Page 99 of Echo in the Wind

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?”