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

by Walker, Regan

  She shifted her gaze to the water and watched as men and women richly attired in colorful cloaks, jackets and hats were being ferried in small boats to the ships. “Are those passengers?”

  “Some, but might be a ship owner or a king’s man among ’em.”

  Claire let her mind wander to the faraway places those passengers might travel. Places she had read about, places she had dreamed of in her days at the convent. Places Simon Powell had no doubt been.

  Ahead of them loomed a tall, arched bridge spanning the river, the golden sky behind it. Majestic stone buildings whose spires reached toward the clouds stood as sentinels on either side. “What bridge is that?” she asked Nate.

  “London Bridge.”

  She knew from her lessons that London was the largest city in Europe and its port the busiest. The number of ships anchored in the Thames attested to its importance in matters of trade. The bustle excited her, it was so different from the quiet village of Saint-Denis, or even Paris with its meandering Seine River.

  Warm, muggy air carried the stench of the river to her nostrils, but beneath it were the exotic scents of ginger and sandalwood, spices from the West Indies, and the faint odor of hemp and tea that spoke of the faraway places she’d only imagined. What must it be like to sail to those ports? Her spirits rose with the thought. If only she could sail to them on a ship... his ship. When she thought of sailing to faraway places now, she thought only of the golden one, his sure hands at the wheel, his eyes upon her.

  Hearing boots on the deck, she glanced behind her to see him striding toward her. Despite her resolve to treat him with formal politeness, her heart beat faster when their eyes met. There was a twinkle in his eyes today.

  He nodded to Nate, then paused to survey her appearance. “Beautiful as ever, mademoiselle.” She detected a hint of amusement in his voice. Did he find it surprising she could look the lady?

  “Thank you for the gown, Captain.” She ignored the voice of her conscience telling her it was highly improper to have accepted it; a hostage had little choice if she were to be properly clothed.

  “As soon as the customs men depart, and our cargo is unloaded, we can leave.”

  “Where will we be going?” she asked him, suddenly anxious to know. Would he hide her away in some dark abode like a caged animal?

  “I’ve friends in London with whom we will stay until your future is more certain.”

  Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. He would keep her with him. But the fact he could just drag her around like one of his shipping crates was disturbing. “I suppose I have no choice in the matter?”

  “None.” He handed a letter to Nate. “Take this to Lady Danvers. She will be expecting it.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. I remember the place.”

  Claire felt a twinge of jealousy. Was this Lady Danvers his maîtresse, his paramour? She would ask Nate. He would tell her.

  A few hours later, Simon guided his captive to the waiting carriage that would take them to the London home of Lord and Lady Danvers. He had an open invitation from Cornelia and her husband, John Ingram, Baron Danvers, to be their guest whenever he was in town. He and Cornelia were of an age and Danvers only a few years older. They had become good friends in recent years. That the baron worked closely with Simon’s superior, former Under Secretary of State, William Eden, who was the head of England’s spy network in Europe, made the arrangement all the more convenient.

  For the occasion of her meeting his friends, he had given his captive a new gown, one Sally had procured for him in Rye, one he’d been saving for this moment. He wanted the French girl to feel comfortable meeting their hosts. And for some reason he’d not pondered overlong, he liked to see her in gowns that befitted her beauty. When he’d first seen her on deck, she was a sight to behold in pale green brocade. The gown hugged her slim waist and revealed just enough of her pale breasts to entice him to want to see more. He could look at other women with no reaction at all. Why did this one stir him so? She’d managed to pin the sides of her hair up. On her head was a jaunty hat that matched the gold flowers on her gown. The innocent, French convent student was suddenly a very exciting woman.

  He intended to ask Cornelia to see that his hostage had a wardrobe befitting the granddaughter of a French comte. Knowing the baroness loved to shop for female frippery, he thought it a task she would relish, especially at his expense. He had in mind, too, that Cornelia could chaperone his reluctant charge and keep her occupied while he went about his business. Donet’s daughter might not try to escape in London, but he would not leave her to her own devices, or unprotected. While the baroness always traveled with footmen, he would send one of his own men to watch the French girl lest she try anything foolish.

