To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (13 page)

Claire stepped down from the carriage, glancing at the
captain and then to the grand home before her. She had seen
châteaux
in France that were more impressive than this London house but this one
was still imposing. A gray, stone structure, it rose three stories into the air
with eight tall, Doric pillars gracing the front.

The captain’s touch as he helped her from the carriage had
been warm, even through her gloves, but all too brief. Much to her dismay, the
attraction she felt for him had grown. Today he had shed the costume of a sea
captain and donned the attire of a gentleman, handsome in his nut-brown coat
over a saffron silk waistcoat and white shirt with an artfully tied cravat.
Brown doeskin breeches clung to his muscular thighs.

She sighed realizing the longer she stayed with him the more
difficult it would be to see herself as one of the Ursuline sisters. Even now,
she had little desire to return to the simple clothing of the convent. Her
times of prayer had grown less frequent, too, as the days passed and the
rituals of her former days were cast aside. Most troubling were her recent
fantasies of Simon Powell that lay in an entirely different direction than
Saint-Denis. She let out a resigned sigh, realizing she would have to add those
sinful thoughts to the list of sins for which she must eventually do penance.

The captain accepted a large package the coachman handed
down to him, tucked it under one arm, and escorted her toward the footman
holding open the front door. The white marble entry hall was two stories high.
A butler standing to one side accepted the captain’s tricorne.

“Higgins,” Captain Powell addressed the butler, “how orderly
the world seems when you are in it.”

The drab, diminutive butler in gray breeches and morning
coat, who managed to seem old though he couldn’t be more than thirty, did not
alter his morose expression when he saw the captain’s smile. “Thank you,
Captain Powell.”

Claire was surprised by the exchange. It was not the French
way for a servant to be so indifferent to his master’s guest, particularly one
paying a compliment, but Claire supposed such coolness was very English.

The captain handed the butler the package he had carried in
from the carriage. “Will you give this to Lady Danvers at some opportune time?”

“Of course. Her ladyship is awaiting you and Mademoiselle
Donet in the parlor.”

They entered a large, elegant room with cream-colored walls
decorated in raised relief where it joined the ceiling. A sand-colored carpet
with floral designs in rose and dark blue covered nearly the entire floor. Rose
silk curtains with gold embroidery framed the tall windows that cast light onto
the white brocade sofa and armchairs facing the fireplace.

Over the white marble mantel of the fireplace hung a large
portrait of an older man. Judging by what he was wearing and his white powdered
wig, Claire thought it must have been painted sometime in the past. An ornate
crystal chandelier was suspended from the center of the ceiling.

For all its opulence, the most elegant thing in the room to
Claire’s mind was the woman who stood in the midst of it.

“Lady Danvers, may I present to you Mademoiselle Claire
Donet, granddaughter of the comte de Saintonge?”

Claire curtsied before the young baroness whose face bore a
winsome smile. She was a vision in soft blue silk, the bodice of her gown
covered in lace with peach bows at her elbows, complementing her auburn hair
and unusual russet-colored eyes.

“Lady Danvers,” the captain said when Claire rose. “May I
introduce Mademoiselle Claire Donet, granddaughter of the comte de Saintonge.”
Claire noted his impeccable manners and not for the first time thought there
was more to him than a sea captain.

Lady Danvers smiled. “I am delighted to meet you and have
been looking forward to having you as my guest since I received Simon’s note.”

“Mademoiselle Donet,” he turned to Claire, “allow me to
present my good friend, Cornelia, Lady Danvers.”

Looking askance at Captain Powell, the baroness said,
“Simon, whatever have you been telling her? Does she think me given to
formalities observed by the
ton
? You know better.” Then facing Claire,
“We shall have no formality between us, no curtsies, no ‘Lady Danvers’. I’m
Simon’s age so only a half dozen years older than you, Claire. We shall become
the best of friends, beginning now. You may call me Cornelia.”

Claire immediately liked the American whose accent and
manner were not at all English. “You honor me.”

“Not at all. It is my preference,” the baroness said with a
saucy wink.

“I am so happy to meet an American here in London,” said
Claire. “Though you are farther from home than I, unlike me, I understand you
chose to be here.” She shot a glance at the captain.

He rolled his eyes.

“It is true,” said the baroness with a warm smile, “we may
be different in that respect. Simon explained a little of the situation in his
letter to me, but I cannot wait to hear the story from you. Men tell tales so
differently than us women. But that can wait. It is late, so first, we shall
have tea. Then I will show you to your rooms.”

