by Regan Walker
Émile rubbed his belly. “Ye’re making me hungry, Capitaine. What shall I tell the men ye want from the warehouse tomorrow? Anything besides the brandy, tea and lace ye promised the agent in London?”
Jean tried to remember all that was stored in his warehouse on Guernsey. He was constantly adding to it. Thinking of his recent acquisitions, his mind settled on an idea. “As I recall, the warehouse contains several lengths of silk from our last trip to Paris.”
Émile crossed his arms and nodded. “C’est vrai.”
“Parfait. Make certain the crew fetches the vermilion brocade and a few other lengths of silk. I have a notion our customer in Bognor would be pleased to have some.”
“Oui, Capitaine. I shall see it added to the order.” He winked. “Silk and lace often go together, non?”
“In this case, the silk will be a gift, a test of sorts.”
“Capitaine?” Émile’s furrowed brow bespoke his confusion. “Ye would give away that silk? Why, ’tis a quality even Marie Antoinette would covet.”
“I have a reason, mon ami.”
“Très bien, I will instruct the men.”
Once M’sieur Ricard had adroitly navigated the granite rocks and islets around Guernsey, Jean concentrated on their approach to the harbor.
Sailing into St. Peter Port presented its challenges. Shifting tides and changeable winds meant he must give the ship and her sails his constant attention. He knew the familiar charts well and was pleased they would have a strong northeast wind to aid them.
His crew, familiar with the island’s proclivities, quickly moved to comply with his orders. Soon, they sailed into the harbor and the ship drifted slowly to her moorings.
His spirits lifted as they always did when la Reine Noire was tied up to the solid granite of the north pier, busy this afternoon with several ships. The faces of his men and their easy joking spoke of their eagerness for an evening ashore on the island.
An hour later, Jean and his quartermaster walked along the quay, enjoying the warm evening as they headed into town toward Lidstone’s Hotel.
A fine meal followed, consisting of soupe à la reine, roast veal spiced with sage and thyme, fried potatoes in sherry sauce and a ragoût of French beans. Jean was just licking the last of the sherry sauce from his lips when Émile suggested a glass of brandy at the Crown & Anchor.
“Excellente idée,” said Jean. “After that meal, a walk appeals.”
They left the hotel and strolled along the cobblestone street on their way to the tavern.
The setting sun peeked out between clouds to light the evening sky with a golden glow, shimmering in the waters of the harbor.
On the other side of the harbor, the dark hulk of Castle Cornet loomed against the golden sky. The landmark sat atop a rocky islet off Guernsey’s coast. The castle, a granite fort that had guarded the harbor for five centuries, had long been a prison.
Jean stepped through the door of the Crown & Anchor followed by his quartermaster. The large tavern was crowded this night, noisy and smoke-filled. Every table was filled. Several of the crew of la Reine Noire were among those drinking ale.
Slurred shouts of “Capitaine!” rose from throats that obviously had been imbibing for some time.
Jean waved to them and looked about, hoping to find a place he and Émile could sit by themselves. Because of the great volume of French wine and brandy flowing though Guernsey, he did not doubt there would be a fine cognac to be had.
Wending his way through the wooden tables, heading toward the back of the tavern, a serving girl waved to him from a table off to one side.
He obliged her with a gesture of his head and strode in that direction. As he drew close, he saw she had a head of copper-colored curls and beautiful green eyes.
Returning her smile, he ordered a bottle of cognac and two glasses before taking his seat. Émile slipped in next to him.
She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder. “I’m Annie.”
At first glance, she reminded him of a certain auburn-haired lady he would soon see off the coast of Bognor, but the comparison did not hold. Annie, albeit a pretty girl, was a pale shadow of the woman Jean could not dismiss from his mind.
Her gaze roved over his black coat, waistcoat and breeches. Reaching out a long-fingered hand, she lifted the white lace at his throat.
Gently, he brushed away her hand but smiled to soften the dismissal. “Non, merci.” She was young and attractive. Her rounded breasts rising above her loose-fitting bodice would have tempted most men, perhaps even him were he not consumed with thoughts of Lady Joanna West.
