To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (26 page)

She knew which man was François de Dordogne the moment he
stepped into the room. He was the only one under thirty. In appearance, he was
slender, almost feminine. The finely tailored, black coat he wore over an
elaborately embroidered ivory satin waistcoat suggested a narrow frame beneath.
There was much lace at his neck and wrists. He was not much taller than she,
and his sable-colored hair hung to his shoulders framing features delicate
enough for a woman. Still, for all that, he had a pleasant face, his skin pale
and smooth with no hard lines suggesting cruelty or arrogance. She had to
remind herself he was a lawyer. A sigh escaped her. He was so different from
the men of the
Fairwinds
and their ruggedly handsome captain with his
skin rendered golden by the sun.

François de Dordogne looked more like a poet, or a tutor of
the violin. A man who worked inside all day with paper, quills and words, she
reminded herself. She wondered if he’d ever been on a ship.

“Claire, allow me to present M’sieur Dordogne,” her papa
said.

The young man took her outstretched hand in his slim
fingers, several of which bore rings with glittering jewels, and bowed
gracefully. “
E
nchanté
, mademoiselle. Given
our pending nuptials, you may call me François.”

He gave her a smile, but it was a cool one. There was a
decided lack of warmth in his brown eyes. And no glimmer of interest either, or
any hint of amusement. In fact, she detected no emotion at all. He seemed
almost… bored, like he was meeting a total stranger on the street, rather than
his betrothed. At least he was refined, she reflected. But even as she had the
thought, it struck her that his demeanor was more like that of a dilettante,
politesse for a mere show of manners, rather than from any sort of respect for
her as a person or desire for her as a woman. Her heart sank. She tried to
think of something comforting, something positive.
Perhaps he will not be
unkind
.

He made a few pleasantries, saying he looked forward to some
time with her. She nodded her agreement, all the while feeling guilty knowing
she could never give François de Dordogne her heart. But perhaps he would not
expect it. Arranged marriages were often merely alliances for land and wealth.

As Dordogne sauntered away, she exchanged a somber look with
her papa, and saw the disappointment in his eyes at the lack of any spark in
her first encounter with her betrothed.

The din of the conversation among the guests faded into the
background as Claire found herself longing for a moving deck, the wind off the
Channel and a schooner captain with golden hair shouting orders to his men. The
sigh that escaped her lips was involuntary, but not unnoticed.

“Claire, are you all right?”

“Yes, Papa, just tired, I think.”
And weary of the
evening before it has begun.

The dinner that followed passed in a flurry of conversation
as M’sieur Franklin expressed his hope for the negotiations for peace, which
had apparently broken off some weeks ago, and the comte de Vergennes spoke of
his concern for the outcome of the recent assault on Gibraltar by the combined
forces of France and Spain. The battle did not seem to be going well from what
Claire could determine. To her relief, the only ships the men spoke of were
warships, not those of privateers.

Her betrothed said little. She glanced about the dining room
she had glimpsed for the first time only the day before, admiring the walls
that were the rich color of burnt sienna, complementing the rug of scrolling
design in similar hues. Her papa had certainly taken pains to provide a
beautiful home in the city.

The next day, the sky threatened rain as Claire took the short
carriage ride to Saint-Denis to pay her respects and say her goodbyes.

“You can remain in the carriage if you like,” she said to
her maid when they arrived in front of the convent. “I won’t be long.”

The girl nodded, “
Oui
, mademoiselle.”

Claire stepped down from the carriage and looked up at the
gray-colored stone of the four-storied structure that had been her home for so
long. Now it seemed strangely confined to the past, no longer a part of either
her present or her future. Was it only months ago she had been here? So much
had happened it seemed like years.

The Reverend Mother and Sister Angélique met her as she
entered the office, their familiar black and white habits flowing around them,
as their faces drew up in broad smiles.

“You are well?” Sister Angélique asked enthusiastically.

“I am much like I was when you last saw me.”

“Only different, I think,” said the Mother Superior
examining Claire with her intense gaze, always seeing more than anyone else.
“You have changed, Claire.”

“Yes,” she looked down for a moment fighting tears, and then
met the Reverend Mother’s clear gaze. “I have learned you were right, but then
you had no doubts I was not meant for the Order, did you?”

“No, Claire, I had no doubts. I believe you have your own,
very special path to tread. One that God will make clear in time.”

“You know Papa means me to wed M’sieur Dordogne?”

“Yes,” said the Mother Superior, watching Claire like a
hawk, seeing too much as she always did.

Sister Angélique put her palms together and held them close
to her starched wimple, the excitement in her expression almost more than
Claire, in her sadness, could bear. “When is the wedding?”

“’Twill be in Paris a sennight from now,” Claire informed
them.

“You do not appear to be pleased with the upcoming nuptials,”
said the insightful Mother Superior. “There is another, perhaps?”

“Well, there was a man I met in England... ” Claire’s voice
trailed off. How could she explain Simon Powell and her love for him to the
sisters? Would they even understand?

“Ah,” said the wise Mother Superior. “Then I will pray once
again that God’s will be done. Never doubt, Claire, He has you in the palm of
His hand. All will be well.”

