by Regan Walker
“You will ride with the ladies,” said Donet, helping Bequel into the passenger compartment.
The quartermaster bristled. “Really, Capitaine, this is unnecessary.”
Donet ignored him and, once the quartermaster had taken a seat, handed Joanna into the carriage. As he closed the door, through the open window, he offered her a pistol. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
“I do,” she said, taking it from him. “My brother Wills taught me when he was on leave from the Coldstream Guards.”
“Keep it ready should you need it on the way back.”
He led his horse toward the back of the carriage. As he returned to the front, he passed by her window.
She heard the whip crack and the carriage lurched forward.
Inside, Gabrielle tended M’sieur Bequel as best she could, pressing her handkerchief and the one Joanna offered into the wound to try and stop the bleeding.
Joanna kept the pistol close, unsure of what to expect.
Zoé looked on anxiously, but she did not cry. A brave little girl, thought Joanna.
Wondering what had prompted Donet to set out to find them, she looked at the quartermaster, who gritted his teeth with every movement of the carriage. “How did he know?”
“I could tell ye stories, Mademoiselle. ’Twould make yer hair stand on end. The capitaine has instincts that often baffle the crew. When the war raged on the Channel, more times than I can remember, with not a sail in sight, he would suddenly order Lucien to change course. Only later would we learn an English frigate had been heading for our ship.”
“You think he sensed there would be trouble?”
“Oui. I expect so. He gets a feeling something’s not right. At such times, I have learned not to question him.”
Joanna heard the pride in his voice and the affection for the man to whom Bequel gave his loyalty, the one he called “Capitaine”.
“You and Donet have been friends for a long time, no?”
The quartermaster’s breathing was labored. The ball in his shoulder had to be causing him great pain. Still, he managed to say, “Many years. And I hope for many more.”
A man who could engender such loyalty and unfettered obedience from a crew of cutthroats was not a man to be ignored. “I, too, hope you and he will have many years together, Monsieur. And I am glad his instincts told him to come after us. I feel safer for knowing he is with us.”
Bequel smiled and shut his eyes.
Gabrielle said, “I believe the bleeding is slowing.”
“We should be to the château soon,” Zoé encouraged.
The carriage was just rolling to a stop when Jean jumped down, shouting for the butler and a footman. Together with Lefèvre, Jean got the protesting quartermaster into the château. The footman helped the driver into one of the available chambers, while Donet returned M’sieur Bequel to the bedchamber he had been occupying.
Joanna and Gabrielle had followed the three men, while Zoé went in search of Marguerite.
Émile grumbled as Jean helped his quartermaster onto the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean saw Joanna standing in the doorway.
“Find Giroud and bring him to me,” Jean ordered the butler.
Lefèvre skittered out of the room. “Oui, Monsieur.”
At Joanna’s urging, Gabrielle removed the quartermaster’s shirt, just as Marguerite came hurrying into the room, the maid Sophie following on her heels.
She rushed to Émile’s bedside, her lined face expressing her anxiety. “What has happened now?”
“A scratch, no more,” said the quartermaster.
Donet and the housekeeper shared a glance and Marguerite went to work.
“The driver has been shot as well,” Jean informed the housekeeper.
At the open door, Zoé joined Joanna. “Will he be all right?” asked Jean’s niece.
Joanna put her arm over the girl’s shoulder. “He will be, you’ll see.”
The housekeeper set about cleaning the wound, fussing over Bequel and shouting instructions to Sophie to bring hot water, bandages and brandy. “When you are done with that,” she told the maid, “see if you can help the coachman.”
Sophie nodded and scurried to find what was needed. Gabrielle went with her, offering to help.
Donet pulled up a chair in front of the bed. “What happened?”
“The trip to town went well,” said M’sieur Bequel. “We were on the way back when three brigands on horseback attacked us with pistols and swords. I got two before the third came at me with his blade. Ye know the sword’s not my weapon, Capitaine, and both my pistols had fired.” With a sheepish grin, he said, “That third one got away. In the future, I’m thinking we need to give the driver a pistol.”
