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

by Walker, Regan

  “She is safe. After I unloaded the English prisoners, I hid her well. Once you and the little one are gone, I will take the men who are here and sail to Dieppe. By the time you reach Paris, I will be there.”

  “Very well.” He looked at his daughter, sheltered beneath his arm. “Come, Claire. This may not be pleasant and I would spare you.”

  Simon lifted his spyglass to scrutinize the approaching frigate. “Eden!” Damn the man. This could only be his doing.

  “What’s going on, Simon?” asked Wingate.

  “It’s Eden, my contact in London. He must have sent the frigate hoping to capture Donet. I knew he was up to something, damn him.” Simon anxiously looked toward the shore. “I must block the frigate’s access to the harbor so Claire and her father can get away.”

  “You would aid Donet?”

  “’Tis a matter of honor—my own. And there is more, but I have no time now to explain.” Leaving Wingate with a perplexed look on his face, Simon strode to the helm, yelling as he moved aft, “All hands on deck! Stand by to make sail!”

  “Right now, sir?” queried his first mate as he passed him.

  “Yes, damn it—now!” Then to his crew, “Ready the mainsail halyard! Ready the foresail halyards! Stand by to cast off moorings!”

  Confusion reigned for only a moment, then quick as lightning, his crew not already at their stations rushed to their places.

  From amidships, Jordan shouted, “Mooring lines manned and ready! Halyards manned and ready.”

  Simon bellowed, “Cast off the bow line! Cast off the stern line! Haul away the halyards! Haul away smartly, men!” His heart pounding in his chest as the frigate moved closer, Simon shouted, “Fill those sheets with wind!”

  As the sails went up, the mooring lines splashed into the water and the Fairwinds slanted off the wharf, heading straight for the incoming frigate.

  Taking the wheel from the helmsman, Simon gripped the spokes, staring intently at the looming warship, alert to any change of course. The frigate drove on, straight toward the Fairwinds. Half a dozen startled faces popped up above the frigate’s rails.

  Simon grinned and held the wheel steady.

  From the frigate came a shout. “Bear off! Bear off, you grass-combing lubber!”

  “You bear off, you slab-sided scow!” Simon barked back.

  “Damn you, sir. Damn you for a pig-headed… ” The bellowing voice of the frigate captain broke off cursing and rose again in a volley of commands. “Hands to the sheets! Let fly the headsails! Let fly, I say!” The big triangular jibs sagged and spilled their wind. The frigate veered off the wind, slowing as it turned, like a lumbering wagon with a broken wheel.

  As soon as he heard the shouted orders, Simon spun the wheel hard to port and held his breath. The nimble schooner turned on a shilling and shot past the frigate with mere feet to spare.

  Above the rail of the frigate’s tall quarterdeck, a red-faced captain wearing the familiar blue frock coat with a gold epaulette on each shoulder shook his fist in the air.

  Simon laughed and gave him a wave as the Fairwinds caught the wind and flew away, gathering speed as she left the harbor behind.

  As the euphoria wore off, Simon’s heart sank at the grim realization of what he’d left behind in Calais: His heart and the azure-eyed, French girl who held it in the palm of her hand.

  From the top of the hill where the carriage waited, Claire gazed back at the two ships in the harbor. “Papa, look! The English ship is stalled.”

  Her papa set his cocked hat on his head and stared into the distance where the schooner glided away from the frigate and its flapping sails. “It would appear you are right, my dear.”

  “See, Papa. I told you Simon Powell would not betray us. His honor would not allow it.” Pride welled in her chest as tears filled her eyes. He was daring, her golden one.

  “In war, Claire, one man’s honor is another man’s shame. He may pay for that maneuver with his superiors in London. But I must concede the English captain has done me a favor this day.”

  Claire’s heart had been in her throat when the frigate nearly collided with the schooner. But when the Fairwinds sailed away, silhouetted against the muted colors of the fading sky, the sun having set below the horizon, she brought her fisted hand to her mouth and let the tears fall.

  Farewell, my love.

