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

by Walker, Regan

  “French brandy?” her papa inquired with a wry smile.

  “Aye, only the best.”

  “Oui, I accept.” Her papa beckoned M’sieur Bequel closer. Simon welcomed him and, after the quartermaster greeted Claire and Mr. Landor, they walked to the aft hatch, she and Simon with her papa and Mr. Landor and M’sieur Bequel walking together behind them.

  “By the way, sir,” Simon said to her papa. “The wedding’s in London as soon as we arrive. It was my hope you would give away the bride.”

  “If you allow my crew to sail the Abundance, I shall gladly go to London. I’m afraid were I to take my own ship, even disguised as she is, I would soon be discovered.”

  “I will agree if you allow the Abundance’s first mate, Mr. Busby to take command. The captain, Mr. Wingate, is in London just now but Mr. Busby is also a familiar sight on the London quay on that schooner and ’twould be best if he were on deck when she sails up the Thames.”

  “Oui, that is acceptable. But my daughter sails with me.”

  Chapter 21

  London

  Two days later, with the wind billowing her sails and Simon at the wheel, the Fairwinds sailed up the Thames, followed by the Abundance, captained by Amos Busby. Simon keenly felt Claire’s absence for he’d been two long days and nights without her, his only glimpses of her lovely face the ones he’d had through his spyglass. He bided his time, knowing soon they would be together.

  He’d not been surprised when Donet had insisted she sail with him on the Abundance, and though Simon would have preferred otherwise, he could hardly protest since propriety dictated she remain with her father until the wedding. He knew Claire would want time with her beloved papa before he returned to France.

  Notwithstanding the pirate had given his blessing, Simon still had a lingering fear her father might try and dissuade her from her intended course. At dinner that first night in his crowded cabin, he had been encouraged to see the Frenchman’s penetrating gaze had seemed to discern that Claire now belonged to Simon. Perhaps it had been the glances he and Claire shared throughout the meal, or the little touches they could not resist. He’d hoped the message he’d sent Donet was clear: She’s mine, she’s happy and she’s not going back to France.

  They sailed into the Pool of London, where the Fairwinds and the Abundance tied up at the wharf. Standing on the quay with Claire and her father, Simon explained that he and Claire would stay with Lord and Lady Danvers where the wedding would take place. Donet could hardly object with the baroness as chaperone. Anxious to speak to Cornelia about the plans for the wedding, Claire urged her father to agree, which he did.

  Simon suggested Donet also might lodge at the Danvers’ townhouse, but the invitation was declined. “That will not be necessary, m’sieur. I will make my own arrangements.”

  It was probably for the better that Simon did not know where Donet was staying. Eden was certain to ask. “Until this evening, then?”

  “C’est bien,” came the reply as the Frenchman kissed his daughter’s cheeks and walked briskly down the quay with his quartermaster and a few of his men. The thought occurred to Simon that Donet had been in London previously and knew the city well. It should not have surprised him, though he could not help wondering just how many times the pirate had crept into the city for his surreptitious dealings while the British military remained unaware. Probably too many for comfort.

  Once Simon and Claire arrived at the Danvers’ townhouse, he had a word with Cornelia and then left Claire and her friend to their plans while he left for Whitehall.

  “How wonderful to have you back!” Cornelia said, embracing Claire. “But that rogue of yours might have given me more notice! A wedding with mere days to plan. I should have known when Captain Wingate brought that message asking Danvers to secure a special license Simon would be in a hurry. I shall be frenetic before ’tis over.”

  “”I’m sorry, Cornelia. But then I had no idea either.”

  Cornelia gave Claire one of those looks that told Claire men rarely gave notice of their intentions. “Oh, well, I do love a challenge.” Tapping her chin, the baroness began to speak her thoughts aloud. “We shall need the servants to go to market and shop for the wedding breakfast. We must have a house full of flowers. And champagne. Yes, there must be champagne.”

