To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0)
Page 12
She stopped to admire the golden watches in the watchmaker’s window. “So many,” she remarked. “Why, there are even ones for women to wear as pendants.”
“I gave Danvers one like that,” Cornelia said, pointing to a handsome men’s pocket watch, “when he won his last bill in the Lords. It is something he treasures, probably as a reminder of his brilliance,” she said laughing.
Claire thought of the captain and wondered if he had such a watch. Perhaps she might give him one. But no. One did not give a gift to one’s abductor.
They moved on to the jeweler’s window where the gold bracelets displayed hinted at the richer jewels inside. She had only her moonstone ring and that she had left behind when she was taken.
When they came to the fan store, Claire paused. “The fans are so beautiful!” The display of painted silk fans was rich in variety, several were in red and blue with gold etching. And some in pink and peach with delicate flowers.
“We shall stop to buy a few,” said Cornelia. “They come in most handy when batting away a rake.” She winked at Claire.
“You are beyond hope, Cornelia! Besides, what rake would dare approach you with that handsome baron by your side?”
“You’d be surprised, Claire. Some men in the ton have no scruples at all.”
They entered the shop and Cornelia talked her into acquiring several. Of course, Cornelia added to what she described as her collection of peach-colored fans. When they left, they handed their parcels to the footmen and walked to the milliner’s where large, elegant, feathered hats graced the window.
Claire stood and stared. “I can’t imagine wearing such creations on my head,” said Claire. “They are huge!”
“Then you have never seen Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire. She wears the most outrageous hats of anyone I know, though I sometimes wonder if it isn’t to garner the attention her dour husband denies her. Never did like that man. But I do like her.”
Claire felt sorry for the duchess. A husband who adored you was worth so much more than titles, wealth and hats. “Do you know her well?”
“Not very well; we are acquaintances. I have greeted her on several occasions. I admire her ventures into the political fray. Danvers praises her efforts to help the Whigs stay in office, all the while she goes about wearing her eye-catching hats. Why the last time I saw her, she wore a black creation piled high with feathers and a huge, blue bow. It was most striking.”
Claire thought she might like to meet the duchess but she had no desire to wear her hats. “I think I’ll just stay with the smaller hats. Can you see wearing a large hat on a ship? The wind would carry it away in a heartbeat. The captain’s crew would have me a laughing stock, I am sure.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Cornelia laughed. “They most certainly would. The hats the duchess wears are not for windy days at sea.”
When they reached the shop with the sign that read James Smith & Sons, Purveyors of Parasols, Cornelia paused to gaze at the umbrellas fashioned for a woman’s fancy. “In this summer heat and with your fair skin, you simply must have a few parasols,” she counseled from underneath the broad brim of her straw hat. “Later, after we’ve ordered your gowns, we’ll return to select some.”
“I had parasols for my outings with Papa, but I could not use them at the convent and I’ve not had one since the captain saw fit to take me aboard his ship. At least I have a hat,” she said reaching up to touch the one she wore that went with her gown.
“That’s a nice way of saying Simon has acted the knave, yet I cannot forget the way he looked at you over his teacup. I think he’s quite taken with you, Claire. And why shouldn’t he be? While he is not of your rank, you are a beautiful woman. And from what I know of Simon, he is not indifferent to beauty.”
Claire could feel the blush rise in her cheeks. She remembered the way he’d responded to the trousered hussar, who as she thought about it now, had been beautiful. Definitely not indifferent.
Though Claire cared little for rank and knew her papa had planned to wed her to a lawyer, she couldn’t fathom the idea Captain Powell had feelings for her. Attraction, yes, even desire. She’d detected both in his eyes. But not tender feelings. Surely not love.
“I hardly think he feels that way about me,” she said as they walked on gazing into the windows of the other shops.
“Perhaps,” conceded Cornelia. Then she shook her head. “No, I’m quite sure I saw that look men get when they are taken with a woman, when their eyes linger overlong. Danvers had that same look before he asked me to marry him.”
The idea that the captain might care for her brought Claire a secret joy. But she must keep it a secret. Instead, she would ask about Cornelia’s relationship with the baron. “Was it hard for you being in England as an American then?”
Cornelia stopped to admire a setting of china in a shop. “I came to London just before the Colonies declared their independence. At first I was accepted as a Loyalist, and then I married a member of the nobility.” Looking away for a moment, she said, “But sometimes I do not feel quite one of them. And Danvers has lost friends in the war, which makes it more difficult.”
“I’m sorry,” said Claire seeing the sadness in the baroness’ eyes.
“It’s quite complicated,” Cornelia went on. “My brother, Sean, is a patriot, you see. He fights for the new country he loves. Because he’s in Baltimore, I don’t often have word of him.” Her face brightened. “But there’s an American captain, one of the prisoners here in London, who knows him. He has told me Sean helps equip the American privateers.”
“Oh, you must be torn.”
“It is true that I have divided sympathies. I am as much an American as I am a citizen of London and loyal to my English husband whom I love.” She let out a sigh. “I just want the war to be over.”