  Chapter 19

  Paris

  Claire was home, yet Paris didn’t feel quite like home anymore. After hearing only English for so long, her native tongue sounded odd to her ears now that she was surrounded by people speaking only French. Despite the profusion of flowers and color she had always loved, she found herself missing the ship, and more, the face of its captain.

  After the tumultuous events in Calais, she and her papa had spent that night at an inn, sharing a meal and the joy of being reunited. The next day, rain had followed them as they traveled south to Amiens. Inside the carriage, a cold, damp chill wrapped itself around her, matching her mood. After another long day on the road, the sky cleared as they neared Paris, leaving a few white clouds floating listlessly in a blue expanse.

  Across the carriage, her papa smiled. “Since I saw you last, I have purchased a townhouse in Paris knowing you will most likely be here from now on. I want to be close enough to see you from time to time.”

  Claire felt her future rushing toward her, a future she didn’t want. “Papa, there is no need for haste, is there? Surely we can have some time together before I must marry?” Claire would put it off forever if she could, but she knew her papa would not. He had already selected the man who would be her husband.

  “It will be a few weeks before the wedding can be arranged, but I want you to meet your betrothed. He’ll want that time to court you, I am certain. And you must be fitted for your wedding gown and trousseau. I would like you to have the wedding that was denied your mother.”

  Claire could muster no enthusiasm for a grand affair, particularly if Simon Powell was not her intended. But she knew it would make her papa happy, so she did not question his plans.

  She glanced out the window as the carriage drove through the porte cochère of an elegant, stone townhouse to a landscaped, inner courtyard. Balconies on the second and third stories were railed with scrolling wrought iron. It was so different from her childhood home on the hillside in Lorient she had difficulty picturing her papa here. Of course, he had been raised among aristocrats so, at one time, he must have been used to such opulence.

  A footman opened the carriage door and her papa stepped out, then helped her down. “I know the journey has been long, Claire, so I’d suggest you rest this evening. I’ve hired a maid who will see to your needs. Tomorrow you have an appointment with the modiste and in the evening, we will dine with certain men of influence and some of my friends. And your betrothed, of course.”

  A footman held open the door to the townhouse and they entered, her papa still speaking. “I’ve invited the American commissioner, M’sieur Franklin, our Foreign Minister, the comte de Vergennes and the provost of Paris, Antoine-Louis de Caumartin. Your betrothed, François de Dordogne, is anxious to meet you.”

  She had heard of the American Benjamin Franklin. All of Paris seemed to adore him. But she had not met Vergennes, Caumartin or her betrothed. It was the first time she had heard the name of the man she was to wed and it made her pause. He was now a real person, someone to contend with, not just a vague concept. The prospect of the unwanted marriage settled in her stomach like a bad meal.

  “I’d like to visit the convent—to say goodbye, Papa.”

  “Oui, the Mother Superior would like that. She was understandably upset by what happened to you. Seeing that you are well will give her great comfort.”

  After introductions were made to the butler and to her new maid, Claire retired to her bedchamber, barely noticing the elaborate furnishings. Instead, her thoughts strayed to the Fairwinds. Was McGinnes telling stories of Irish fairies in the galley with Nate listening enrap
tured? Was the ship in Rye, London or somewhere else? Was Simon striding the deck with his golden hair streaming out behind him?

  Did he think of her?

  London

  “The skipper’s turned into a curmudgeon!” McGinnes huffed, dropping the wooden spoon into the kettle, splashing the dark brown broth from the stew onto his work table.

  “Nay, he’s a man in love,” said Elijah sitting on a stool nursing a mug of coffee, his pipe lying across his thigh. “Worse than a wounded bear. Everyone’s celebratin’ the return of the Abundance’s crew ’cept the cap’n who made it happen. He sulks.”

  As if he hadn’t heard Elijah’s remark, the Irish cook droned on. “’Tis the second time today he’s sent back his stew. Sure an’ it might be a good thing he stays with his fancy English friends now that we’ve anchored in London.”

  “As I recollect, he intends to do jus’ that,” said Elijah.

