by Regan Walker
“Oui,” said Donet, helping her to rise. “I met Lady Joanna at a reception for Mr. Pitt, England’s Prime Minister, who spoke well of his time in France and of his meeting you and the queen.”
Joanna recalled Wilberforce’s comment about the king. A clumsy figure in immense boots. He did not appear clumsy tonight but, for a king, his demeanor was certainly unassuming. Not that of a haughty monarch. She had heard he liked to dabble in matters of science, which might explain his great friendship with Benjamin Franklin.
With Donet’s words, the king’s face resumed a placid expression. “You must meet the queen, my lady,” Louis said to her. “I believe she is entertaining her ladies at the Petit Trianon tomorrow. I know she would want you to attend. It seems you and she have something in common.”
“I would be honored,” said Joanna, trying to fathom what she and the French queen might possibly have in common. To meet Marie Antoinette, about whom she had heard much, would be a great treat.
The man standing beside the king suddenly spoke. “I will be in attendance, my lady, and would be pleased to introduce you.”
Donet’s hand tightened over hers in a gesture she took as possessive. Joanna had been so focused on the king she had not noticed the bewigged nobleman until he spoke. Turning her attention to him, she saw he was almost as tall as the king but, unlike Louis, he was slender of form and strikingly handsome. His features were refined and his eyes brown.
“My younger brother, Charles Philippe, comte d’Artois,” said the king. “He is ever beside my queen as her chevalier.”
The comte’s smile, directed at Joanna, made her uncomfortable for it seemed to her almost predatory. Still, she would not be ungracious to the king’s brother. “Thank you, Monsieur. I would be most grateful.”
Joanna turned her attention back to the king. He asked Donet, “Have you met with my Foreign Minister?”
“I have.” Donet and the king exchanged a look that spoke of an understanding between them not voiced. Whatever had transpired between Donet and the Foreign Minister had been something of which the king was also aware. A matter of importance that concerned them both.
“Will you be here for a while, Lady Joanna?” asked d’Artois.
“My stay in France is of uncertain duration.”
“Eh bien, I shall look for you tomorrow, say about noon?”
Joanna glanced at Donet. He nodded, reluctantly she thought. With Donet’s approval, she turned to the comte d’Artois. “That would be fine.”
“Come,” said the king, walking away, “there is a magnificent repast to be enjoyed.”
She and Donet followed the king but trailed behind him and the others.
“Beware the comte d’Artois, Joanna. He may be the queen’s loyal champion, but his liaisons amoureuses outside his marriage are many. He enjoys beautiful women.”
“Such men are not unfamiliar to me, M’sieur. There are many among England’s aristocracy. ’Tis one reason I have never married.”
“So that is it,” he muttered. “I have wondered.”
“And you? Surely it is not for a woman’s infidelity that you remain unwed.”
“Non, nothing like that.”
He inclined his head, looking at her, but said nothing more. Joanna did not ask. She was quite certain she knew the reason. His dead wife still held his heart.
The next morning, Joanna dressed in her gown of vermilion silk, nervous for the meeting with the queen. On top of her auburn curls, she fixed her straw hat. Circling the hat was a wide silk ribbon. Soaring from it were plumes of white and green. Madame Provot had insisted she wear the feathers if she met with the queen. “All her ladies wear plumes.”
Émile and Zoé had left earlier in a carriage bound for the sights of Paris and the lemonade the quartermaster said they sold on the streets of Paris. She would have gone with them for they were to see Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Tuileries, but how could she turn down an invitation to meet the Queen of France?
Joanna only had time for a brief breakfast of coffee, brioche and fruit with Donet. He seemed preoccupied, saying little of his own destination, only that he’d be riding and would find her later.
She believed his business involved the deaths of his father and brother. Dangerous business, most likely. She desperately wanted to ask, but doubted it would do any good. He seemed disinclined to converse about anything, save the pleasant summer weather.
