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

by Walker, Regan

  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 ch
est?” 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.

  “Besides, Claire, I want to have a soirée for you and a worthy gown is needed.”

  Claire suddenly felt anxious. A soirée?

  Cornelia must have read her thoughts. “The English admire much about the French, Claire—their food, their dances, their fashion. Deep down they know they are poorly garbed compared to the people of Paris. That is why they ape your fashion. Why, they even teach French to their children! The war has changed none of that. Do not fret. Our friends will be delighted to meet you.”

  The butler entered carrying the package the captain had given him earlier. “My lady, Captain Powell has gone to Whitehall to meet with his lordship. He left this for you.”

  The baroness accepted the package wrapped in brown paper, nearly two feet long, her eyes glistening as she perused it. “I wonder,” she said. “It’s just about the right size.” Retreating to the bed, she carefully laid the package on the silk counterpane and removed the wrapping. Her smile beamed her pleasure. “It is! It’s one of those fashion dolls I asked Simon to bring me from Paris. My modiste will be thrilled.”

  The doll that held Cornelia in rapt attention was quite amazing. Its head, which appeared to be plaster with glass eyes and painted features, was exquisitely fashioned. The hair, which was auburn like Cornelia’s, could have been real. The costume was elaborate, a miniature version of the gowns Claire had seen on the ladies who’d attended the masquerade two years ago in Saint-Denis. A gold silk skirt peeked out of a red velvet pelisse trimmed in what looked like Russian sable.

  Cornelia squealed in delight, “Is it not wonderful?”

  “It is one of the nicest I have ever seen,” Claire responded. She had seen several in one of her shopping trips with her papa, but never one as well made as this one.

  When Cornelia removed the pelisse, the gown was revealed in all its glory. Every detail was perfect, every stitch neatly done. Delicate lace circled the doll’s neck and hung in two layers from the gold sleeves that stopped at the doll’s elbow.

  “I had heard that, despite the war, English dressmakers sent their employees to Paris to receive training in the latest fashions,” said Claire, “but I did not realize the English used the dolls as well.”

  Still stroking the doll’s gown, Cornelia said, “The dolls help our modistes see what the finished gowns should look like. Wisely, the government has exempted them from embargo. No matter we are at war, we women must have our fashion!”

  Chapter 11

  Claire awoke the next morning, tired from a night spent tossing and turning. No longer did she have the soft voices of the nuns singing at Compline to help her fall asleep. And the nightmares still plagued her.

  As she slipped from the bed to her knees to say her morning prayers, she wondered if the Reverend Mother and Sister Angélique missed her as she missed them. She had often found convent life confining, yet the sisters and the other students had been her family for a very long time.

  Determined not to let her fatigue spoil her day with the baroness, she rose, confident a loving God would forgive her failure to attend Mass, for the lack of it was not of her doing.

  Once dressed in her new gown, helped by Cornelia’s maid, she joined her new friend for breakfast. “Such a fine array of fruit!” she exclaimed, seeing the large platter of artfully arranged peaches, pears and figs topped with delectable black grapes. “Wherever do they come from?”

  “The Kentish orchards grow many fruits for the London markets but we also have friends whose extensive kitchen gardens at their country houses keep us well supplied, and the quality of that is the best.”

  “We had very large gardens at the convent,” Claire said wistfully.

  “Do you miss the convent?” the baroness asked, her concern evident in her russet eyes.

  “Sometimes, I do. But ’tis more like a childhood memory. Though my abduction was not one of them, I’ve had many wonderful experiences since leaving.” Knowing Simon Powell was their friend, Claire declined to elaborate on the manner in which she had come to be in England.

  “Well, you shall have other memories from your time here, good memories that will hopefully make you wa
nt to stay.”

  Stay? Did she want to stay? At the moment, Claire was torn. She had a vow to fulfill but her attraction for the English captain was pulling her farther from France.

  Claire smiled at her hostess and selected some fruit and a warm roll. Not quite the brioche she had eaten on the ship but still very enjoyable in Cornelia’s company. And the coffee was much needed if she were to remain alert.

  “I’ve still to tell you about our friends invited to the soirée,” remarked Cornelia.

  Cornelia must have been busy if she’d already been preparing a list of guests. Claire furrowed her brow as she set down her coffee. Despite Cornelia’s kind words, she was worried the English would not embrace a French woman among them when their countries were hardly friends.

  Cornelia must have observed her reticence. “Do not fret, Claire. They will adore you. And I haven’t even mentioned the men who I expect will be gawking at you and the lovely gown you shall wear. Mrs. Duval’s shop awaits!”

  Claire was cheered by her new friend’s assurance the English would accept her and for Cornelia’s enthusiasm for the day ahead. She’d never had a woman friend with whom she could shop for ladies’ frippery. On her night adventures, Élise had been more like a younger sister, someone Claire had to watch over. A day of shopping with Cornelia would suit her just fine.

  Late that morning, they departed for Oxford Street in a yellow and black landau carriage. Being a pleasant day, Cornelia instructed the driver to leave the top down. With the driver in front and two footmen standing on the shelf behind them, they moved along smartly. To Claire, it seemed the grandest way to travel.

  They arrived to find Oxford Street already bustling with people and carriages. Following her hostess, Claire stepped onto the stone walk in front of the shops. She had never been able to stroll along a street and take her time peering into shop windows, except in Saint-Denis, and that was only a village. When she’d been with her papa in Paris, he was always in a hurry, in and out of a shop in a minute with no time to peruse the goods on display. But today, she and Cornelia took their time, strolling along at a leisurely pace, sharing their delight at all they saw. Claire thought the shops even more splendid than those in Paris.