  “Sure an’ he even barked at Nate. Poor lad came to see me this mornin’, his face so long ’twere nearly draggin’ on the deck.”

  “Aye, well that may be due to the lad’s fondness for the demoiselle. He misses his mistress.”

  Ignoring Elijah, the cook persisted in his rant. “… mopin’ around like the lad lost his best friend.”

  “The cap’n’s like a dog deprived of his favorite bone, McGinnes. Snarlin’ at everyone. Ye and Nate are bein’ treated no different than the rest of us. Ye could show a bit more understandin’.”

  “Well, if’n that’s the way of it, he should just go get her.”

  “’Tis not so easy, that. She’s with her father, the Frenchie, now. Or mebbe the nuns, now that I think o’ it.”

  Climbing into Danvers’ carriage with his friend, Simon left Whitehall in a foul mood, still smarting from Eden’s stinging rebuke, one that Simon considered totally unjustified. He’d refused to apologize for interfering with Eden’s unforgivable action in sending a warship into Calais. It could have spelled disaster had he not been there to intervene. An image of gunfire on the wharf and Claire falling to the wooden planks, wounded, filled him with dread.

  “You need not fret. Eden will return to his good-natured self in time.”

  “Good-natured? Surely you jest. The man’s insane,” Simon returned.

  “He’s got a lot on his mind these days. The treaty negotiations have him worried. The prime minister rejoices in the rumor that the Americans will abandon their friends in France, but Eden’s suspicious.”

  “As tight as America and France have been, according to the Scribe, I’d be suspicious, too,” he grudgingly admitted. “Perhaps Lord Shelburne is too trusting.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of the Danvers’ townhouse and Simon stepped down, waiting for his friend.

  “Cornelia will want us to join her for afternoon tea. You’ll not disappoint her?”

  “I shall not,” Simon said, though he knew it would commit him to at least an hour of chatter. Then, too, Cornelia might ask about Claire. What could he say?

  Soon the three of them were seated in the parlor with a tray of small sandwiches and sugared cakes.

  Cornelia, who sat across from him, set down her cup. “I wonder if Claire is yet wed.”

  “Wed?” Simon nearly spit out his tea, the porcelain cup clattering against the saucer. “I thought she was returning to the convent.”

  Cornelia gave him an incredulous look. “However did you get that idea? Oh, I know Claire thought at one time to become a nun, but it was clear to me her heart was not in it. And, it seemed her father had other plans. Why, he even had someone picked out for her.” Her gaze assessing him, she added, “By the time she left, Claire realized she was not suited for the cloistered life.”

  Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  Studying her nails, Cornelia said, “A lawyer, I think. Someone in Paris.”

  It was one thing to let her go to a convent because of a vow made to a dying girl. It was quite another to send her into the arms of a suitor. What kind of a man was he? One more worthy of her? “Do you have a name?”

  Cornelia looked up, unfazed. “Alas, no.” At her side, Danvers munched on a sandwich, seemingly indifferent to Simon’s predicament.

  “I see.”

  With a heavy heart, Simon returned to his ship that evening, and had Jordan call together his men who’d had been in contact with Donet. Wingate and Busby had been the Frenchman’s prisoners and both Elijah and Giles had been in Paris to arrange the exchange. Once they were seated around his table, he asked them, “Did Donet or his man, Bequel, ever speak of a lawyer in Paris to whom Claire Donet was betrothed?”

  The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

  “The subject never came up, Cap’n,” said Elijah. “Bequel asked after the girl, ’o course, and Giles told him she was bein’ looked after, that no harm had come to her.”

  Giles nodded his agreement.

  “None of us in Lorient were in a position to hear of such news,” said Wingate.

  “I want to know who this lawyer is,” Simon coolly replied. “I’ll not see her with a man who would not treat her well,” he murmured.

  “Our contacts in Paris can tell us,” said Elijah chewing on the end of his unlit pipe.

  Simon turned to Wingate. “I’d ask you to stay in London to find us a ship to replace the Abundance. Make sure your idle crew is paid as we’ll soon need them.”