Undiscouraged, the girl trailed her fingers over his hair he’d worn long to his shoulders. “’Tis a shame, what with ye being such a fair looker. But I’ll be back.” She returned him a wicked smile. “Maybe ye’ll think of something more I can get ye.” Flipping him a smile, she sauntered away.
Beside him, Émile’s gaze slid to another table where something had garnered his interest. Jean looked in that direction to see a brute of a man glaring at him.
“Ye seem to have drawn the ire of one of her admirers, Capitaine.”
The man had the look of a sailor off an Italian ship, a swarthy man of rough countenance with a knit cap shoved down over his forehead to just above his dark hooded eyes and prominent nose. His upper lip sported a wide dark mustache and he wore a gray-striped shirt like the kind Jean had seen on the crew of Italian ships. A sash of bright yellow circled his waist to which he had secured a long knife with a wide blade.
Jean turned his face away from the man’s angry stare. It was not as if he wanted the girl. But if he had, the Italian sailor would not have stopped him from having her.
A bottle and two glasses appeared on the table. Jean poured the brandy and handed one glass to Émile. The color of the cognac reminded Jean of Lady Joanna’s eyes. Would he ever drink cognac again without thinking of the darling of the ton who made smuggling her pastime?
She was not alone in her pursuit. Lady Holderness had smuggled over one hundred French silk gowns into England, but that embarrassment to the English had been many years ago.
Émile nudged Jean’s elbow, interrupting his musings. Slowly, he became aware of a hovering presence. The serving girl stood beside him.
Inclining his head, he looked up at her green eyes.
“Well?” she asked. “Any second thoughts?”
Before Jean could answer, she plopped into his lap, her breasts served up before his face like a meal. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled coyly.
Beside him, Émile sputtered, spewing his drink.
Jean had had enough. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted the girl from his lap, rising from his chair as he did so.
The sound of wood scraping over the floor caused Jean to swivel his head to look behind him.
The huge Italian sailor got to his feet, knocking over his chair. The tavern suddenly grew quiet. “Hands offa mia ragazza, Frenchie!”
Jean dropped his hands.
Annie shot the Italian sailor a scathing look. “Don’t mind him. I’m not his girl.”
“Se na vada!” the Italian roared and stomped toward Jean.
Émile grabbed the bottle of cognac and backed away. “This one’s all yers, Capitaine.” To the Italian, the quartermaster said, “Consider yerself warned.”
“Out of the way, Annie.” Jean gestured the girl away from what was soon to be a fight. Turning to the sailor, Jean tried to calm the man. “There has been no harm done, mon ami. I make no claim on the lady.”
“I’m not yer amico, Frenchie,” said the Italian. He drew his wide blade from his waist and waved it threateningly in front of Jean’s face. “I carve you like a roast and feed you to the dogs. I hear they love frog.” He bellowed his laughter, his friends joining in. They shouted their encouragement to their fellow sailor.
Jean sized up the Italian as patrons backed away, dragging their tables and drinks with them. Much heavier than Jean, the Italian
would be slow and possibly lumbering.
“Best leave off, Antonio,” yelled a voice Jean recognized as one of his crew. “The capitaine is fierce with a blade.”
“Quel piccolo? This little one?” The Italian sailor sneered and spat, clearly not impressed. His ignorance would be his downfall. In Jean’s experience, bullies who preyed upon others weaker than themselves were cowards. This one was just bigger than most.
Jean pulled his sword from his belt, the blade gleaming. “Très bien, if you insist.” The Italian had longer arms and a longer reach, but the length of Jean’s weapon made up for the disparity. And then there was the matter of skill. Jean’s father had arranged for Jean and Henri to be trained by the best fencing master in France. After that, there had been years of practice wielding his weapon as a privateer.
Shouts went up from the men and one of his crew urged the onlookers to pick a favorite. Jean’s men loved a good fight, especially on the rare occasion their capitaine was involved.
