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

by Walker, Regan

  “I just need to fix your hair and then you will be ready, mistress,” said the maid. “’Twould be nice to have some of your lovely black curls dangling on your shoulders. Perhaps I might take up just the sides and some of the back?”

  Claire nodded and sat before the dressing table as the maid went to work.

  Several minutes later, the door opened and Cornelia stepped inside, dressed in a pale blue satin gown that was lovely with her auburn hair, and smiled her appreciation at the job done by her maid who had just pinned the last curl in place.

  “Claire, you look like a princess.”

  “All this is due to your good taste and the efforts of your maid,” Claire returned with a smile. “But despite my appearance, my stomach is all aflutter.”

  “Come,” Cornelia said, taking her hand. “The men are waiting for us. A glass of sherry in the library before the hurricane arrives, when the whole house will be full from top to bottom, is just what you need to calm your nerves.”

  Claire raised her palm to her breast to still her racing heart. “Yes, I think you are right.”

  Slowly she descended the stairs, her head held high, as she’d been taught. Knowing that Simon Powell waited for her made her skin tingle with anticipation. She wanted him to think her pretty, to see his eyes sparkle with delight at the gown he had given her.

  He had come to the warehouse where they kept the American prisoners when she and Cornelia returned with the newspapers. Captain Field had bowed low over her hand and smiled up at her. In response, Captain Powell had quickly recovered her hand and tucked it into his elbow. She hadn’t known whether to be flattered or annoyed at the possessive gesture. It wasn’t as if he had a claim on her.

  He had stayed by her side the whole morning. Surely he must care. Yet perhaps he only cared to protect his security for the return of his men. He had said it often enough.

  It was more for her. She could not sleep nights for thinking of him. Since he’d held her and soothed her fears, the bad dreams had not returned. Perhaps the memory of his arms wrapped around her had driven away Élise’s ghost.

  She followed Cornelia into the library where he and Baron Danvers stood in front of the fireplace sipping what looked like brandy. Simon turned his gaze on her and, for a moment, there was no one else in the room. Only him and his brilliant amber eyes.

  She took a step back, heated by his devouring gaze. Lifting her chin, she asked, “Do you like the gown?”

  “That and more, I’d wager,” said the baron, dipping his head to her.

  “Indeed,” said Simon.

  “Darling,” said Cornelia to her husband, “might you pour us a glass of sherry?”

  “Of course, my dear.” Ignoring the footman standing by the door, the baron proceeded to where the decanters of liquor were lined up on a sideboard. Cornelia followed him. “And aren’t you a vision tonight in blue, my dear? I quite like that gown on you.”

  “Which is why I chose to wear it this evening, my lord.”

  Claire was vaguely aware Cornelia and her husband had stepped to the edge of the room, and though she could hear their conversation, she had eyes only for Simon. He had donned a chocolate silk coat and breeches with a waistcoat of gold brocade over his crisp, white linen shirt and cravat. His golden hair was neatly gathered at his nape with a black velvet ribbon. He looked every bit the young lord his parentage would have made him had his father not abandoned his mother.

  No matter his beginnings, Claire was proud of what he’d become. He had accomplished much with no help save his own efforts and the guilt money from his father. He had gained the respect of his men and, likely, his country for his role in the war. Somewhere underneath it all she sensed the pain he harbored from his past, a pain that kept him distant from others. She did not want him to remain distant from her.

  It was love she was feeling she realized sadly. A love that could never be.

  “You are very beautiful tonight, mademoiselle,” he said, setting his brandy on the mantel. Closing the distance between them, he took her gloved hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, sending ripples of pleasure coursing through her.

  “Thank you, Captain. And you are very dashing tonight. ’Twould seem London has been good for you.”

  “I can wear the costume when I must.” He winked at her and she knew he was thinking of the night they had met in Saint-Denis, the night she’d fallen from a tree.

  She decided not to allow his amusement at her girlish behavior to rouse her anger. “It suits you,” she said.

  Lord Danvers carried a glass of sherry to her and she happily accepted it, taking a swallow of the dry, nutty-tasting wine. She needed courage for the evening.

  Simon stood at the edge of the room watching the guests cluster around the beautiful French girl who, to all appearances, was practiced at her charms, handily trading quips with London’s elite. Simon had anticipated that she would be the object of much male attention among those invited to the soirée, but he did not have to like it.

  Underneath her carefree manner, he suspected she was still the innocent, convent-raised girl he’d met two years ago. Not as reckless and perhaps a bit wiser, but still innocent. She was blossoming into womanhood and the realization he would never see her as a mother of her own children or the grand hostess she would one day become hit him with a wave of remorse. If she had her way and returned to the convent, none of it would ever be. That he might want her to have children and they be his own was something he’d not fully admitted, even to himself.

  The parlor was crowded with members of London’s aristocracy, guests of Lord and Lady Danvers. Clearly, the young British lord and his American wife were well liked by members of the ton. That they had a friend who was a known privateer, rumored to be the bastard of an English nobleman, was just another interesting tidbit for conversation. He suspected some of the women who openly flirted with him believed him a rogue.