  Wingate nodded. “Aye, I’ll see it done.”

  Simon rose and walked toward the small windows, looking south toward France. “We were going to Paris for Eden; now ’tis urgent I go for more. I won’t be left in the dark about this man Donet has chosen for his daughter.” His mind whirring with plans, he turned to face his men, his jaw set in firm determination. “And, John, I’ll need a favor from Lord Danvers. It’s just a contingency, but he’ll understand when he gets the message. I’d ask you to deliver it.”

  Wingate nodded. “Of course.”

  Giles opened his mouth to speak and then paused as if he suddenly remembered something. “Cap’n, when Elijah and I were in Paris, we spent some time in a tavern that is a favorite spot for lawyers.”

  “Ye’d not believe the dandies that traipsed through there,” said Elijah grimacing. “Enough fancy dress to make ye sick.”

  “Then we’ll begin our search there,” said Simon. “Load what supplies we need. We sail with the tide.”

  Paris

  Claire felt like she was sleepwalking, going through the motions of living while detached from everything around her. She’d been to Mass that morning and made her confession before going to the modiste’s with her maid. Thus, her conscience was clear, but her thoughts were still a world away when the guests began arriving for dinner. Even the beautiful wedding gown her papa had ordered for her had not improved her outlook.

  Her papa’s salon, an ornately decorated room with red ceiling and gilded panel walls, soon filled with the chatter of men and women from very different walks of life: statesmen, business partners of her papa and their wives and some of her papa’s men who were dressed as gentlemen for the evening, including Émile Bequel, who she had learned was her papa’s quartermaster. The language spoken was French and the praise for her papa’s new townhouse effusive.

  She knew which man was François de Dordogne the moment he stepped into the room. He was the only one under thirty. In appearance, he was slender, almost feminine. The finely tailored, black coat he wore over an elaborately embroidered ivory satin waistcoat suggested a narrow frame beneath. There was much lace at his neck and wrists. He was not much taller than she, and his sable-colored hair hung to his shoulders framing features delicate enough for a woman. Still, for all that, he had a pleasant face, his skin pale and smooth with no hard lines suggesting cruelty or arrogance. She had to remind herself he was a lawyer. A sigh escaped her. He was so different from the men of the Fairwinds and their ruggedly handsome captain with his skin rendered golden by the sun.

  François de Dordogne l
ooked more like a poet, or a tutor of the violin. A man who worked inside all day with paper, quills and words, she reminded herself. She wondered if he’d ever been on a ship.

  “Claire, allow me to present M’sieur Dordogne,” her papa said.

  The young man took her outstretched hand in his slim fingers, several of which bore rings with glittering jewels, and bowed gracefully. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. Given our pending nuptials, you may call me François.”

  He gave her a smile, but it was a cool one. There was a decided lack of warmth in his brown eyes. And no glimmer of interest either, or any hint of amusement. In fact, she detected no emotion at all. He seemed almost… bored, like he was meeting a total stranger on the street, rather than his betrothed. At least he was refined, she reflected. But even as she had the thought, it struck her that his demeanor was more like that of a dilettante, politesse for a mere show of manners, rather than from any sort of respect for her as a person or desire for her as a woman. Her heart sank. She tried to think of something comforting, something positive. Perhaps he will not be unkind.

  He made a few pleasantries, saying he looked forward to some time with her. She nodded her agreement, all the while feeling guilty knowing she could never give François de Dordogne her heart. But perhaps he would not expect it. Arranged marriages were often merely alliances for land and wealth.

  As Dordogne sauntered away, she exchanged a somber look with her papa, and saw the disappointment in his eyes at the lack of any spark in her first encounter with her betrothed.

  The din of the conversation among the guests faded into the background as Claire found herself longing for a moving deck, the wind off the Channel and a schooner captain with golden hair shouting orders to his men. The sigh that escaped her lips was involuntary, but not unnoticed.

  “Claire, are you all right?”

  “Yes, Papa, just tired, I think.” And weary of the evening before it has begun.