In her own way, Claire had divided loyalties, too. She was French and happy her country was helping the Americans, yet she harbored tender feelings for an English privateer, and had since she was sixteen. “I want that as well.”
“Oh fie,” Cornelia said, “men and their politics—and their wars! If we women led the governments we would soon have peace.”
“I am not so certain,” said Claire. “As I recall from my history, the reign of England’s Queen Elizabeth was fraught with war and conflict.”
Cornelia let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, there was the Spanish Armada. I suppose it is in mankind’s nature to ever be at war.”
As they turned from the shop, Claire thought she saw a man who’d been standing in the shadow of a building move to follow. A frisson of fear snaked through her spine. “Cornelia, I think we’re being followed. No, don’t turn just yet. But when you can, look without drawing attention and see if you agree.”
Appearing to point to an item of interest in the window of another shop, Cornelia looked over Claire’s shoulder. “Yes, there is a man some distance behind us who stopped when we did. I was going to suggest we walk to my modiste’s shop as Mrs. Duval’s is not far. But now I think we will ride. It’s a short jaunt to Bond Street. I can alert my footman to the one who may be pursuing us.”
They had just taken a seat in the carriage, the horses’ hooves beginning a steady rhythm on the street, when Cornelia leaned in to say, “I wonder who would follow us. It makes me feel quite uneasy. Doesn’t it you?”
“I don’t like it, but the thought occurs it could be someone sent by Captain Powell,” suggested Claire. “Since we’ve been in port, first in Rye and then in London, he’s had one of his crew follow me about the ship. He fears I will try and escape.”
“And would you?” asked her new friend.
Should she confide in Cornelia? Would the woman help her? “I might like to. And if I were successful, I would persuade Papa to free Captain Powell’s men.”
“Oh, Claire, you mustn’t. London is dangerous enough for those of us used to living here. For a young woman alone, as pretty as you are, it would be horribly dangerous.”
“No, and you must not think of it again. You can trust Simon to return you to your father. For all his privateering, he is honorable.”
“It would seem so,” Claire agreed. In her heart she knew he would keep his word. All he wanted was his men and his ship.
“Danvers has been telling Simon when the war is over, he should marry, that he is old enough to be siring children.” She sat back against the gray velvet of the padded seat. “I’m certain my husband would like to have little ones running about even if they are not his own. We’ve been married nearly seven years and I fear we are destined to be childless.”
“Oh, Cornelia, I am sorry.” Claire reached out and patted Cornelia’s gloved hand. “But if it is any comfort, I shall never have children of my own either, as I intend to take vows to become one of the Ursuline sisters.”
Cornelia gave her a long, studying look. “I cannot imagine someone with your zest for life seeking the cloistered life. Are you so certain that is what you want?”
Claire was not successful in fighting the heat that crept into her cheeks. Since she’d been aboard Simon Powell’s ship, she was not at all certain she wanted that. She reminded herself she had made a vow. “I must.”
“It sounds as if it is not your choice.”
“It was not my first thought for my life.”
The baroness gave her a penetrating look. “Well, we can hope it is not your last. Besides, I would miss you if you were not here.”
Claire didn’t want to remind her new friend that she was to be exchanged for Simon’s men. “Papa wants me to wed. I was told he has arranged a marriage to a lawyer in Paris, but I did not have time to speak with him about my own desires before I was abducted.”
“Then your future remains in doubt.”
Claire reluctantly nodded.
The carriage pulled up in front of a shop with a sign of a spool of thread speared with a needle. The name in the shop window read Mrs. Duval’s.
“We are here!” declared Cornelia. “I cannot wait to show my modiste my gift for her. She will be very excited for she can copy anything.”
They entered the modiste’s and one of Cornelia’s footmen, carrying the fashion doll, followed them inside.
Cornelia introduced Claire and then held out the doll to Mrs. Duval. “For me?” she exclaimed.
“Indeed, yes!” said Cornelia. “To use to fashion my friend a gown such as she might have purchased in Paris.”
Claire studied the older woman’s face. She was elegantly attired in a soft gray silk with lace trim, her dark hair confined to a knot at her nape. The name Duval was French but the woman had an English accent. “Are you by any chance French?” she asked.
“My husband’s family is French. They came to France early in the century. But I am very English, except when it comes to fashion. Then I am French.”
All three women broke into laughter.
“Come,” said Mrs. Duval. “I have some new silks to show you, and one that might just be perfect for this gown I’m to make.”
The modiste put several bolts of shimmering silk on the table before them. Claire and Cornelia ran their fingers over the fine fabric. It was the gold one that drew Claire’s attention. “I do like this one.”
“Then you shall have it,” said Cornelia and nodded to Mrs. Duval.
For Claire, shopping with a woman friend was great fun. Before an hour had elapsed, with the help of Cornelia and Mrs. Duval, Claire ordered three gowns. One was to be fashioned from the glistening gold silk moiré that Cornelia thought a perfect choice for the soirée to be held in Claire’s honor.
