To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (17 page)

“Your father is a privateer for France?”

“His ship was flying the American flag when I saw it last.”

“Hmm,” said the captain under his breath. “Perhaps he has a
letter of marque from Dr. Franklin. I’d heard he was issuing some to French
ships. Your father’s efforts on America’s behalf are most welcome,
mademoiselle.”

In the minutes that followed, in between chatting with his
men, they talked about the war. “I do not know much of the battles,” she told
him, “but I have heard from the baroness the war draws to a close and
negotiations for peace have begun.”

“Yes, according to what we’ve heard, that news is all over
London.” Looking wistfully into the distance, he said, “Perhaps next Christmas,
if not this one, we will be home.”

“I shall pray toward that end, Captain.”

With the assistance of one of the footmen and Captain Field,
Claire distributed the clothing they had brought for the men. Afterward, Claire
and Cornelia set out the food the footmen had carried in from the carriage.
Those who could walk gathered around the table. To the others, Claire carried
cold, sliced beef, along with bread, fruit and cheese. They ate as if starved.
To her way of thinking, they were all too thin.

“Do they get enough to eat?” she asked Cornelia.

“Now they do. I try and fatten them up before they are sent
to other prisons. ’Tis not so bad as it was a few years ago, before the relief
committee got involved. Now they have bread, meat and some kind of vegetable,
often cabbage or turnips. A few years ago, they only had oatmeal or broth. Not
enough to keep a grown man filling out his clothes.”

Claire’s heart went out to the American seamen, some of them
barely out of boyhood. “How fare your sick and injured?” she asked Captain
Field.

“As well as can be expected in this place. Better now with
blankets and decent food,” said the American, giving a nod of acknowledgment to
Cornelia.

“Might I see them?”

Captain Field seemed momentarily flustered at the insistent
look in her eyes, but reluctantly bowed in the face of her calm demeanor. He
swept a hand toward the back of the warehouse where the light barely penetrated
and a clot of men occupied the dirt floor.

“Oh,” said Claire softly as she approached. The wretched
state of the men was quickly apparent.

“You see, mademoiselle, it’s not pleasant.”

Claire brushed past him, her face softening with concern at
the bloodstained linen and soiled bandages. In a matter of minutes, she had
secured clean bandaging from Cornelia and bent to help the wounded men,
changing their bandages and doing what she could to cheer them. One in
particular tugged at her heart.

“What’s your name?” she asked the young seaman.

“Alexander Monroe,” he said rather shyly. Perhaps he did not
often encounter women. “But everyone on Cap’n Field’s ship called me ‘Sandy’.”

“What did you do on the captain’s ship, Sandy?”

“I’m his cabin boy,” the lad proudly replied.

She couldn’t resist smiling at his cherubic face. Like her,
he had blue eyes but his hair was a light brown. Her gaze drifted to the linen
wrapped around his arm. It was dirty. “Can I change your bandage?”

“All right,” he said, holding out his arm rather
tentatively.

She thought she saw him wince in anticipation of being
touched. “It still pains you?”

“Aye, a little.”

As Claire unwrapped the soiled linen from his upper arm, she
had to bite her tongue to avoid gasping at the deep irregular wound that was
revealed. It would have hurt more than a little when it happened and likely
still did. “I’ll be careful, Sandy. It seems to be healing.” She said the
latter to encourage him. In truth, it would take a long time to heal.

“I don’t mind when you touch it, miss. But the man who first
tended it was not so gentle.” Sandy was such a sweet boy, she had to fight the
urge to take him into her arms and hold him as his mother might have done were
she here, but she knew he would not welcome such attention in front of his
fellow sailors.

She cleaned the wound, dabbed on the ointment one of the
footmen brought her and wound a strip of clean linen around his arm. “There.
Now it’s clean again and the ointment will speed the healing. You’ll be good as
new before long.”

“That’s what the cap’n says.” He beamed. The boy obviously
admired his young captain. She wondered if Captain Field wasn’t like a father
to the lad.

“Do you have a family back in America?”

“Aye, miss, my mother and a younger sister, Katie.”

She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and squeezed his
small hand in hers. “The war will be over soon, Sandy, and you’ll be going home
to them.” Claire hoped it was the truth. She had to force herself not to cry,
for the lad had stirred her heart.

There were a few others whose bandages she changed but none
affected her more than the cabin boy. Though his accent was different, he
reminded her of Nate. She would feel the same remorse had Simon Powell’s cabin
boy been wounded.

Hours passed as she listened to the men’s stories of home
and the families they sorely missed. She understood, missing her papa as she
did. She felt a pang of regret for what had happened to these men. Even though
she was a captive, she was so much better off than they were. Still, they were
alive and many were not.

“You should have seen her,” Cornelia told Simon as she handed
him a brandy while they waited for Danvers in the baron’s study later that day.

His gaze drifted toward the open door and the direction of
the staircase. Upstairs, his captive changed for supper. He had not talked to
her since the night before when he had come to her bedchamber to calm her
fears.

“By the time we left the warehouse, the Yankee sailors were
calling her ‘the French angel’. Now that I think of it, Captain Field seemed
quite smitten with her. She was just the thing to lift the prisoners’ lagging
spirits.”

“Really, Cornelia. Do you think that was wise?” Simon was
not pleased. “A young innocent like Claire Donet in a room full of American
sailors—
prisoners
?”

“Why, Simon, you sound like Danvers.” There was a gleam in
her eyes. “You also sound jealous. Has she captured your heart as well?”

