Page 20 of Echo in the Wind

Émile stood at the rail as Jean took the gangway in long strides.

“I see you found a good spot.”

“Un coup de chance,” offered Émile, “but I was pleased with such luck for the Pool of London is a tangle today. The ships are crammed in together like herrings in a barrel.”

Jean studied the face of his quartermaster. Émile tended to appear stern, even when he wasn’t, in part due to his swarthy skin, heavy brows and downturned mouth. But today, he seemed to be in very good spirits.

Navigating the Thames was the worst of the trip to London, but Émile was an experienced quartermaster and their second mate Lucien Ricard was adroit at the wheel. “The trip from Chichester Harbor went well?”

“We had one near call but managed to tack our way around all the croûtons in the English soup.”

Jean chuckled and scanned the deck. A few of his crew were busy coiling lines and laying out the mooring hawsers. Seeing their attention directed at him, he paused to give them a nod. “You have given the men liberty?”

“Oui, Capitaine. All but the few I would not trust to return. Those shall remain on watch with the bos’n to guard the ship.”

Jean nodded his agreement. The quay was full of thieves, yet his men, handy with a rigging knife or a belaying pin, were well able to protect the ship. Their cutthroat appearance would discourage all but the most foolhardy.

“By now ye must have seen the little one’s babe.” Émile’s dark eyes burned with curiosity. “What do ye think?”

“A handsome lad with the black hair of the Donets. Claire thinks he will have the amber eyes of his father. You will see him at the christening.”

“Bien. I had M’sieur Ricard watch the ship for a short time when we first arrived so I could go ashore and buy yer namesake a gift. When Lucien returns tonight, I will be free to attend the christening with ye tomorrow.”

“Claire will be pleased to see you. What did you find to give my godson?”

“A brass spyglass. He will no doubt find it amusing as a lad and, if he does not drop it, ’twill be useful when he grows to manhood, non?”

Jean chuckled. “It seems you and I had the same thought, mon ami. I purchased gifts that will remind him his destiny is the sea. With his father and grandfather both ship’s captains, I think we may assume Jean Nicholas will be one as well.”

“Aye, the lad has saltwater in his veins. Ye have not mentioned the reception for the Prime Minister. Did ye enjoy yerself surrounded by the English?”

“’Twas an elegant affair. I quite liked the young Mr. Pitt. He is a man of novel ideas. As for the rest, I have been so long among common seamen, even the last few years serving the French Foreign Minister have not made up for a score of years away from my beginnings.”

“Ye were a noble son long before ye were a privateer, Capitaine. Ye’ll get accustomed to them soon enough. ’Tis what ye were raised to be.”

Jean allowed himself an uncharacteristic sigh. “Peut-être, but with the title also comes a burden. Not just the château but the care of its people who tend the vineyards and my niece, a girl I have yet to meet.” He returned his friend a wearisome smile. “I fear my footloose days at sea may be limited, mon ami, at least for a while.”

“Yer new life may be a better one, Capitaine.” Émile turned to watch a crewmember. “Excusez-moi, I must see to that one before he makes the same mistake again.”

Alone for the moment and happy to be back on the deck of his ship, Jean stepped to the rail, hands clasped behind him, and looked toward the quay, his tricorne shading his eyes from the sun. He relished the familiar sounds of shrieking gulls, men joking with each other as they worked on the ships moored nearby, tavern wenches calling to customers and carriages wending their way through the milling crowd.

London had become the busiest port in the world. Each time he sailed into the Pool of London, it seemed more ships vied for space on the river. La Reine Noire had, indeed, been fortunate. Other ships tying up next to her were so close one could easily step from one deck to another.

He much preferred the harbor in Lorient.

As he watched the people crowding the quay, a couple emerged from one of the warehouses fronting on the quay. A moment later, a hackney stopped in front of them. The man held the door open for the woman and, drawing her cloak around her, she climbed inside.

Jean recognized the man by his height, his brown hair, his bear-like build and the scar on the side of his face. The English smuggler who had boarded his ship at Bognor. Perhaps the woman was the one who’d assisted him, the one who did the talking. His wife?

Jean could not see her face, but when she leaned out of the carriage window, a thick lock of red hair fell from her mobcap. He was certain that profile and hair belonged to only one woman. Of all the colors of red hair Torrington and his siblings possessed, hers was the most distinctive: auburn, threaded with thick strands that turned bright copper in the sun.

Now what was the very proper Lady Joanna West doing with a smuggler on the London quay?

Chapter 7

Joanna and her sister were escorted to a pew near the front of St Martin-in-the-Fields, the parish church where the christening would soon take place. It was her first time in this church. While she thought its exterior of Portland stone daunting with eight Corinthian columns and tall steeple, the interior was beautiful.

Quiet shuffling and subdued voices echoed about the cavernous sanctuary as other guests filed in and found their seats.