Donet patted Bequel’s leg. “You did fine, mon ami, and I will see to arming the driver. I should have thought of that before. Now, get some rest.”
“He’ll not be getting any rest till I’m finished with him,” said Marguerite.
Donet shifted his gaze to the door. “No more trips to town,” he fired at Joanna.
She nodded. “What’s going on?”
“I do not know, but I intend to find out.”
Joanna took Zoé’s hand. “Let’s go have some tea, shall we?”
The two disappeared and Giroud took their place at the door. “M’sieur?”
“The carriage was attacked returning from Saint Jean d’Angély. Send some men to retrieve the two bodies left by M’sieur Bequel.”
“Immediately, M’sieur.” The estate manager quickly departed.
Jean stayed with Émile until the ball was out to offer his support and to keep his quartermaster supplied with brandy. Several times, a dig to hunt for the ball had the quartermaster cursing loudly.
When Jean opened his mouth to apologize, Marguerite said, “No need, Monsieur. I have heard men curse before. ’Tis expected in such circumstances.”
Émile took a large swallow of the brandy Jean handed him and smiled at the housekeeper. “S’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi.”
With Émile’s apology, Jean left the bedchamber. “I’ll look in on you later. I must check on the driver.”
Jean was descending the stairs when Giroud stepped into the entry hall.
Worrying his hat in his hand, the estate manager looked up at him. “The bodies are gone, M’sieur, their horses, too.”
Jean frowned and stepped down to the tile floor. “I half-expected it. Whoever they were working for would not want to leave bodies behind that might reveal his identity.”
Joanna walked in from the parlor, a worried look on her face. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but the presence of the others stayed his hand.
“Lady Joanna,” he said, “I don’t believe you have met my estate manager, M’sieur Giroud.”
Joanna acknowledged Giroud with a smile and he dipped his head.
“We are discussing the men who attacked the carriage, my lady.” He couldn’t bring himself to think of it as an attack on her or Zoé. “Did you happen to see them?”
“I did, but only the two M’sieur Bequel shot. The other one must have been in the front. They were rough men. On their faces, they wore black masks. Their hair was long and unkempt. Were they hired ruffians, do you think?”
“Possibly. But who would have hired them? Did they say anything?”
“Yes, one shouted a demand for the driver to stop, but I could not see him. One of the two close to me ordered his comrade not to fire into the carriage, that ‘he’ wanted ‘la fille’.”
“Zoé?”
“I thought so at the time. Wouldn’t he have said “la femme” if he meant me or Gabrielle?”
He was tempted to tell her with her hair worn long and tied back, she could pass for a girl, but he didn’t want to scare her. “Probably, but the more intriguing question is to whom was the man referring when he said ‘he’?”
Neither Giroud nor Joanna had any idea. Why would someone want to capture his niece?
She was not the heir after all, could never be. And a ten-year-old girl could have no enemies. Was it to hold her for ransom for something they wanted from Jean? Money? An exchange of her life for his? If the vengeance against the Saintonges ran deep, the perpetrators might want to kill the new heir. They couldn’t know there was still another, his grandson, the babe Jean Nicholas.
Zoé came into the entry hall from the kitchens. “How is Monsieur Bequel?” she asked.
“Marguerite is stitching his wound and then she will give him something to make him sleep.”
Flashing her cognac-colored eyes, Joanna said, “I hear laudanum works well.”
At least the vixen still had her sense of humor. He remembered her rising from a laudanum-induced sleep to fire questions at him, as spirited as ever. What a wild one she must have been as a child.
Jean suggested they go in to dinner and led his small party into the dining room. They took their seats at the long table, sitting clustered together at one end. The meal that followed was a somber affair, which Jean regretted, but he and Giroud accomplished what they needed to regarding the large number of stored casks of cognac.
