Page 22 of Echo in the Wind

Over the marble fireplace, two gold sconces flanked a large portrait of an older man wearing court attire and a white wig. Cornelia had explained on the occasion of Joanna’s first visit that the portrait was of Lord Danvers’ father.

Tillie’s gaze paused on the ornate crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. “What a lovely room.”

Joanna agreed. “Yes, and so very much like Cornelia.”

In one corner of the large room, a hooded basket set on a stand and lined with white linens had been prepared for the child. Though, at the moment, the babe was being passed from his mother’s arms to his grandfather’s.

Joanna accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and listened with one ear to Tillie’s chatter. “I cannot wait to marry and have a child of my own.”

Joanna nodded but her eyes were fixed on the comte’s dark head bent to kiss the forehead of his namesake. The tender look on his face stole her breath. The smile he gave little Jean Nicholas was dazzling, rendering him an entirely different man. But then, she reminded herself, Donet is a charmer.

“Jo!” came Tillie’s sharp rebuke. “You aren’t listening, are you?”

“I’m sorry, Tillie.” She turned back to her sister, vaguely recalling what Tillie had said. “It was, indeed, a beautiful ceremony, as I’m sure will be the ones for your children when you have them. But there is no need to rush. You should enjoy your Season.”

While Joanna loved to dance, the small talk and rituals of the ton often left her eager to return to The Harrows. After three Seasons, she’d refused another. Thankfully, Wills, who was then the Earl of Torrington, had not made an issue of it.

Satisfied she now had Joanna’s attention, Tillie said, “I put our gift with the others on the side table.” The table, set against one wall, was already laden with gifts, including, Joanna noted, the comte’s extravagant clock. Beside it was a lovely silver cup and what looked like a brass spyglass.

Sometimes, only the godparents gave gifts to the christened child. But it seemed many of the guests invited by the Danvers were happy to bestow presents on the babe, for quite an array had accumulated.

Next to the side table on the floor Joanna spotted a beautiful oak cradle carved with flowers and set upon rockers. A large peach-colored bow graced its hood. “That must be the gift from the Danvers.”

Tillie nodded. “A beautiful cradle. Any mother would love to have one.”

Seeing the comte move away from the Powells, Joanna set her empty glass on a footman’s passing tray. “Come, Tillie. Let us pay our respects to the babe’s parents.”

Simon Powell had retrieved his young son, now falling asleep in his father’s arms. Claire, his young wife, gave her husband an adoring look.

“Mr. and Mrs. Powell,” Joanna began, “my sister and I are honored to be among the guests Cornelia invited to celebrate your son’s christening. As you may have gathered at the reception in Chichester, Cornelia has been a good friend of mine for some years.”

“We are so glad you could be with us,” Claire Powell said. “And you two must call me Claire. You know Cornelia will insist upon it.”

Joanna smiled. “Then it shall be Claire, Joanna and Tillie.”

Powell spoke up. “As long as you are in here in London, you must call upon my wife at our home in the Adelphi Terraces. I am often at sea and Claire would love your company.”

“’Tis very kind of you,” said Joanna. “I will not be here long, but my sister is staying on.”

Tillie smiled. “I would be pleased to accept your invitation as I will be here all spring and summer. I am in London for my first Season.”

Claire shared a knowing look with her husband. “I never had one, but then, I was raised in France.” Her accent was not unlike her father’s. “Do not misunderstand me,” Claire went on, “I have no regrets.” Shooting a glance at her husband, she added, “Even without a Season, I managed to marry a wonderful Englishman.”

Simon Powell kissed his wife’s cheek and handed the babe back to her. “He’s asleep, sweetheart.”

Claire excused herself to carry the baby to the hooded basket. When she’d left, Powell leaned in to say, “Actually, I abducted her from a convent near Paris and held her for ransom.”

Joanna’s eyes widened. “You didn’t! Why ever for?”

Powell gave them both a wry smile. “Her father, Monsieur Donet, had seized one of my ships, thinking to trade the crew for American prisoners being held in England at the time. ’Twas the war, you see. Still, I thought it most ungentlemanly of him, don’t you agree?” His amber eyes twinkled as he flashed them a brilliant smile.

Joanna couldn’t tell how serious he was, but if it had happened as he said and he had at one time been angry, he no longer was. “I do, but then, perhaps to abduct his daughter was a bit ungentlemanly, as well.”

He laughed, telling her he carried no grudge. “At the time, it seemed the wisest course.”

“And did you get your revenge?” Tillie asked.

“Aye, I did. And more besides, for I kept my ship, my crew and my prize.” He welcomed his wife back to his side with another kiss. “Donet’s daughter.”