  Claire felt a twinge of guilt for all the work she and Simon were asking of Cornelia. “It is good of you and the baron to allow us to be married in your home.”

  “Oh, but you must have the wedding here. I would not hear of it taking place anywhere else. Besides, I adore parties!”

  “’Twill only be a small affair, certainly.”

  “Not too small,” said Cornelia, gathering her paper and quill to take notes as they sat down to tea. “I’m so excited I can hardly think where to begin.”

  “I already have a gown,” offered Claire. “That’s one thing we need not bother with.”

  “Do you?”

  “Papa had it designed when he thought I was to marry in Paris.”

  “And you would still want to wear it?”

  “Oh, yes. Papa had it made especially for me and it’s truly lovely, Cornelia. You will see when we go upstairs. It’s in the chest the footman brought in.” Claire thought of the gown and could not resist sharing the details with her friend. “It’s made of ivory satin and embroidered with roses on delicate, green vines. The bodice is edged in Brussels lace with more at the elbows.”

  “It sounds beautiful. Your father must be an unusual man to have such elegant taste.”

  “He is,” she said, feeling a sudden fondness for her papa. “I’m so glad he’s agreed to the marriage and come for the wedding. Simon wasn’t sure he would and that’s why he—”

  “Your father is here in London?”

  “Oh, yes. He came on Simon’s other ship, the one Papa has returned.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t see precisely, but you can explain it all later.” She brought her teacup to her lips and then, without taking a drink, returned it to the saucer. “I am most anxious to meet him. Just think, a real French pirate!”

  “He isn’t a pirate any longer,” corrected Claire.

  Patting her hand, Cornelia said, “Oh, I know. He is a privateer like Simon and Captain Field. Now there’s an idea! Wouldn’t it be grand if I could secure permission for the American privateer to attend the wedding and meet your father?”

  “Could you?” Claire asked, hope rising at the possibility. “Papa would like to meet one of the Americans he has been working to free, though I don’t imagine the English attending would be very pleased that one of their prisoners was invited. Or a French privateer for that matter.”

  “We will see. After all, the war is over for all practical purposes. They’ve resumed negotiations on the terms for peace. They only hold the Americans as insurance for the treaty. With Danvers’ influence, we might just be able to see our American captain included as one of the guests. We women shall banish war forever, at least for the day of your wedding!”

  Scribbling some notes on her paper, Cornelia ran the feather of her quill over her lips, thinking. “I shall have my maid dress your hair for the wedding. You will be ever so beautiful. Oh, Claire, how wonderful to think you will be married in our parlor!”

  “Will the one marrying us be a member of the English clergy?”

  “He must be if you are to be legally wed.”

  Claire brought her hand to her throat trying to still her raging pulse. She supposed it didn’t matter really. “Papa would prefer a priest, but as long as the one performing the ceremony is a man of God, I will be satisfied. Frankly, I’m a bit overwhelmed at how hurried everything is, but Simon won’t hear of any delay. He’s quite insistent.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Cornelia, smiling. Leaning toward Claire with a decided gleam in her eye, her friend whispered, “I knew he was in love. You must tell me all that has happened to bring you back to my door.”

  Claire felt the heat rise in her
cheeks. She could never tell Cornelia all that had happened.

  “You do look happy,” said her friend. “Are you?”

  Claire could not hide the truth of it. “Oh, yes, I am.”

  “I was right about Simon and how he feels about you, wasn’t I?”

  Claire looked down at her tea she had allowed to grow cold. “Yes,” she said, furiously blushing at the memory of their lovemaking. She raised her head and looked into Cornelia’s warm russet eyes. “You were right.”

  “However did Simon get you back? Do tell. I cannot believe your father agreed to the match. He was the one I was concerned about from the beginning.”

  “The story is a long one. Perhaps while I unpack, I can tell you.”

  Cornelia rose. “A good suggestion. And my maid can help. When we’ve finished in your chamber, we can be about our plans. Cook will need to be advised of the wedding breakfast and the food she must prepare. We will need sweetmeats from Mr. Negri’s Pineapple shop, of course. And then we’ll have to sit down and make a guest list. The invitations must be carried by messenger today.”