As the supper drew to a close, he turned to Joanna. “I want you and Zoé to stay close to the château for the time we are here.”
She nodded. “Of course, I understand.”
“Are we going somewhere, Oncle Jean?”
“Eventually, oui. I cannot leave you in Saintonge, Zoé. ’Tis not safe for anyone named Donet at the moment.” Casting a glance at Joanna, he added, “Or anyone close to us. Besides,” he said looking at his maître du château, “M’sieur Giroud is well able to handle the estate in my absence.”
Giroud appeared pleased for the trust placed in him, which made Jean wonder at the relationship the man must have had with the former comte. It could not have been a good one.
Chapter 20
The summons from the king came the next morning. Jean was not sorry for it. Given recent events, he was only too glad to leave Saintonge. Had he not been concerned for Joanna and his niece, he might have wanted to stay and solve the mystery of the attack on the carriage and the deaths of his father and brother, but that could wait.
As one new to his title, he would be expected to make an appearance before Louis. With Jean’s sojourn in England, his sovereign must have grown impatient. Then, too, he still had Vergennes to see. Oui, it was past time for him to return to Paris.
He found Marguerite in the kitchens. “Can our patients be moved?”
She nodded. “But I would not ask Monsieur Bequel to lift anything heavy for a while. And the coachman will not be much use till his wound is healed.”
“I will assure Bequel lifts nothing save a pistol. Meanwhile, we will be leaving tomorrow. The king requires my presence in Paris, so I will need another driver. Might one of the servants be fit for the job?”
“One of the footmen has driven carriages before.”
“Parfait. We will take the Saintonge carriage so the wounded driver will have his to return to La Rochelle when he is recovered. Will you be all right in my absence?”
“Of course.” Wiping errant gray hairs off her forehead with the back of her hand, she cast him an anxious glance. “Will you take your niece, Monsieur?”
“With her having the last name Donet, I would not leave her here with the current threat.” The housekeeper appeared to relax. “She has never been to Paris?”
Marguerite put one hand on her hip. “Monsieur, she has never been far from Saintonge.”
“Well then, she will enjoy seeing Paris.”
“There can be no doubt of it. And, given all she has lost, she would not want you to leave her behind. You have taken the place of her papa.”
As he climbed the stairs to check on Émile and the coachman, he thought of his ward. Should he place her in the care of the Ursuline Sisters of Saint-Denis? They had been good to Claire. Many daughters of the aristocracy were sent there for their education prior to marriage. Zoé was the right age. But she was all he had of his brother. And she had no father.
Putting that decision aside for the moment, he considered his options for getting to Paris. The roads in France had improved substantially since he’d lived in Saintonge, making the carriage trip to Paris bearable, but he preferred to travel by ship. With all the stops the carriage would make, it would take no longer sailing from La Rochelle to Le Havre and then a day’s ride to Paris. He would have to make a brief stop in Lorient to change ships to his sloop.
If, notwithstanding the night in his bed, Joanna insisted on being returned to England, he would need that ship. The modifications he’d made would serve well if she were to remain with him. He did not want her to go. But could she be persuaded to stay?
Émile had just finished his breakfast when Jean walked through the open bedchamber door. Sophie picked up the tray and, bobbing a curtsy, carried it from the room.
“You are well?” he asked. “No fever?”
“I am fine and tired of lying abed. Marguerite objects, of course, but I am getting up. Unlike ye, Capitaine, I do not carry books about. Staring at the walls and worrying about the ship are driving me mad.”
Jean laughed. “You will be pleased to learn we depart tomorrow.”
“We do?” His quartermaster’s face brightened. “And where are we going? To return the English lady to her home?”
“Only if she insists. My preference is not to return to England just now. The king has summoned me to Paris.”
“Why?”
“Louis rarely gives reasons, mon ami, but I assume ’tis the customary appearance for one newly titled. He will want to be assured of the comte de Saintonge’s continued loyalty.”