Being so close to him, as she had been the night before at Versailles and then again this morning, was difficult for her. She wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to make love with him, but she had the distinct impression he was distancing himself from her.
Since their time on his ship in Le Havre, he had left her to sleep alone. Had he suddenly developed a conscience toward her? A disinterest? Or, might it be his preoccupation with his other affairs? She was fretting over the possibilities when his disquieting gaze captured hers across the table. His dark eyes sizzled with desire. The contradiction was driving her mad.
When they were finished, he walked her to the courtyard and the waiting carriage, warning her again of the comte d’Artois. “He is not to be trusted.”
She had listened, glad that he cared enough to be concerned, though she thought his warning overdone. She was not his young niece, after all. What harm could come to her surrounded by the queen and her ladies?
He helped her into the carriage and shut the door. Reaching for her hand through the open window, he pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. A slight frown clouded his darkly handsome face. “Come back to me, ma chérie.”
He stepped back and the vehicle rolled through the archway into the street, the horses’ hooves clambering over the cobblestones as they took off across Paris.
Still wondering what he had meant by his parting comment, she gazed out the window, seeing in the daylight what she had missed the night before. In some places, waste ran down the middle of the street as it did in London, the stench rising to her open window. The carriage wheels splattered mud everywhere. She would have to remind Donet their large cities were not so dissimilar.
But she did notice one difference.
In London, everyone walked, but in Paris the carriage seemed to be the preferred means of getting around, at least for those who could afford it. The conveyances, both large and small, were everywhere, crowding the streets as they struggled to pass each other.
Once outside the city, they sped down dirt roads that meandered through dense stands of oaks. The sun filtering through the green leaves made for a beautiful canopy above them. Gratefully, she inhaled deeply of the country air, a delightful change from the smell of the city. The carriages were fewer here, as well.
The two-hour journey gave her much time to reflect on the path she had taken since leaving England. She had chosen to become the mistress of the man she loved, hoping for more, but he had not spoken of a future together. She feared broaching the subject because it would dig up the ghosts of his past and touch his hidden scars.
He had come to Paris to see the king, but she was certain he had other business to attend to. The matter of what happened in Saintonge remained to be solved. And after that, what would he do?
This morning, he had asked her to come back to him as if he thought she might not. What could he mean?
Her position as his mistress was not a comfortable one but, thus far, it had not caused her to be shunned in Polite Society. In England, however, the downfall of an earl’s sister would be on every tongue. There were no secrets in le bon ton. She would not be able to move among the ton as before and Richard would never forgive her. Too, it might ruin Tillie’s chances for a good match.
A sigh escaped her lips as she remembered he had made it her choice. She had let go of the life she once had to embrace another. Now she must wait to see what that new life held for her.
Jean had an idea of the identity of the man who had been horrified by his appearance at Versailles. Among Necker’s friends were a few unsavory characters
that might hire brigands to carry out vengeance. A sword and pistol would be their usual methods. Arranging a carriage accident was a subtler weapon, though no less effective than a knife slitting a throat, the body left in a dark alley.
The man he intended to call upon could help him.
He ducked into a narrow street not far from the Seine and knocked on the first door.
A dark head of curls framed the ruddy face of the brawny man that appeared. “Ah ça alors, it is the capitaine!”
“Bonjour, Gaspar. May I come in?”
“Oui, of course. Come, come!” Jean’s former carpenter led the way into his apartments. “My wife is shopping with the children so we have the place to ourselves. I was just about to have some déjeuner. Would you join me?”
“Coffee only.”
Gaspar said a few words to the gaping servant girl who disappeared into the kitchen. He walked to a room facing a small inner courtyard. The bricked yard contained pots of various sizes overflowing with plants. All the pots were set on neat wooden benches and shelves.
Gaspar offered Jean a seat on one of the well-crafted chairs at the polished table.
“I see your woodworking skills are as fine as ever,” noted Jean.
Gaspar gestured to the courtyard. “My wife likes to grow things and I must accommodate her with places to put the pots.”