As if summoned, the butler, Higgins, stepped into the room
accompanied by a maid carrying a silver tray laden with tea and a plate of
small, triangular-shaped sandwiches and fruit tarts. Claire was suddenly
famished.

Accepting the tea Cornelia poured for him, Simon sat back,
remembering the dinners in his cabin with his captive. From the way she spoke,
the way she held her teacup, even the way she exchanged pleasantries with the
baroness, it was apparent the young mademoiselle was raised to one day take her
place in the upper ranks of society. French society, he reminded himself. Her
father might choose to hide his noble heritage, but it was here for all the
world to see in his daughter.

Lord and Lady Danvers knew of Simon’s parentage, of course.
All the peerage knew of the Earl of Montmorency’s bastard. The nobility had few
secrets, at least amongst themselves.

Perhaps because the baron and his wife were nearly his age,
and he worked with Danvers, he was accepted into their circle. To the
ton
,
he had been a nonentity. A bastard did not ask to be acknowledged. Only in
recent years, when he had become a successful privateer, an agent of the Crown
and a friend of Lord and Lady Danvers, did he gain even a little standing in
society. Though his dealings could be surreptitious when need be, London
Society saw him as a novelty. And the
ton
approved of novelties.

Claire and Cornelia were getting along famously, barely
noticing him. It pleased him to know the two would be friends. When tea was
concluded, the baroness rose. “Come. I’ll show you to your rooms and you can be
off, Simon. Leave Claire to me. We have much to discuss and, based upon your
letter, much to arrange. Oh, and Danvers is waiting for you in the usual place,
or so he said, as he hurried out of here a few hours ago.”

Simon was happy to accommodate the baroness. He felt pressed
to see Eden and Danvers as soon as possible.

He followed the women up the wide staircase. At the top,
Lady Danvers turned to the right. “I have put you both in the east wing. It’s
rarely used these days.”

Their rooms, Simon was surprised to discover, were across
the corridor from each other. While perhaps a bit too close to be entirely
proper, he would certainly not object.

The women hurried into what would be Claire’s bedchamber. He
was happy to leave them to their chatter. He turned to his own chamber, the
same one he’d stayed in the last time he was in London. There, he found his sea
chest sitting at the foot of the tall, four-poster bed. Higgins, efficient as
always, had no doubt seen to it.

He fingered the messages in his coat pocket, anxious to see
them delivered.

Simon sat back in the carriage, vaguely aware of the sound of
the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, as he thought about the meeting looming
ahead.

He had carried many messages to Eden over the last few
years, all gathered by prearrangement from the same grove of trees in Paris. He
didn’t bother reading the ones he carried in his pocket. They would tell him
little. Some of the missives he’d transported to London had been blank pages,
at least until the heat from a flame was applied, and then words magically
appeared. But there had been others, like the ones he carried today, innocuous
bits of correspondence from one Edward Edward to a Mr. Richards, detailing the
author’s exploits with a certain member of the female sex. Simon knew they were
more, much more. When Eden applied a chemical he kept behind his desk, lines of
text describing French activities in Paris and shipments of war supplies
destined for America would suddenly appear between the lines of the original
letter.

The Scribe was nothing if not careful.

In a part of Whitehall that gave no hint of its purpose,
Simon was shown into an office where Lord Danvers and William Eden rose from
their chairs to greet him. Danvers, ever the properly attired nobleman, wore a
coat and waistcoat of blue-gray silk over black breeches. The baron’s light
brown hair was confined to a queue. Eden, as was his want, was more subtly
attired, each article of clothing a different shade of brown. The three men
were all of an age and enjoyed each other’s company though they came from
vastly different walks of life.

“Ah, Powell, at last you have come,” said the baron
extending his hand. And then with a smirk, “You are weeks late.”

“I had a bit of a trouble or I would have been here a
fortnight ago.” Simon reached out and shook the baron’s hand, then Eden’s.

“Something we should be concerned about?” asked Eden as he
poured brandy from a decanter into three glasses.

Simon decided to give them at least part of the story.
Danvers would soon know the truth of it in any event. He took a sip from the
glass offered him. “The French privateer, Jean Donet—you will recall the
nuisance he’s become to our shipping—seized the
Abundance
off Dover
along with a large number of her crew.” At their raised brows, he said, “I
believe it may have something to do with Dr. Franklin’s campaign to gain
British seamen to barter for American prisoners. According to the cabin boy who
escaped, Donet was careful not to kill any of my men.” Simon did not mention
Wingate’s wound, hoping his prayers had been answered and his friend had
recovered.