Claire was quick to agree. She had never had such a glorious gown and wondered what Captain Powell would think when he saw her in it. It was for him she wanted to appear the lady.
Once they concluded their business with Mrs. Duval, Cornelia directed the coachman to the shops for shoes, reticules, shifts, corsets and other items she assured Claire were necessary. They returned to the parasol shop to find several that would match her gowns and keep the sun from her face, though Claire had to laugh at the thought of trying to hold one on a moving ship.
The baroness had asked the footmen to keep a watchful eye on anyone following them and Claire observed them studying the faces of the men on the street. But if the same man dogged their steps, Claire had not noticed.
When their errands were completed, with a gleam in her eye, Cornelia said, “I think before we return home, we shall stop in Mr. Negri’s Pineapple shop in Berkeley Square.” At Claire’s puzzled look, Cornelia said, “… for some sweetmeats and ices. Many of his confections are from French recipes, you know.”
“That sounds wonderful.” A taste of home, and if she were honest, she had a sweet tooth which her papa had indulged with treats he brought her from Paris.
Once the driver had their new destination, from inside the carriage, Claire watched the shops they passed and spoke her thought aloud. “I feel guilty even thinking of a fête and such beautiful gowns while my papa is in France worrying about me, knowing I am the prisoner of his enemy, an English privateer.” Claire remembered her papa as she’d last seen him, shouting orders from the deck of his ship in the midst of the Channel. He had been nothing like the papa she thought she knew.
“Not just any privateer, Claire,” said Lady Danvers. “Simon is the natural son of an English earl, albeit he was never recognized.”
“Do you mean—”
“Simon’s father never married his mother, and then failed to acknowledge Simon before he died.”
“Oh.” Claire could not help but wonder how such a beginning contributed to the man he was today. “How awful for him.”
“It’s become all too common an occurrence in the aristocracy in the last several years, I’m afraid. He was the earl’s firstborn son and should have been the heir but his father’s failure to marry his mother made that impossible.”
“Was his mother not acceptable?”
“Not to the earl. She was educated and beautiful, but a commoner,” Cornelia remarked in a tone of resignation.
“Ah.”
“When his mother died, he ran away to sea. Ships and sailing men are the only other family he’s ever known.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Well, let’s see… He’s five and twenty now, so at least ten years ago. He loved her, I know, and all Simon has told me of her suggests she loved her son.”
“I lost my mother when I was younger than that,” Claire sadly reflected. “But I had the sisters.”
“They must love you,” said Cornelia, her kind eyes conveying sympathy.
“I’m certain they are worried, but perhaps my papa has explained I am to be returned.” She hoped he did not explain all that had transpired.
“I doubt they would find the truth reassuring. Snatched from your bed by an English privateer? No, certainly not.”
Claire sighed. “You are right, of course.” There was really no good way to explain that night. She decided to ask a question that had been bothering her since the baroness had spoken of Simon’s mother. “Did his mother’s family have money? Else, how did the captain come to own two ships?”
“He was poor as a church mouse until his father, on his deathbed, managed to make Simon a wealthy man. His mother had died by then. He has used the funds to great effect. In the last few years, he’s become a successful ship’s captain and, for his work in the war, respected by many at Whitehall.”
Even if she were to forsake her vow to Élise, Claire knew her papa would never consider an Englishman, much less one who was illegitimate, for her husband. Had Providence brought Simon Powell back into her life only to send him away? It seemed so. Perhaps it was best to forget her longings and convince her papa to allow her to return to the convent. Else she would have to marry the man her papa had chosen for her, a man she did no
t even know. The thought cast a cloud of anxiety over the otherwise delightful day. She shook it off, determined to enjoy Cornelia’s company for whatever remained of her time in England.
Leaving the baron to his port, Simon bid his friend goodnight and trudged up the stairs to his bedchamber, weary from a long day. The ladies had retired shortly after supper, tired from their day of shopping, leaving him and Danvers to linger over their port, discussing their meeting with Eden.
With an American wife, Danvers was hoping for a quick resolution to the war. Simon had his own reasons for wanting hostilities with the French to end.
Watching Claire across the table during supper had been a trial. She was lovely and tempting, her blue eyes lighting with mirth, her French accent beguiling, as she engaged in witty conversation with their hosts. A forbidden prize he very much wanted to claim but never could. The port wine and conversation with Danvers had helped to dull his desire, but only slightly.
Accustomed as he was to the rocking of a ship, sleeping in a bed on land always left him restless. He had just managed to drift off when a cry awoke him with a start. Rising on one elbow, he listened. There it was again, faint but real. Throwing off the cover, he slid from the bed, donned his breeches and padded across the room. When he opened the door, the cry grew louder. It was coming from Claire’s room.
Dare he enter her bedchamber? Another cry pierced the night, vanquishing his doubts. He charged across the corridor into her room. She was tossing about in the bed, fighting the cover and shouting in muffled whispers, “Non, non! You mustn’t follow. You will die!”