“Is the new business keeping you in coin?”
Gaspar smiled. “I have not lacked for livres since turning my skills to the Paris trade. But you have not come for a new chair or a cabinet, n’est-ce pas?”
“Non. I come for information. My father and my brother were murdered in Saintonge in an arranged carriage accident.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Capitaine. What bastard did it? What information do you seek so that we might end his days?”
“What I say next must remain between us.”
“Bien entendu,” Gaspar graciously agreed.
The excitement in Gaspar’s eyes bespoke his longing for their days as privateers. But Jean would not ask his friend to partake in the vengeance he had in mind. “I don’t know who did it, but perhaps you can help me find out. I understand my brother Henri had been working for our old friend the comte de Vergennes, gathering evidence against Jacques Necker.”
“Ah. A very powerful enemy, that one. Mon Dieu, until a few years ago, Necker controlled all the wealth of France.”
“He did, but he made enemies of the king and queen with lies about the state of France’s finances he fed to the people. That is why Calonne is now Finance Minister. Vergennes believes Henri was murdered—and my father along with him—for his work against Necker. I need to know who is behind the killings, be he noble or peasant.”
Gaspar nodded. “That can be learned. Such things are never held secret for long.”
“One would have to know something about a carriage axle to have cut the wood in just the right place, but such talent can be bought.” Jean leaned forward. “The arranged accident is not all, mon ami. While I was in Saintonge, brigands attacked the carriage in which my niece, a lady friend and Bequel were riding. Bequel was wounded.”
“Sacrebleu!” Gaspar ran his hand through his head of curls. “Why would they want your niece or a lady of yours?”
“Leverage, I suspect. Vergennes believes Necker’s friends might not know that my brother succumbed to his injuries. They may believe I am Henri recovered. Do you still have your network in Paris we made use of in the past?”
“Certainement. It has not been so long as that. I will do what I can and send word the moment I learn anything. Are you at your townhouse?”
“Oui. Bequel is with me along with my niece and my lady friend. Come by if you’ve a mind to do so. Émile has recovered and would like to see you.”
“It would be good to see my old friend.” Gaspar smiled, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “And if the capitaine has taken a lady, I would very much like to meet her.”
The servant girl returned with a tray of eggs, ham and brioche. Another servant brought them coffee. The fragrance of the dark brew wafted through the room. Jean watched as the servant poured it into cups.
Gaspar waited until the servants departed. “Now, about that coffee.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. A liveried servant opened the door and helped Joanna to the ground. She noticed immediately he did not wear the king’s livery of the night before. Instead of a dark blue coat with red and white braid, this one wore the reverse in colors: red wool with blue and white braid.
“Welcome to the Petit Trianon, Mademoiselle. The queen is expecting you. For your visit, she and her guests are having a picnic in the Jardin anglais.”
The English garden? “How very thoughtful.”
“This way, s’il vous plaît,” he said, gesturing her forward.
She followed him down a stone path that wound its way through shaded gardens. Birds tweeted in the surrounding trees. Eventually, they came to a large expanse of lawn surrounded by hedges intermingled with irises and rose bushes. At one end sat a group of ladies and a few gentlemen. She could hear their laughter.
One of the gentlemen stood, a tall man, bewigged and dressed in blue and silver, a plumed tricorne hat above his finery. Gazing her way, he smiled broadly, then set off across the lawn toward her.
Arriving in front of her, the comte d’Artois bowed. “Mademoiselle, I am delighted.” He offered his arm and she laid her gloved hand on the sleeve of his elaborately embroidered silk coat.
“You are as beautiful as I remember. Most delectable.”
His hungry gaze had the look of a man eyeing his dinner. “Thank you, Monsieur.”
He guided her to the ladies and, when he reached the one sitting in the center of a semi-circle of chairs, bowed. “Madame, may I introduce to you Lady Joanna West, recently arrived from England.”