“Ah.” Émile let out a breath and ran his hand through his thick russet hair loose on his shoulders. “Then I must again dress as a gentleman, non?”
“Oui, but consider this, my townhouse in Paris has fine beds and a good cook.”
“And the nearest tavern has pretty wenches. Oui, I recall it well.” His quartermaster sat up and slid his legs off the edge of the bed, wincing as he put weight on his arm. “Très bien, we go. Do ye expect to persuade Lady Joanna to accompanying ye to Paris?”
“I hope for that result.” His quartermaster did not need to know Joanna was now his lover.
Émile gave him a smug smile. “Ah…’tis as I expected. Ye’re caught as sure as a cod in a net.”
Jean shrugged, not wishing to admit the truth growing inside him. What he felt for Joanna scared him to death. “Since you are rejoining the living, mon ami, ask my garishly attired butler, Lefèvre, to send a messenger to La Rochelle. Have M’sieur Ricard recall the crew and ready the sloop.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket, a letter he had prepared for the modiste. “And see that Madame Provot gets this. Lady Joanna will need additional gowns if she’s to accompany me to Paris.”
“Oui, Capitaine.” Émile slid his feet to the floor. “It will be done as ye say.”
Jean squared his shoulders. “While you are doing that, I will see if I can convince the redhead to come with me.”
Joanna enjoyed walking in the estate’s gardens. This morning she and Zoé decided to pick wildflowers for the breakfast room. As they passed through the manicured gardens to the field of flowers beyond, Joanna shared stories of her childhood in West Sussex.
When she spoke of her sister and brothers, she could see the envy in Zoé’s eyes. Joanna wanted to tell the girl that she would be pleased to act the part of an older sister. Having been that for Tillie, it would be easy to adopt the same role for this motherless child, but how could she say that when she had no idea of her permanence in Donet’s life?
Zoé ran ahead and Joanna followed with the basket as they wandered away from the château. A gentle breeze stirred the tall grass as they walked along, Zoé bringing her flowers to contribute to the basket slung over Joanna’s arm.
Joanna paused to gaze back at the château. Smaller turrets decorating the roof pointed to the sk
y, making the whole affair appear more like a castle than she had thought when she had seen only the front. She had difficulty imagining the pirate captain as lord of this grand estate. He seemed more at home on the deck of his ship. Raised the son of a comte, educated in the manner of French nobility, he could well do both. Donet was no ordinary smuggler, but then, neither was she.
“Lady Joanna, won’t you marry soon?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but then children often asked questions Joanna found startling. “Why do you ask?”
“You should have a husband and mon oncle needs a wife. We could be a family.”
She smiled down at the girl. “I am honored you would consider me, Zoé, but your uncle may not want another wife. From what I hear, he loved his first wife very much.”
“’Tis true,” she said with downcast eyes. “I once heard Papa and Grand-père arguing about her.”
“None of that matters now, Zoé. You have no need to fear being alone. Your uncle loves you and will take care of you.” She hoped he would keep the child with him, but his life didn’t seem to have room for Zoé, any more than it did for her. And then she remembered that Donet’s daughter had been educated in a convent near Paris. Did he mean to do the same with his niece?
They walked on through the long grass. Red, lavender and yellow flowers bobbed in the breeze amid the green blades. Zoé bent her head to pick more flowers.
Joanna drank up the summer sun, tilting her hat back to feel the warmth on her face. It was late June and the thought came to her that time was slipping away. She ignored it. If she had spent the summer at The Harrows, she would have missed the only man she might ever love.
“Look!” Zoé pointed toward the château. “It’s Oncle Jean.”
Joanna lifted her eyes to see Donet striding toward them with an easy grace, as smoothly as he crossed the deck of his ship. He wore no coat. In his black waistcoat and breeches, he appeared the smuggler she had first glimpsed in Bognor, except for his white shirt.
“What can he want?” He would not come looking for them unless the matter was of some importance.
