Page 23 of Echo in the Wind

Claire appeared amused. She must have heard her husband’s last remark.

“’Twas generous of you to name your first son after the man who stole your ship,” said Tillie.

Powell wrapped his arm possessively around his wife’s shoulder. “A promise I willingly made to secure his blessing for our marriage.”

“How romantic!” Tillie sighed.

Joanna smiled at her sister’s soft heart. “We had best pay our respects to Cornelia and Lord Danvers.”

“Do not be long,” said Claire. “You will not want to miss breakfast. Cornelia has planned a feast to rival the one she served for our wedding.”

On their way to greet Cornelia and her husband, Tillie walked straight into the path of the comte de Saintonge.

“Oh!” Tillie drew up short and placed her hand over her heart. “Forgive me.”

“But of course, Mademoiselle. Good day to you both.” The French comte gave Tillie a smile that Joanna feared was designed to lure her sister. Tillie responded with a giggle and a blush.

The comte was not alone. Beside him, his companion stifled a laugh. The stocky fellow appeared to be about the same age as Donet, but a bit shorter and with a less refined appearance even though he dressed in finery fit for the occasion. Here, too, was yet another man who spent his days in the sun.

Inclining his head in a gracious manner, he introduced himself. “M’sieur Bequel at yer service, Mam’zelles.”

Joanna looked up at the comte. For a moment, she was lost in his inscrutable midnight eyes. Gathering her wits, she said, “This must be a memorable day for you, Monsieur.”

He returned her an impenetrable look. “Oui, certainement.”

She searched for something to say. “You can congratulate yourself on a fine grandson.”

The comte acknowledged her compliment with a nod. Suddenly aware Tillie was staring at Donet with a wondrous look, Joanna took her sister by the arm, wished the men a good day and guided Tillie to where their friends were standing.

As they walked away, Joanna had the feeling she had met Monsieur Bequel on another occasion, though she could not imagine where. Before he had said a word, she knew exactly how his voice would sound.

“The older one is a beautiful woman, n’est-ce pas?” asked Émile. “Though, as I think of it, she appeared nervous around ye, Capitaine. Do ye frighten her?”

Observing no one close, Jean swept his hand over his waistcoat drawing Émile’s attention to his splendid attire. “Dressed as I am with lace spilling over my elaborately embroidered waistcoat, I doubt I would frighten any woman. Do I not appear the French gentleman in all ways? Might not the English even consider me the fop?”

Émile tilted his head back and forth, giving Jean an assessing look, as if trying to decide. “Oui, je suppose.” Drawing his heavy brows together, he said, “If a tiger can don the disguise of a kitten and be convincing. But I know ye well, Capitaine, and no matter what clothes ye wear today, I see ye all in black standing on the prow of yer ship, yer eyes full of menace, a sword and knife dangling from yer waist and pistols shoved into yer belt.”

Jean chuckled, his eyes darting to where Lady Joanna stood speaking to Lord and Lady Danvers. “In any event, mon ami, I would not frighten that woman. Her younger sister, Lady Matilda, possibly, though with all her giggles, I rather think the young one is fond of me. But her older sister is not easily fooled nor easily frightened. Au contraire, for a female, she is quite bold.”

The reception before the breakfast had afforded Jean time to study Lady Joanna’s profile against his memory of the woman he’d observed on the quay. He was certain the two were one and the same. Strangely, Émile had not recognized her as the smuggler they’d dealt with in Bognor. Perhaps her finery and extravagantly styled auburn curls overwhelmed the quartermaster with her aristocratic status even though the voice demanding to inspect their goods had not changed.

C’est aussi bien. Jean would keep the lovely sharp-tongued vixen’s secret for now.

Chapter 8

Joanna took her seat at the breakfast and looked across the table, surprised to see the French comte directly across from her. To her great relief, Tillie had been seated some distance away.

In the center of the table between Joanna and Donet stood a three-tiered dish spilling over with grapes, two pineapples and oranges. Above it, their gazes met.

He smiled and inclined his head. “Lady Joanna.”

She returned him a small smile. “Monsieur Donet.” Joanna recognized the two women sitting on either side of the comte. Both were attractive widows, older than she by several years. Perhaps Cornelia had decided to dabble in a bit of matchmaking. By the way the two women laughed and flirted with the Frenchman, they were charmed.

Why that annoyed her, she didn’t bother to wonder.

Even she had to admit Donet was devilishly handsome and his French-accented voice, seductive and melodious compared to the men around her, could not be ignored.

Forcing herself to focus on her meal, she exchanged pleasantries with the gentlemen sitting on either side of her. They introduced themselves as Jordan Landor, first mate on Simon Powell’s ship, the Fairwinds, and John Wingate, captain of the Abundance, another of Powell’s ships. Both had sun-streaked brown hair but Landor’s was curly and his eyes were green while Wingate’s hair was straight and his eyes were blue. The sea and sun tended to age a man’s face so she could not be certain how old they were. She guessed they might be in their thirties.