  Lady Willowby, a young widow, who’d been looking at him over her fan all evening, sidled up to him then.

  “Captain Powell,” the pretty brunette said, touching her fan to his arm, “you are a welcome sight.”

  “Good evening, Lady Willowby.”

  At his use of her title, she gave a disappointed pout. “Are we not good enough friends for you to call me Amanda?”

  “I should hardly think that proper,” he returned, wanting to use the formality to keep her at a distance.

  She moved closer until her rounded softness touched his arm. He could feel the heat of her breast through his coat sleeve. “But we don’t have to be proper, you and I,” she whispered behind her fan. “My carriage awaits outside.”

  That she would think he would jump at the chance to get beneath her skirts rankled. A year ago, perhaps, but not now. “I have a guest to look after,” he said stiffly.

  “Ah yes, the young French woman.” She looked to where Claire was talking with several young men. “But she appears to be occupied with her many admirers.”

  Simon inwardly cringed at the reminder. “Just the reason I must keep watch.”

  “Like an older brother?” Lady Willowby batted her eyelashes in feigned interest.

  He chuckled. “Just so.” Let the woman think what she would. But he was no older brother and he kept watch over Claire as much for his own sake as for hers.

  “Well, then,” said Lady Willowby, turning to leave, “another time, perhaps.”

  He tipped his head and smiled as she joined the crush. He had long ago stopped caring what such women thought of him or what the members of the ton whispered.

  Because she was American, Lady Danvers had once been a subject of gossip, or so she had told him. But that had changed in recent years with her husband’s port-drinking Whigs who were sympathetic to America’s desire for independence. And since they expected to soon be at peace with France, none held Claire’s nationality against her. Like French food, fashions and brandy, she was another novelty to be examined and enjoyed. Why such a young woman wa
s in London at this particular time was a matter of some speculation among the guests, but Cornelia came up with a convincing story of a distant relation that everyone seemed to accept.

  He lifted a glass of champagne from the tray offered by the passing footman but refused the puffed pastry with beef and mushrooms. Sipping the golden liquid, he kept his eyes on Claire.

  “You could ask her to dance,” said Cornelia, joining him. “And perhaps you should. See the man just approaching her? He is the young Duke of Albany, just come into his title on the death of his father. He’ll be looking for a wife soon. I understand he has ties to Scotland, and through them, to the French. You might want to be careful about leaving her alone with him too long.”

  “Matchmaking, Cornelia? A bastard and a future nun seem hardly a pair.” Even as he said it, the hard truth grated. He could never compete with a duke, or any member of the nobility.

  “Now there you’d be wrong,” she said, rapping her fan on his arm. “Claire would care not a whit for your beginnings, Simon. She does not judge men that way. Of course, her father presents a problem.”

  “And do not forget it is my crew he holds captive. She is my guarantee they will be safely returned.”

  “I have not forgotten,” said the baroness, “and neither has Claire. Still, I’d like to see her remain in London. Can you not arrange that? I’ve quite gotten used to her company, you know.”

  “I do not think that possible.” Simon said nothing more. What was there to say? Cornelia had accurately summed up the whole affair. Claire’s father, his men, their ridiculous situation.

  “Well,” Cornelia whispered conspiratorially, “when the music starts, I suggest you be the first to offer Claire your arm. Or be content to have some young rake claim her.”

  At his frown, Cornelia sallied forth to join her guests. The baroness knew just how to stir his discontent.

  A moment later, William Eden, attired in his customary shades of brown, replaced Cornelia at Simon’s side.

  “Finally alone. Good. I was hoping for a word.”

  Simon raised his brow as he lifted his champagne to his lips.

  “When do you leave?”

  “I sail for Rye as soon as my ship is loaded, tomorrow or the next day.”

  Eden directed his gaze to the object of Simon’s attention. “And you take the mademoiselle with you?”

  “I do.” What scheme was forming in Eden’s mind now? “I would not leave her behind when I need her for the exchange.”

  “Ah yes,” said Eden, tugging his waistcoat down. “The exchange. I’d like to have word of the arrangements when they are made. ’Twould be a perfect time to capture the French pirate.”

  Simon nearly choked on his champagne. “It hardly seems the done thing, to coin a phrase of the ton. You would allow me to set up a prisoner exchange as a means to betray the trust implied? He may be our enemy, Eden, but I’ll not do it. Besides, something is bound to go wrong and my men, unarmed and weakened by wounds, might be killed. Not to mention the girl. No, I like it not. And I’m surprised that you would risk provoking an incident on the heels of negotiations just commencing with the Americans.”

  “I will think on it more, but the idea appeals.”

  “I gave my word.”

  “To a pirate, one who serves the enemy, I might add.” Eden smirked.

  Simon’s mouth twisted in a scowl. He did not intend to give Eden the chance to involve him in that kind of duplicity. Claire’s father would only think worse of him than he already did.

  “No longer a pirate, he is a privateer as am I.” In the distance, Simon heard the music begin. “Excuse me,” he said to Eden, “I must see to my guest.” With that, he left the statesman and strode to Claire just as some young buck was about to ask her to dance.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, offering her his arm, “This is our dance, I believe.”