Handing a glass of brandy to Danvers, Eden shrugged. “The
American commissioner is behind several recent captures of our vessels. It
seems he gives letters of marque to any ship’s captain he can enlist in his
cause. I have no doubt Donet is one of them. ’Twill do Franklin no good. We’ve
no interest in releasing the prisoners until an agreement’s been reached ending
the war.”

“I cannot wait that long for my ship and her crew,” said
Simon. “To encourage Donet to return what is mine, I took his daughter as
hostage.”

“You did
what
?” asked Eden, incredulous.

“I kidnapped his daughter,” said Simon coolly.

“I did not know the Frenchman had a daughter,” said Danvers,
looking puzzled.

“Nor did I,” said Eden. As head of their spy network in
Europe, Simon supposed there was little he did not know and must find this new
information frustrating.

“He does, as it turns out,” said Simon.

“You have Donet’s daughter here in London?” Danvers asked.

“As a matter of fact, at this very moment,” Simon replied,
“I believe she is planning a shopping trip to Oxford Street with your wife.”

Danvers choked on his brandy spewing a spray of the amber
liquid across the room.

Simon slapped him on the back. “Are you all right, old man?”

The baron waved Simon off, nodding as he took a handkerchief
from his coat and wiped his mouth. “Good Lord, that’s all Cornelia needs to
inspire her cause for the American prisoners—a French girl whose father is
privateering for the rebels.”

“You are bold, Powell,” remarked Eden. “Donet will have your
head for this. With all your trips into Paris on the Crown’s sensitive
business, do you really think it was wise to put the tiger on your tail?”

“I thought it would be easier to sneak into a convent than
it would be to venture into the pirate’s den in Lorient. And I needed something
to bargain with.”

“A convent you say?” Eden’s brows rose.

“That is where my intelligence told me I would find her. And
the report was correct. She is a student at the Ursuline Convent in
Saint-Denis. Or rather, she was.”

Eden took a drink from his brandy. “A vulnerability the
Frenchman had not considered, I would venture to say.” The British statesman
seemed to ponder this while staring at the glass he turned in his hand. “I
wonder if we can use her to gain information we would not otherwise have,
perhaps to gain even the pirate himself.”

“No.” The word came out more forcibly than Simon intended.
He would not see Claire used by the government. It was bad enough he was using
her for his own purposes. She was
his
captive and he’d not give her up
to another.

“Very well. For the moment, you may keep your hostage. But
know that her status could change at any time, depending on how things go in
Paris. Donet has been a thorn in my side for far too long.”

Simon set his teeth in firm resolve. Eden would not have his
way in this.

“We received the messages you sent from Rye. Do you have
more?” Danvers asked.

“Aye.” Simon handed the missives to Eden. “When I was in
Paris, there was much talk of peace and word of our representatives sent to
bargain with the French. Perhaps these will prove useful in your negotiations.”

Eden laid the three notes next to each other on his desk and
to each he applied several drops of the chemical he kept in the small bottle
retrieved from a shelf. Bringing the first message close to his face, he put on
his spectacles and studied the page.

“Another shipment of Charleville muskets.” His gaze locked
on Simon. “If I did not need you in London for the next few days, I’d send you
after those, but I suppose one of our cutters can do the job.”

It would not be the first shipment of guns Simon had
retrieved for the Crown, but at the moment he did not wish to be engaged in
another battle while Claire was on board, and he would not leave her behind.

The second note brought a frown to Eden’s face. “Damnation.
That Frenchman Donet has taken over twenty of our ships in the last year. I had
not thought him responsible for so many. I would dearly love to see the corsair
dead. The man is indeed a nuisance.”

“Aye, and slippery,” added Simon. “No matter your efforts to
bottle up the French fleet in port, Donet knows the Channel like the back of
his hand and uses fog and bad weather to his advantage.”

Eden handed the note to Danvers and then picked up the
third. “Ah, this one is different. As you suggested, Simon, we have something
here that may help in our negotiations. It suggests that Franklin is willing to
talk terms in the absence of the French minister.”

“That is good news,” said the baron. “I was beginning to
think Franklin and Vergennes were joined at the hip.”

Eden suddenly stopped reading and looked up, smiling. “Why,
this is a treasure map! The Scribe has done well.” At their raised brows, he
continued, “It’s America’s wish list of terms: In addition to independence,
which we will concede, they want fishing rights off Newfoundland, acceptable
boundaries for America, compensation for damages, all of Canada and an
acknowledgement of Britain’s war guilt.”