Claire fought back tears as she considered the Reverend
Mother’s words. Her broken heart left little room for hope. But she would not
ruin her time with the sisters or the students she had yet to see. “I thought
to say goodbye to my friends and those students for whom I was
dizainière
.”

“Of course,” said the Reverend Mother, leading her into the
convent, “they are anxiously waiting to see you.”

It was a sad afternoon for Claire, realizing that this was
yet another goodbye that she could not avoid. But she was glad she had come for
it had reminded her that here, at least, she had done some good.

The days after her visit to the convent passed through
Claire’s fingers like so many beads on her new rosary, the practiced routine
comfortable but requiring little of her active mind. Her appetite had waned
though her papa had plied her with her favorite foods and sweets and taken her
to a private showing of art in one of the salons of the day. Without the man
she loved, even the joy of being with her papa often failed to bring a smile to
her face.

Her betrothed, the young Dordogne was something of an
enigma. One evening, he’d joined them for dinner and afterward he had read her
poetry. She’d had the oddest feeling it wasn’t her he was thinking of, but
someone else as his eyes filled with a longing she’d never seen before. Of whom
had he been thinking? She was still wondering as she bid him goodnight.

He would not be a difficult husband, of that she was
certain, but would he be much of one at all? Having loved a bold man of the
sea, could she settle for less? Could she bring herself to give Dordogne more
than a sisterly peck on the cheek? Doubts settled around her like so many
brooding vultures, ready to snatch away any chance for happiness.

Simon leaned back in his chair to watch the large room
crowded with men. A haze of smoke hung in the air of the
taverne Ramponneau
in Paris. Elijah and Giles, sitting on either side of him, nursed their glasses
of claret as they surreptitiously looked about, searching for some familiar
face. It had been nearly a week since they’d left Rye. A rough crossing and
rain had delayed their arrival in Paris. He’d left Jordan with the ship in
Dieppe while he, Elijah and Giles traveled to Paris.

Only that morning, he had learned the name of Claire’s
betrothed, a lawyer from a good family who apparently worked with the French
foreign minister. From the description he’d obtained, it sounded like François
de Dordogne might be an acceptable choice for the convent-raised daughter of a
French comte’s younger son. It grieved him to acknowledge that her father may
have made a wise choice, someone more worthy of her than a bastard English sea
captain.

But before he conceded defeat, he would know more.

Elijah crossed his arms over his chest, his pipe in one
hand. “That name ye were given sounds familiar, Cap’n, like I heard it before.
And this place, ’tis ticklin’ me memory.”

Giles stared at the bar. “…Dordogne… Dordogne. Ah! I have
it!” he said, slapping the table. “Elijah, recall the last time we were here,
the proprietor shouted to one of the dandies as he was leaving?”

“Aye,” said Elijah, “I remember. The Frenchies strollin’ out
the back room wearin’ all that lace.”

“Dordogne,” Giles repeated. “That was the name!” he
exclaimed. “Captain, if ’tis the same man, he’d not be a fit man for the
mademoiselle’s husband. Nor any woman’s husband, come to that.”

“What?” Simon said with a start.

“He was with the group of fops Elijah spoke of, Cap’n,”
explained Giles, as if that told Simon much. It did not.

Elijah leaned in to whisper, “They’re effeminate
frog-eaters.” When Simon frowned in puzzlement, the old salt clarified.
“Mollies, sir. Sodomites.”

Simon drew his head back. “
Damn
.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Giles.

“Why,” Simon wondered aloud, “would such a man take a wife?”

“So as to keep his pretty head on his pretty shoulders,
likely,” said Elijah with a shrug. “He wouldn’t be the first to put on a
masquerade to fool the rest o’ the world. Likely won’t be the last neither.
’Tis a crime that could see ‘im hanged in most places.”

“Donet must have no inkling,” said Simon, shaking his head.

“Half the aristocrats in Paris dress like that, Cap’n,”
offered Giles. “’Tis likely Donet sees nothing unusual in the man’s appearance.
But it was clear to us that his affectation and that of his companions was more
than a tribute to fashion.”

“And Donet ain’t a man to judge another by the cut of his
coat,” said Elijah. “He’s jus’ lookin’ at the fop’s pedigree, not the… er… stud
horse hisself.”

“Gelding, more like,” muttered Giles.

“Well, I’ll be happy to enlighten him,” said Simon, suddenly
smiling at the turn of events and glad he’d asked Danvers for that favor. He
would not see her go to such a man, no matter his pedigree.
If she’ll have
me, I will have her for myself!

By the end of the day, Simon had gained the location of
Donet’s Paris home and the date of the wedding: the next day.

He made plans accordingly.

The afternoon of the wedding, Simon and his men took up
positions around the townhouse. He’d hoped for a glimpse of Claire, but never
saw her. As the afternoon waned, carriages began arriving and passengers alighted,
dressed in finery fit for a celebration. With the guests creating a
distraction, the time had come.

At his signal, Simon’s men fanned out around the rear of the
townhouse, finding hiding places among the trees and the boxwood hedges.
Scanning the various approaches, Simon’s gaze came to rest on the inner
courtyard and what he could see of balconies. They would lead to the
bedchambers.

“I’m going up,” he advised Elijah. “You and the others wait
below with the rope. I’ll signal when I want it. You and Giles will be needed
to lower Claire safely to the ground, assuming she will come with me.”