Taking up the challenge, money quickly changed hands as the men placed their bets.
The Italian lunged for Jean, but with a quick turn, he evaded the long knife.
With a flourish of his sword, Jean met his opponent’s blade and forced him back. The Italian must have been counting on brute strength. He swung hard, but Jean slipped under his blade and cut a swath across the man’s gray shirt. A thin line of red appeared on the cloth.
The Italian howled, looking down at the blood. “Bastardo!” Mad with anger, he lunged at Jean.
Jean kicked out his boot, hitting the Italian in his side. He grunted and shot Jean a harsh glare.
Jean danced away from the knife. Making the man angry had been part of his strategy. Soon, the Italian would strike without thinking at all.
“Fermati! Stop moving!” Antonio yelled, his sweat-stained face betraying his frustration. With an angry grunt, he swung his blade in a reckless attempt to catch Jean off guard.
Jean easily parried the blade. “I wouldn’t want to make it look too easy for your sake, mon ami.” This time Jean crossed blades with the man, then tripped him with one of his feet.
The Italian stumbled and Jean brought his sword hilt down on the back of the sailor’s head.
Antonio fell, splayed out on the floor, his eyes closed.
A cheer went up from the crew of la Reine Noire as they began to collect their winnings. “Vive le capitaine! Vive le capitaine!”
“Come,” Jean said to Émile, “let us away while this one sleeps.”
Holding the cognac bottle close to his chest, Émile joined him.
Jean bowed to Annie, whose face bore a look of regret. As he left, he tossed a pound sterling to the proprietor standing behind the bar for his trouble.
“Yer usual evening ashore, eh Capitaine?”
Jean returned his friend an amused look. “An all too familiar scene, mon ami. But at least you rescued the brandy. Shall we finish it in my cabin?”
As they strolled back to the ship, Jean reflected on his fight with the jealous Italian. Perhaps ’twas his age, but the brawls of years past did not hold the same excitement for him they once did. His rough unanchored life that had him dealing with tavern bullies whenever he sat down for a drink with a friend had become less satisfying. His imagination whispered of a different life, one more settled and with a woman who was more than a friend.
When they arrived at the ship, it became clear that some of the crew had raced back to bring exaggerated tales to those who’d remained onboard, regaling them with the story of their capitaine’s bravery in the face of a much larger foe.
Jean dismissed them all with a shake of his head and ordered them back to work.
The next day, the crew loaded the cargo from the warehouse. And that night, Jean and Émile dined onboard, letting M’sieur Ricard have the evening free. Their supper of oysters and roast capon, thanks to their cook from Marseilles, was as fine as any meal in Paris.
The Harrows near Chichester, West Sussex
Joanna was delighted to be home, sans older brother, younger sister and Aunt Hetty and her cat. She had committed to one last run and it was best not to be worried about nosey siblings asking questions. Her smuggling partner Freddie being the exception, of course.
Her guilt for involving him had not lessened, particularly after her outing to the Old Bailey. She had once tried to convince Freddie to stay home, but he would have none of it. He explained he had plenty of time for other pursuits since his schooling was done. His flute and Richard’s discourses on how to manage The Harrows hardly filled his days. How could she deprive him of a bit of adventure to punctuate such tedium?
Joanna prepared for the evening ahead by donning her new better-fitting waistcoat and brown wool breeches, over which she wore a jacket of the wool. Dressed as a lad, she met Zack and Freddie in front of the stables.
“This is the same ship as last time?”
Zack adjusted his slouched hat over his forehead, shadowing his eyes. “Aye, and the same order ’cept for the lace.”
She cast a glance at Freddie. “I will want to inspect the lace since ’tis the first we have ordered.”
Freddie opened his mouth to speak. She shook her head. “You can go with me in the rowing boat but not on board the ship.”
“Aw, Jo,” he groaned in protest. When she did not relent, he gave her a reluctant nod.
She and Freddie mounted their horses while Zack climbed into the seat on the large open wagon. A brown oilcloth lay in the back, ready to cover the goods once they loaded them at the shore.
