Page 94 of Echo in the Wind

“Oui, certainement.”

Jean escorted Joanna and his niece into the salon, the room where he entertained dignitaries as well as friends. Gabrielle went with Flèche.

Unusual for his taste, Jean had retained the existing décor, mostly shades of red, including the ceiling, the curtains and a red Aubusson carpet with ivory flowers. The walls were paneled in bird’s-eye maple inlaid with cream-colored marble. Gilded red velvet chairs and a pale salmon-colored sofa formed the main pieces of furniture clustered around the fireplace. An ebony desk, set against the back of the sofa, had been a favorite acquisition of his and a useful place to write letters.

As tea was served, Jean watched Joanna. She appeared exhausted from the long carriage ride. Even his niece was flagging.

Once she finished her tea, Joanna expressed a desire to retire to her bedchamber. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” He considered escorting her there, but thought better of it. Determined not to take her to his bed again until he had sorted out what to do with her, he would not allow himself to be tempted beyond his ability to resist.

Zoé trailed behind Joanna, following the footman up the stairs.

Émile took the seat across from Jean on the sofa. “Are ye off to Versailles, then?”

“I wasn’t planning to call upon the king until tomorrow.”

Flèche stepped into the salon and handed Jean a sealed missive on a silver tray. “The comte de Vergennes’ man brought this yesterday.”

Jean recognized the familiar seal of the Foreign Minister, Louis XVI’s own choice for the post. Vergennes and Benjamin Franklin had been Jean’s partners in his privateering during the American War.

He tore open the letter. M. le comte, see me before you go to Versailles.

“It seems Vergennes requires my presence. Do you wish to come or would you stay and tend your shoulder?”

Émile gently rolled his wounded shoulder, wincing only slightly, and got to his feet. “I have been sitting long enough. ’Sides, I’d like to hear what the Foreign Minister has to say.”

They set off on horseback toward Passy, just west of Paris, and pulled rein in front of a gray stone château where Vergennes kept apartments when not at Versailles. It was here Jean and Émile had met with the Foreign Minister many times during the war to discuss the ships Jean had seized.

In the antechamber, one of the minions who worked for Vergennes approached. “The minister will see you now.”

Vergennes had not changed. Now in his sixth decade, surprisingly, his face bore few wrinkles. He looked more the country gentleman, retired to hunting and books, save for his blue eyes that sparkled with the energy of one consumed by the intrigues of state. Always bewigged, his temples were graced with silver curls. Ever loyal to the king, Vergennes backed those causes that diminished England’s power and made France more secure.

“Monsieur,” said Jean, “I came as soon as I got your message. As you see, M’sieur Bequel is with me.”

“Come, mes amis,” said Vergennes, gesturing them to two sofas on either side of a small table. The minister sat on one and Jean and Émile on the other. The minion who’d escorted them inside walked to Vergennes, who turned to Jean and Émile. “Something to drink?”

“Brandy, s’il vous plaît,” said Jean.

Émile nodded his agreement.

“Brandy pour trois,” Vergennes instructed the footman.

Once the servant had gone, the minister turned to Jean. “I must convey my sympathy on the deaths of your father and brother. I know the king has summoned you, but I wanted to see you first. There are things you need to know and, right now, I need you in your elevated status.”

“Before you begin,” Jean said, “I assume you know of the carriage incident.”

“Oui. A great tragedy.”

Jean trusted Vergennes to hold the truth close. “I doubt you are aware their deaths were not an accident.”

A furrow developed between Vergennes’ brows.

“When I arrived at Saintonge, I discovered the carriage had been tampered with, the axle partly severed. And later, my estate manager told me he had found the driver’s body behind a building with his throat cut.”

The conversation abruptly ceased as the footman entered and set a decanter of brandy and three glasses on the small table. When he left, the minister said, “I had no idea. Still, I am not altogether surprised.”

Jean looked at Vergennes, perplexed. “Why are you unsurprised? I can think of no one, save his tenants, who might want my father dead and even they might not be so bold as to kill him.”