Joanna subsided into a deep curtsy. “Votre Majesté.”
“Welcome to Versailles, Lady Joanna,” said the queen in a light, lilting voice. “My husband spoke of meeting you. He told me you are a guest of that handsome devil Jean Donet, now the comte de Saintonge.”
Rising, Joanna thought she might as well own up to it now. “I am.” A glint of interest appeared in Marie Antoinette’s blue eyes and a subtle smile crossed her face. Joanna did not doubt the conclusion the French queen had drawn.
Marie Antoinette was, indeed, a beauty. Her perfect face was appropriately pale, her cheeks and lips slightly rouged and her hair powdered white and piled high with several plumes in her straw hat. In her pale blue silk gown, she reminded Joanna of a confection on an elaborate marchpane dessert.
“Won’t you join us?” invited the queen. “We are having a small repast, and my ladies and gentlemen drink champagne from the vineyards east of Paris.”
The queen beckoned Joanna to sit in the empty chair next to her. The comte d’Artois waved away another man to take the seat next to Joanna.
D’Artois hailed a waiting servant holding a tray of champagne, who hurried toward them. The comte lifted two glasses from the tray and handed one to Joanna. Raising his glass in toast, he said, “Voltaire claims ‘this fresh wine sparkling foam is the living image of us French.’”
The queen laughed. “Charles, you would quote Voltaire?”
“Only when it suits, Madame.”
“Rascal!” the queen said, but Joanna could see by her manner, Marie Antoinette and d’Artois were friends.
Joanna took a sip of her drink. It was very good champagne. “Did you know that Voltaire lived in England for a time?”
“I did,” said the comte, “and he admired many things about your government.”
“True,” she admitted, “but he also returned to Paris.”
“As any good Frenchman would,” said d’Artois. Then leaning in close, he whispered, “Repartee with you, my lady, stirs my blood.”
Joanna’s cheeks heated. She had no desire to stir the blood of the king’s handsome brother. So instead, she exchanged pleasantrie
s with the queen and drank more champagne.
When a footman in red livery passed around a silver tray of canapés, Joanna looked over the small pieces of bread holding tidbits of various foods and took a small onion omelette atop a round bit of toast.
“The tiny omelettes are très bonnes,” quipped d’Artois, taking one from the tray and popping it into his mouth. He downed his champagne and asked for another. It was immediately supplied.
Joanna ate her canapé at a more leisurely pace, watching the queen and her guests. Most of them were ladies who, like their queen, wore elaborate gowns and powdered hair under their plumed hats.
Only one other woman wore her hair unpowdered and Joanna was anxious to meet her.
The queen ate sparingly and drank not at all. To Joanna, she said, “We have been discussing Beaumarchais’ play, Le Mariage de Figaro. The king initially opposed a public appearance in Paris and for good reason.” When Joanna looked at her with raised brows, the queen added, “The play is a comedy that subjects the nobility to ridicule.”
“But it is highly amusing,” put in the comte.
“Yes, and we enjoyed it.” Then to Joanna, the queen said, “After it became very popular at Court, I thought it should be shown in Paris. Louis allowed it to go forward and the first performance at the end of April in the théâtre de l’Odéon was a grand success. But now I wonder if my request was wise.”
D’Artois filled Joanna’s glass from a bottle he had sitting on the grass by his feet and looked toward the queen. “Louis can deny Madame nothing.”
The queen’s only answer was a frown that marred her beautiful face as if still concerned she had wrongly argued for the play to be shown to public audiences.
“A speech in the fifth act particularly troubled the king,” said d’Artois. “I memorized it. Would you like to hear me recite from it, Lady Joanna?”
“Only if Her Majesty is comfortable with that.”
“Oh, do tell her, Charles. By now it is all over Paris.”
The comte began to recite. “Nobility, fortune, rank, position! How proud they make a man feel! What have you done to deserve such advantages? Put yourself to the trouble of being born—nothing more.”