“Nate will meet us on the beach with the other wagon,” Zack said. He looked up at the scattered clouds. “The sun will be down soon.”
Joanna’s palms grew moist and her mouth dry. Though she was committed to the run before her, she did not dismiss the danger inherent in what they were doing. Nor had she forgotten the trial of John Shelley or its end in his sentence of death.
“I’m thinking this will be our last run,” she told them. “We need to find a better way to help the people of Chichester.”
Zack and her brother gave her an incredulous look.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” she said. “There’s no time tonight.”
Chapter 12
Bognor, West Sussex
Jean sailed la Reine Noire to Bognor and gave the order to heave to just offshore. The cold wind chilled him where he stood amidships, his eyes scanning the beach. The twilight sky, a brilliant lavender streaked with pink, cast a faint light on the shore.
On deck, his men stood ready to deliver the goods to the beach or flee as the circumstances warranted.
Jean thought only of seeing Lady Joanna, once again costumed as a lad. As one who had donned many disguises, he admired a good one. Hers was not so well done as to hide her feminine curves but, still, as disguises went, it was passably fair. Émile had yet to discover the leader of the Bognor smugglers was not only a lady, but the sister of an English earl and the object of Jean’s interest.
One day, Jean would tell Lady Joanna he had known from the beginning she was the slender English smuggler, but perhaps not tonight.
“I expect they will want to examine the lace,” he told Émile, who stood nearby, his feet apart and his hands clasped behind him, looking toward shore.
His quartermaster gestured to one of the chests on deck. “The lace is just there, Capitaine.”
Lined with linen, the chest was one they had used before to transport the delicate needlework. Machine-made lace was available, but the fine bobbin lace he had brought Lady Joanna was meticulously handmade. An aristocrat such as she would know the difference.
The signal flame flashed from the beach and he gave the order to lower the longboats. Adept at their task, the crew quickly had the boats in the water and were busy handing down chests of tea and casks of brandy. The lace he kept on deck, expecting Lady Joanna would want to check the new goods as she had the tea and brandy before. The silk would be his surprise.
As the longboats cut through the water toward the beach, a small rowing boat carrying three figures launched from the shore. The largest of the three did the rowing. Jean assumed this was the same scarred man he’d seen on their last run to Bognor and then again in London on the quay. All three wore hats pulled down over their heads, their features hidden in shadows.
Minutes later, the scarred man clambered over the rail and his smaller companion followed. The third remained below in the boat.
Jean acknowledged the two who had come aboard with a nod and looked over the side. To his surprise, gazing up from the boat, his face no longer obscured by his hat, was Lady Joanna’s younger brother, Frederick, who Jean recognized from the Pitt reception.
Torrington could have no idea of his siblings’ involvement in the Bognor smuggling ring or the danger they courted, danger to their family’s good name and to their very lives. One might assume such a risk to feed one’s family as he had done long ago, but Lady Joanna and her brother? What need had they?
Jean’s men reached the beach and were unloading the goods. One boat was already returning to the ship.
Lady Joanna and her companion watched Émile as he knelt and opened the chest, then peeled back the linen to reveal the fine lace.
Lady Joanna gave a sharp intake of breath. “This is exceptional,” she remarked in a low voice, as she lifted the lace and draped it over her fingers.
“That is not everything,” said Émile. “Should ye be interested, we also have French silk.” He opened another chest revealing lengths of brocade silk in sapphire blue, vermilion and ivory.
The ivory silk, embroidered with roses, reminded Jean of Claire’s wedding gown he’d had made for her in Paris.
Lady Joanna’s wide grin spoke loudly of her pleasure at the quality of the silk. “This is exquisite!” she exclaimed, giving away her woman’s knowledge of the finest silk brocade.
Jean watched his quartermaster carefully and noted a frown on his rough-featured face his tricorne did not hide. Émile had not expected a young smuggler to recognize the finest quality. After all, what would a young villager know of silk?