  They walked toward the wide staircase as Cornelia chatted on.

  “Did Simon happen to mention a few extra guests for dinner?” Claire asked, embarrassed to be foisting all this off on her friend, but remembering Simon had requested her papa join them.

  “He did. Not to worry, Claire. It is fine with Danvers and me.”

  A black cloud followed Simon to Whitehall that afternoon. He dreaded having to advise Eden that Jean Donet was in London, but since Eden would be a guest at the wedding, he’d know soon enough. And Simon wanted Eden’s word that Claire’s father would be safe while he was here. Would Eden give him such assurance? And, if he did, could Simon trust him? Eden had already proven he was capable of deception to get at Donet.

  When he arrived, Simon realized he needn’t have worried. Eden was in very good spirits. “Come in, come in, Powell!” Eden cried. “Danvers is due here any minute. I’ve invited him ’round for a toast to Lord Shelburne.”

  “What’s the prime minister done that has you raising a glass in his honor?”

  Just then Danvers strode in. “Welcome! I see you made it to Paris and back.”

  “May I pour you both a brandy?” offered Eden, with an uncharacteristic smile.

  Simon nodded and accepted the drink, as did the baron.

  “I was just about to tell Powell here about Shelburne’s latest coup in the negotiations.”

  “The old boy’s done well,” said Danvers, taking a sip of his drink.

  At Simon’s raised brow, Eden explained, “Seems the PM managed to enlist the French admiral de Grasse—who, you may recall, spent the summer in London as a prisoner on parole—to carry England’s peace terms to Vergennes. In response, the French minister sent a close associate of his to London.”

  Reminded of the note he carried in his waistcoat, Simon handed Eden the missive from the Scribe. “Here,” he said, “from my trip to Paris a week ago.”

  Eden set his glass on his desk and opened the letter, laying it down and applying the chemicals as he had done countless times before. Reaching for his spectacles, he perused the paper. “Very interesting, this,” he remarked. Taking off his spectacles, he raised his head. “Now we know precisely why Vergennes sent the representative he did to meet with Shelburne. It seems Grasse was not trusted.”

  “Who is the representative?” asked Simon.

  “Gérard de Rayneval, the French Under Secretary of State. A trusted ally of Vergennes. He’s been meeting secretly with Shelburne. Word has it that when Rayneval first met with Shelburne, the PM disavowed the message Grasse delivered to Vergennes. Things were a bit sticky after that, but Shelburne prevailed upon Rayneval to stay when he would have gone, and the two struck up a friendship. Now Rayneval will return to Paris convinced of Shelburne’s sincerity and with a new set of terms we approve.”

  “A grand result,” said Danvers. “We need Vergennes to help bring Spain to the table.”

  Simon sipped his brandy. “And the Americans?”

  “More good news,” said Danvers. “We have reached a separate agreement with them, though Franklin will likely have to apologize to the French for his breach of etiquette in doing so.”

  “A very good day,” said Eden.

  Realizing he would never have a more perfect moment, Simon said, “Since you are both in such good humor, I’d ask a favor.” With their attention focused on him, Simon launched into his tale of personal success. “I’ve regained the Abundance and her crew—and much more. I’ve gained a French beauty who will soon become my bride.”

  His colleagues gaped at him.

  “So the special license was for you and Claire Donet?” asked Danvers.

  “Aye, just so. And thank you for procuring it.” Simon couldn’t resist a grin.

  “You intend to marry Donet’s daughter?” asked Eden, disbelieving.

  “Well she is the granddaughter of the comte de Saintonge,” said Danvers. “He could do worse. And so could she. At least she’ll have a man who is besotted with her.” The baron slapped Simon on the back. “Well done, old thing, well done.”

  Eden harrumphed. “If you can talk that pirate into parting with his only daughter, Powell, it occurs to me we should have sent you to Paris to negotiate our terms for peace. What is this favor you want?”