  Sitting across from him, she gazed wide-eyed out the open carriage window as they drove away from the Thames. He was not surprised at her excitement. London had many sights to fascinate a young woman just out of the convent.

  “You and Lady Danvers will have much in common.”

  She turned her clear, blue gaze on him, a look of surprise on her face. The faint circles still lingered under her eyes, making him wonder again about her disturbing dreams.

  “Nate told me Lady Danvers is the wife of an English baron. How can we have anything in common?” There was a note of defiance in her voice, reminding him that every inch of ground he gained with her was ground she only grudgingly surrendered.

  “Ah, but Lady Danvers is an American, mademoiselle.” It amused him to spar with her. She had a quick mind. But it was not her mind that had drawn his attention when he’d first seen her in the gown. He squeezed his fist, forcing himself to rein in his thoughts. They would only lead to frustration.

  “An American married to an English nobleman?”

  “I imagine it’s been awkward for her since the war,” he conceded. “She met Lord Danvers before the war began, when she came to London for a Season. They fell in love and she never returned to her family in the Maryland Colony. Her brother is the captain of a schooner, as am I.” Then he added with a grin, “Only on the other side.”

  “He fights for America’s independence?”

  “He does. Just like France. Now do you see how much you have in common with Lady Danvers?”

  She looked out the window as if reluctant to admit his point, stubborn as always. “They shall have their independence, I am certain.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, mademoiselle. I do believe you are right, owing much to France, of course. Though as yet no agreement for peace has been reached, there can be little doubt America will soon be her own country.”

  She turned her face to look at him. “Does it not bother you?”

  “Not at all,” he said sincerely. “I only want peace. A strong America will mean more trade.” Then with his mouth twitching up in a grin, he added, “I do not intend to always be a privateer.” Why it was important that she know he had ambitions for the future, he did not ponder.

  “Probably wise,” she said. “It would seem to be a hazardous profession.”

  “As is piracy,” he said with a grin. She did not rise to the bait but gazed out the window at the government buildings they were passing.

  The coachman had taken a route that led past St. James Park on their way to Mayfair where the Danvers’ London house was located. They had just passed Westminster. Seeing it brought back memories that anywhere else he could forget, memories of seeing his father, the Earl of Montmorency, leaving Parliament, indifferent to a son he had never claimed.

  Wanting her son to know of his noble heritage, despite the earl’s deserting her to wed a woman of his own rank, Simon’s mother had told him of his father when he was fourteen. She must have known she was dying.

  Simon had been too proud to be shamed by his status, but he had been curious. And that was what led him to come that day eleven years ago to watch the Lords leaving Westminster and to inquire which was Montmorency. He would have recognized him had those he’d asked not been able to point ou
t the earl. His father was tall and fair, not unlike Simon in appearance. He had watched as the earl greeted his countess. She’d had his younger half-brother and sister in tow. Unlike Simon, the earl’s other children were dark-haired, apparently taking after their mother.

  But if his father did not want to know Simon, then Simon cared not to know him. So, on that day, he had turned away, vowing to wear his bastardy like a glorious cloak.

  He would show them all.

  That the money for his first ship had come to him as a result of his father’s guilt did not alter Simon’s views. He had taken the money but would have rejected the name had it been offered. To Simon, the father he never knew was a distant mountain, cold and aloof and only seen from afar.

  His mother, who had carried her noble lover in her heart until her death, had been his inspiration. She believed in her only child and sacrificed much for him. Because of her, Simon could read, write and speak French. He deeply regretted she had suffered, for most of her own family had disowned her. Only the kindness of a caring aunt had seen they were not without funds.

  His mother had once told him the world would eventually come to his door. He had doubted the words when she’d first said them, but now he believed it would happen. He would prove himself to a doubting world and make his mother proud.

  The carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of the tall, stone edifice that was the home of Lord and Lady Danvers. Simon shrugged off his melancholy, stepped down and turned to offer Claire his hand.

  She took it, gazing up at the looming structure. “It is quite grand, isn’t it?”

  “’Tis,” he said, unable to resist a smile. “A bit more than they need, perhaps, but then the nobility likes their houses large. Besides, Lord and Lady Danvers often have guests.”

  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.

  Chapter 10

  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.