  Chapter 14

  Claire was startled for only a moment and then she allowed her pleasure to show, no matter his lie. “Of course, Captain Powell, how could I forget?” Making her apologies to the young man with whom she’d been speaking, whose expression made clear his displeasure at being cut out, Claire took the captain’s arm and followed him to where the others had just begun dancing.

  It was the same minuet she had watched him dance at the masquerade. Only now it was her hand he held as he adroitly stepped through the paces. And it was her he was smiling at. Joy rose in her heart. However fleeting it might be, she would not regret this moment. It was a memory no one could take from her.

  “It seems you are forever sweeping me away to a place I’d not intended to go,” she teased. “But this time, you have allowed me to realize a fantasy I’ve had since the night of the masquerade.” At his questioning look, she added, “To dance with the charming golden eagle.”

  He chuckled. “I have not worn that costume since. It’s somewhere with my things in Rye.” At her puzzled look, he said, “I’ve a house there when I want to be off the ship.”

  “You did not think to leave me there when you sailed for London?”

  “No, I never considered leaving you behind, mademoiselle.” The longing she thought she saw in his eyes told her there might be more to his keeping her with him than her role in recovering his men.

  Perhaps he cares a little, after all.

  Claire felt the eyes of the other guests upon them as they danced together. She was a curiosity, as was the captain, he the bastard of an English nobleman, she a Catholic descended from French nobility. But she never saw herself as nobility, though Cornelia had told her the English would see her that way. In so many ways, she still felt like the convent student she had been for most of her life, ignorant of the schemes and flirtations that swirled around her. Compared to these worldly London aristocrats, she must seem like a girl playing at acting the lady. In the arms of Simon Powell, she felt protected. She was grateful for his daring, to ask her to dance before the whole glittering, London crowd. Well, she could be daring, too. They would be notorious together—the French convent girl and the bastard.

  The sisters in Saint-Denis had taught her to think of others as equally loved by God. Honor and kindness would always mean more to her than position and power. And she was certain Captain Powell was a man of honor.

  The room seemed to disappear in a blur as he smoothly led her through the steps of the dance. He was so handsome and tonight, he looked only at her. She had seen the women’s eyes following him even as they gossiped behind their fans. She felt oddly protective of him, not wishing him to be hurt by their wagging tongues. What did it matter with so brave and daring a man how he had begun? Was it not how a man ended that mattered?

  She raised her chin a bit higher, determined to show them all how fine a man it was with whom she danced, glad he would be her first partner for the evening.

  Hours later, Claire had danced many dances, more than one of them with Simon Powell. When the guests finally began to leave, Claire was fighting a yawn. Only nibbling on the sweetmeats, candied fruits and sugared nuts set out for the guests on the sideboard had kept her awake.

  When the last guest had bid Cornelia and her husband goodnight, Claire and the captain were left standing beside their hosts, with only a footman attending the door.

  “You were quite the rage, Claire,” said an excited Cornelia. “We enjoyed introducing you to our friends, didn’t we, my lord?”

  “Indeed we did, darling,” said the handsome, young baron. “And they enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle,” he said to Claire. “The Countess of Huntingdon—who I was surprised to see accepted our invitation now that she’s reached the great age of seventy—remarked to me that she was most impressed with your devotion to God.”

  “I enjoyed meeting the countess. Such an amazing woman and she has done much good with all the chapels she has caused to be built.”

  “Yes,” said the baron, “her building projects are prolific.”

  “Had we not told our friends you were leaving
London,” said Cornelia, “you would have many calling cards stacked up on our silver tray come the next few days.”

  The captain frowned. “Just as well we sail shortly.” He took her elbow and directed her to the wide staircase in the entry. “I will see you to your door.”

  She paused, turning to look back at Cornelia and her husband. “Bonne nuit, and thank you for the lovely evening.”

  The captain was at her side as she ascended the stairs, his tall figure a comfort.

  “You danced every dance,” he said. “The men of London Society were lined up for a chance to meet you.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was complimenting or chiding her. “It will probably be the last time I dance. I did not want to miss any,” she said by way of explanation. I want memories to take with me.

  “Ah yes, the convent,” he said. “I’d nearly forgotten.”

  Claire could not tell for certain but thought he was teasing her. He knew well her story and her plans. What he didn’t know was that her heart was no longer in them.

  At the top of the stairs he guided her toward the wing that held their bedchambers. “Some sleep will do you good,” he said, pausing in front of her door, “though dawn is not far off.”

  It was true, she was exhausted, but she did not feel like sleeping. She wanted to watch the dawn with him, to have another memory of this special night before she returned to her papa.

  He opened her door and gestured her inside. She took his hand and pulled him in with her. “I don’t want to say bonne nuit to you just yet.”

  “This is dangerous, mademoiselle.”

  When she said nothing, he hesitated, but then closed the door. The maid must have lit the candle when she’d turned down the cover of the bed. The candle’s soft light behind her lighted his face.