turned to Joanna’s hair. With expert fingers, her maid drew Joanna’s long hair back from her face and added a hairpiece of the same color hair. Soon, a mound of curls was piled high on her head with a few left to dangle on one shoulder.
“Did Zack pay you a visit?” she asked her maid.
“Oh, yes, and he ate several of Cook’s tarts. He also gave me a message for you, m’lady.”
Joanna glanced at her maid in the mirror.
Lowering her voice, Nora said, “There will be another run in a fortnight. And you shall have your lace.”
Joanna smiled, pleased. “The modistes will be happy and the villagers will have more coin to feed their families.”
“You take great risks for us, m’lady.”
“I couldn’t live with myself if I did not do what I could to help the families of the seamen without work and the farmers struggling to pay taxes. Besides,” she added in a lighter vein, “what would the vicar do without his tea?”
Nora laughed. “Oh, yes, the vicar. But do you worry about the Excise Officers?”
“Yes, but I am careful.” Joanna loathed the violence that had accompanied some of the earlier smuggling in Sussex so, at her insistence, the men she led carried no weapons.
“I know Zack watches over you, my lady.”
“I count upon him, Nora. And now he’s watching over Polly Ackerman and her children while I am gone.”
“He won’t mind. Zack has always been responsible.”
With her hair in a fine style, Joanna bid Nora a good evening and went to find her siblings.
Shortly after, the three set out for the Pantheon. Joanna and Tillie sat in the carriage looking forward and Richard took the seat across from them. In black and gold, he appeared the elegant young earl.
“You’re looking dapper this evening, Richard.” With his handsome face and burnished red hair neatly queued, he would catch the eye of many young women, especially those who were aware he was a wealthy earl in need of a wife. Joanna hoped he would choose well, not only for his sake but also for their family and The Harrows. She had no desire to live with a harpy.
Richard smiled at them. “And you, Sisters, are a vision.”
Their carriage crawled down Oxford Street.
Joanna glanced out the open window at the long line of carriages ahead of them, all making their way to the Pantheon. The street had become clogged with vehicles, slowing their travel.
People on foot flooded the street, their destination the same place.
Richard strained his head out the other window. “What a crush. We might have done better to walk.”
“After the acclaim the Westminster performance received, I am not surprised,” said Joanna. “Cornelia told me that between the Abbey and Pantheon performances, three thousand tickets have been sold.”
Tillie was so excited she practically bounced on the seat. “I expect all of London Society will be here tonight. I
never thought to attend such a grand concert in my first Season.”
Richard sat back and met Joanna’s gaze. “The concert does not begin until eight, but as the doors opened at six, I thought it best we came early. Just getting to Cornelia’s box will take us an hour at the rate we are moving.”
As it turned out, Richard had been correct. It was almost seven before they had worked their way through the mob of aristocrats, gentry and others fortunate enough to have a ticket. Once inside the theater, they located the Danvers’ box midway down on the second level of the galleries. Two benches provided seating for eight but, at the moment, the only occupants were Cornelia and her husband.
Cornelia rose to greet them. “I am so glad you have arrived. I have been worried you would be lost in that great horde of people pressing to enter. She gestured into the rotunda floor below. “Already hundreds of musicians and the choir gather, filling the open area. Only the platform at the front remains for the soloists.”
Lord Danvers welcomed Joanna and her sister and offered Richard his hand. “Soon, not one bench in the galleries will be left unfilled.” Dressed in a suit of blue silk with his hair powdered dark gray, the baron appeared every bit the English lord.
Cornelia, too, had dressed for the occasion. “You look lovely,” Joanna told her. The baroness had worn a gown of shimmering peach silk embroidered with delicate white flowers and lace edging the bodice and the sleeves. Her chestnut hair was piled high but simply styled as always. Cornelia did not like to powder her hair any more than did Joanna. The powder made her sneeze.
“Your peach gown is beautiful,” remarked Tillie to Cornelia, casting Joanna a sharp glance, reminding her of their earlier conversation. Joanna did not begrudge Tillie her fondness for pink, but she did like to tease her into wearing other colors.
Cornelia smiled at them. “You two will draw the eyes of many suitors.”
Joanna gave her friend a knowing smirk. “You may leave me out of that, Cornelia.”