“
All
of Canada?” sputtered Danvers.

Without responding, Eden handed the baron the note. “We must
ask Lord Shelburne to insist America remain independent of France. He can add
that to his goal to secure compensation for Loyalists.”

Simon muffled a cough. He thought it unlikely the Americans
would grant Britain the latter, but he was also aware that Shelburne, now the
Crown’s chief minister, would want to appease the Loyalists for his political
survival.

“As soon as your work in London is done, Powell,” said Eden.
“I’ll need you to return to Paris with messages for the Scribe. You will have
them post haste.”

The maid brushed Claire’s blue gown free of dust, placed it
in the gilded armoire in the bedchamber that had been assigned to her, and then
retreated from the room. Claire cast a glance about the room. “This is a lovely
bedchamber,” she said to her new friend. The pale peach curtains and
counterpane on the four-poster bed were echoed in the flowers in the rug on the
floor. She thought it might be French.

“You can see I like this color,” said Cornelia. “’Tis
shameless, I suppose, to use so much of a color that complements my own auburn
hair, but there you have it.”

Claire laughed. “I think it’s lovely.”

Cornelia looked about the room. “Do you have no chest?” At
Claire’s shake of her head, the baroness added, “Is that all you have by way of
clothing?”

“That and what I am wearing.” At Cornelia’s look of
surprise, Claire said, “In Saint-Denis, I have a chest full of gowns, but when
one is taken from one’s bed in the middle of the night, gagged and trussed up
like a goose, there is little time to pack.”

“He did not!” exclaimed Cornelia.

“He did. And it was quite frightening, I can assure you.”
Before she had known her captor was the golden one, she had been terrified. “I
could see nothing.”

“That scoundrel. If I did not like Simon Powell as much as I
do, I’d be truly annoyed. But seeing as you are unharmed and noting the way he
looked at you as we drank our tea—as if you were a delicate pastry he might
consume—I think he must be treating you well, no?”

“Oh, yes,” Claire admitted. “He’s been most attentive to my
needs.” She did not mention his kisses, the guard who continuously followed her
or the captain’s many amusements at her expense.
Delicate pastry
indeed.

“Despite his obvious interest, I do believe he will act the
gentleman,” said the baroness. “But returning you to your father will have to
be carefully done so your reputation in Paris is preserved.”

“The nuns will say nothing.” Of that she was certain. But,
knowing the truth, would they allow her to return to the convent? Would the
Reverend Mother want her back? After all, it had been she who had tried to
persuade Claire against taking vows. And then there was her shameless response
to the captain’s kisses. Ursuline nuns took a vow of chastity. While she was
still pure in one sense, her thoughts of the captain were not so chaste. It had
been weeks since she’d made her last confession, though she had admitted her
sinful thoughts to God while confiding to Him her concern for her future.

“Perhaps because he took you from the convent, the usual
rumors will not abound.”

“That was my hope,” she said.

“But then you’ve been on his ship… ”

Claire looked out the window and said nothing. She well knew
the implications if the truth became known in Paris. She’d be ruined.

“Did you know that your father had seized Simon’s ship?”

Claire averted her gaze. “I knew nothing of my papa’s
involvement in the war. I thought him only a man of business, a man of
letters.”

“Men are rarely of only one mind, Claire, especially in
times of war. Even Danvers dabbles in the dreadful business in addition to his
affairs in the Lords.”

When Claire sighed, the baroness took her hand and smiled.
“Tomorrow we will venture out for a bit of shopping. Oxford Street can be quite
diverting. We shall have great fun ordering you some new gowns and other things
you will need to go with them. Simon has been quite generous.”

A sudden pang of conscience made Claire pause. “Do you think
it wrong of me to accept his… his provision of clothing?” Claire had never
taken money from any man save her papa and she felt badly doing so now, knowing
it wasn’t proper. “I have the gowns he has already given me. Those I accepted
for I had no others. But surely I need no more for the short time I will be here.
Papa would not approve.”

“Certainly you will accept what Simon has offered. It was he
who put you in this untenable position and he can well afford to see you are
not embarrassed by a lack of proper clothing for a woman befitting your
station. In England, Claire, you are considered the granddaughter of an earl.”

Claire had never thought of herself in such terms, perhaps
because her papa never mentioned his own father or the family title. She knew
his strained relationship with the comte was caused by her parents’ marriage.
When, as a small girl, she had asked her mother about her grandpapa, she was
told that her papa’s love would make up for the grandfather she would never
know. Thinking of it now, she recalled her mother had been sad that day.