  “Donet has come to London for the wedding. I want your guarantee he will not be harmed nor any attempt made to capture him while he is here.”

  Eden stiffened and his face formed a frown. “You mean I’m to let him off scot-free?”

  “Something like that,” Simon muttered.

  “Where is he?” Danvers asked.

  “I have no idea where he is staying,” said Simon, “but he intends to give away the bride at the wedding.”

  “And when is that?” Eden inquired.

  “Two days hence. You’re both invited, of course. Oh, and Danvers, I think you should know that your wife has graciously offered to hold the wedding in your home.”

  The baron choked on his drink.

  Eden sputtered.

  But in the end, Danvers recovered, the favor was granted and Eden grudgingly gave his word.

  Simon was pleased.

  Chapter 22

  That evening in the Danvers’ townhouse, Claire witnessed a miracle. Her papa and her new friends all toasted her upcoming marriage to an English privateer. She would never have believed it possible that persons of three nationalities and such different walks of life could gather in London to celebrate an English Protestant marrying a French Catholic and before the American war was officially at an end.

  They began the evening in the baron’s study, a footman circling with a tray of sherry and brandy. As she sipped her sherry, it occurred to Claire that her papa had never looked more like a French aristocrat than he did this night in his black silk coat and breeches set off by a claret brocade waistcoat and much lace at his chin. His black hair neatly queued at his nape and a gleam in his dark eyes, he appeared a well-born gentleman, not the pirate she knew he had been.

  When the three men began speaking of the negotiations underway in Paris, Cornelia beckoned her aside. “Your father, Claire, is going to create quite a stir at your wedding.”

  Worried for her papa, she asked, “Why? Is there something wrong? Should I warn him?”

  “Oh, no,” her friend whispered. “You misunderstand.” Shooting a glance at Claire’s papa, Cornelia said, “I daresay there won’t be a woman in the room who does not find her heart all aflutter. You never told me how handsome he is. How polished his manners. And there is something most mysterious about him, something almost… dangerous. I predict he will be quite the sensation.”

  Claire had always known her papa was a handsome man. Few men had his presence or his striking dark looks, but she’d never thought of him as an object of other women’s admiration. “Oh my.”

  “Do not worry, Claire. I’m certain he knows how t
o handle such attention.”

  Simon came to her side then and slipped his hand into hers. “What are you two clever ladies discussing on your own over here? I am missing my bride.” His amber eyes seemed full of mirth, happy in his teasing.

  “We are discussing my papa if you must know,” Claire said, teasing him.

  Simon cast a glance at her father who, Claire thought, looked very much like the aristocrat he was raised to be. “He appears to be enjoying the baron’s company,” said Simon. “Perhaps we should join them before your father has the baron investing in one of his more questionable enterprises.”

  Cornelia gasped. Claire laughed. And Simon ushered them both back to the other men.

  The morning she was to be wed had arrived. Claire knelt beside the padded bench in her bedchamber and folded her hands in prayer. Though she would not be able to attend Mass in London and her wedding would be presided over by an Anglican clergyman, she could still make her confession before God and thank him for the man He had sent her.

  When her papa had learned she would not be married by a priest, he had said nothing. Perhaps he had been resigned to that since he’d given his blessing to their marriage. Having allowed her to make her choice, he was apparently accepting what she could not change. She would hide her own discomfort. Simon might not be Catholic, but he was God-fearing, honorable and true. She would cast no cloud on their happiness.

  Cornelia burst into the room shortly thereafter with a maid carrying a tray set with coffee and breakfast foods. The aroma of the dark brew and baked bread filled the room, reminding Claire of her hunger.

  “The servants and Cook are all in a dither over the wedding,” said her friend, “so I thought we’d have a bite together. After all, the wedding breakfast won’t be for hours yet and we can’t have you fainting. What say you?”

  The maid set down the tray and asked if that would be all. At a nod from her mistress, she left the chamber.