Page 28 of Echo in the Wind

“We can handle the order,” offered Émile, “but we require more time. We do not leave London immediately, and the lace will require a stop in another port. A fortnight should be sufficient.”

The agent nodded. “That is acceptable. I will advise my client.” He stood and offered his hand. Jean took it, noting the man’s firm grip.

The agent picked up his ale and walked back to the bar where he reclaimed his stool.

Jean turned to his quartermaster. “Our business here is done, mon ami. Finish your drink.”

Émile pushed his half-filled glass away and stood. “’Tis not worth finishing.”

Jean cast a glance at his own glass. “My sentiment as well.” He got to his feet and the two of them wound their way through the other tables as they headed toward the door.

Jean reached for the handle and a seaman in grease-smeared slops stepped in front of him. “Me mate was killed by one of ye Frenchies!” The man’s words were slurred.

“We have all lost mates,” said Émile in a calm but firm voice, “some of us brothers. But the war is over.”

The drunken seaman pulled a knife from his waist, not the blunted rigging knife of a sailor, but a landsman’s blade, long and thin, with a wicked point. “Not fer me, t’ain’t,” he snarled.

Jean stepped back and slid his sword from his belt. The metal glistened in the light of the fire behind him. The conversations in the tavern died away. “You may wish to reconsider, mon ami.”

Perhaps it was the edge to Jean’s voice or the intensity of his gaze, but the man backed away.

Jean sheathed his sword, turning again to the door. He sensed a movement behind him just as Émile shouted, “Capitaine!”

Jean whipped around and hit the drunken man’s wrist, sending the blade he held flying across the room to land on the flagstone floor where it skidded to a stop. Drawing his own knife, a deadly weapon from his pirate days, Jean grabbed the man by his coat and held the blade to his throat.

His frown and narrowed eyes had the sailor trembling. “Only a coward attacks a man’s back,” Jean hissed, his voice dripping disdain. He slipped his knife into his belt, then drew his fist back and slammed it into the man’s jaw.

The seaman dropped to the floor.

Beside him, Émile looked glumly at his pistol. “Ye took all the joy out of it, Capitaine. I had no chance to fire my pistol.”

Jean chuckled and laid his arm over Émile’s shoulder as they walked through the open door. “There will be other opportunities, mon ami, I am certain.”

Chapter 9

Joanna considered the Pantheon one of the most elegant assembly rooms in London with its great domed ceiling. The large room beneath the dome was sixty feet on each side. She had once attended a masquerade there and enjoyed herself immensely. To see it adorned for the concert in commemoration of the composer, George Frideric Handel, would be a once-in-a-lifetime event.

She regretted that Freddie was not in London to attend with her. Already there was much talk of the earlier concert held at Westminster Abbey where hundreds had vied for too few seats. And because this would be the first concert held in the Pantheon, the royal family would attend.

She had just decided upon her gown when Tillie, looking quite frantic, appeared at her bedchamber door. “What should I wear?”

Remembering her own first Season, Joanna gave her sister a look of sympathy. “Since Cornelia is having a soiree after the concert, I rather think a gown that will serve both purposes would be best.” She thought for a moment, mentally sorting through Tillie’s gowns purchased for the Season. “The satin gown that is the color of butter with the Verona green ribbon crisscrossing the bodice and lace at the elbows would suit the occasion. ’Tis truly the most eye-catching of all your new gowns. The evening will be warm, so you will not need a cloak.”

“Oh, yes! The yellow gown is perfect.”

“And a welcome change from pink,” muttered Joanna.

Tillie flounced farther into Joanna’s room, one hand on her hip. “You cannot fault me for preferring one color above another. Your friend, Cornelia, almost always wears peach. You told me so yourself. And she looks marvelous in it.”

“She does. But still, for you, I think the yellow satin will do nicely.”

Mollified for the moment, Tillie asked, “And what will you wear, Jo?”

Joanna was tempted to say her new breeches in which she delighted, but Tillie had no idea of her unladylike pursuits and would not find the prospect amusing. Instead, Joanna had chosen a gown that looked like it had been crafted in Paris.

“I thought I might wear the robe à l’Anglaise.” At Tillie’s puzzled look, Joanna said, “The striped one with the ivory satin petticoat.” She gestured to the gown lying on her bed. “When the modiste first suggested it, I thought it most unusual.”

Tillie walked to the bed and touched the silk gown, shining in the candlelight. “Isn’t this the one the modiste modeled after a fashion doll from Paris?”