“Not at all,” he protested, but he thought of the night
before when he’d comforted her after her nightmare. The wild Claire Donet had
turned into an angel in his arms. “I am merely concerned about the security of
my hostage. The life of my men depends on her remaining safe and in my hands.”

“She was never in any danger, Simon. Besides, Claire seemed to
enjoy being useful.”

“Who is this Captain Field anyway, and what was she doing
with him? You were gone nearly all day.”

“Captain Field is a privateer like you, except he’s an
American, from Baltimore, as am I,” the baroness reminded him. “Claire was assisting
me, changing bandages, listening to the men’s stories of their families and
handing out food, clothes and blankets.”

He took another swallow of brandy, satisfied the burn in his
throat had quenched his anger for the moment. “Ah yes, that charity work you
do.”

“Quite. And before you ask, Danvers approves. He was
appalled at how badly the Americans were treated. I daresay it continues in
some places, but at least in London we no longer treat them like dogs. Claire
did the prisoners a good turn today, Simon.”

“Do you intend to do this again soon? We will be gone in
less than a week.”

“Tomorrow morning, yes. I promised to bring them paper for
letters and a few newspapers.”

“Surely a footman can take them?”

“He could,” the baroness agreed, “but some need their
letters written for them—and we make sure the letters arrive in America.
Besides, you know the American sailors would not derive the same joy from
seeing one of my footmen as they would from seeing Claire and me.”

Simon scowled at the baroness’ impish grin. He had no
meetings in the morning. Perhaps he would accompany them to see this Captain
Field for himself if for no other reason than to prove there was no cause for
this annoying flash of jealousy he suddenly felt picturing Claire tending the
man’s wounded crew. Perhaps the American captain was short, fat and ugly.

“If you’re to leave in so short a time, Simon, I will have
to arrange the soirée immediately.”

“Ah yes, the soirée. However did I forget?” he asked in
feigned innocence. An evening with members of the aristocracy was something to
be endured, not something he looked forward to.

Cornelia slapped his hand. “You rogue. You’ll be as charming
as ever despite yourself, and Claire will be the envy of every woman there.
Just wait till you see her new gown! By the by, I do not intend to mention how
she came to be here, only that she is our guest, so I expect you to say nothing
of it.”

Paris

François de Dordogne turned away from his friends who were
enjoying a sumptuous dinner of salad, roast chicken and artichokes in the private
dining room of the popular
taverne
Ramponneau
in Paris.

Lifting his new snuffbox from the pocket of his ruby silk
coat, he briefly ran his beringed finger over its top, admiring the sparkling
diamonds inlaid in the polished black enamel. Raising the lid, he smiled just
as he had when Jacques had presented the gift to him the night before in
celebration of their year-old relationship. Painted inside were the words
gage
d'amitié
, a token of friendship. It was a token of much more than that, but
only his closest, likeminded friends were aware of the intimate relationship he
shared with
Jacques Régis.

“Is that the new trinket,
François? Let
us see,” said Pierre, reaching out with his open hand.

“If I must.” He set the box on his friend’s palm, the
diamonds reflecting the candlelight and sending glimmers of light dancing
around the room. “But do take care.”

Pierre turned the box in his hand, capturing the light. “Oh,
it is lovely. He does treat you well, François.” Pierre showed the box to his
partner with a hopeful look that seemed to convey a desire to receive such a
gift. Apparently not finding the assurance he sought, Pierre sighed and handed
the snuffbox down the table to
Étienne who studied it for a
moment before returning it to
François.

“What has Jacques to say of your betrothal to Donet’s
daughter?” asked
Étienne as he leaned against his latest lover, a
man named Louis, some fifteen years his senior.

“He is pleased I shall have a convincing cover
for our friendship. How could anyone question my manhood with a wife like
Mam’selle Donet, who is rumored to be a great beauty?”

“Though we all know you’re more interested in
her gowns and jewels than in her face,” said Pierre.

“If it were me,” counseled Étienne, “I’d be cautious.
Should Donet discover your ruse, the man will have your head on a pike. He may
be the son of a comte, but that one has a dark side. What I see behind his
black eyes gives me chills. I’d not want to cross him.”

“Perhaps I can manage to get a child on her,”
said
François, speaking his thought aloud. “That would be convincing,
oui
?”
It might be necessary, too, he thought, though being with a woman in that way
did not appeal to him and Jacques would not like it.

“Her dowry would be worth the effort,” Pierre encouraged. “I
hear Donet’s as rich as Croesus.”

“I have heard the same,” agreed François. In fact, it was
one reason he had quickly agreed to the match.

An hour later he and his friends glided out of the back room
and into the busy tavern crowded with artisans, shopkeepers, lawyers and
libertines. Few knew the private dining room they had left was often reserved
by a particular group of men who preferred their own company to that of women.
Men whose fashion would label them macaronies for the flamboyant way they
dressed. Those of a harsher mind, aware of their proclivities, would say they
were guilty of
débauche contre nature
,
sodomie
or worse. Paris
was home to so many, unless there was another crime involved, the police rarely
did more than issue a warning when one of them was discovered.

Donet would be a different matter, however. Were Donet to
learn of his affair with Jacques, François’ career in law—and perhaps his
life—would soon be over.

Elijah set down his wine and picked up his pipe, his mouth
dropping open at the fops strolling from the back room of the tavern. “Will ye
look at ’em Frenchies paradin’ our way?”

Giles casually looked over his shoulder at the dandies
slowly making their way through the long, crowded room. “Aye, frog-eaters every
one. Enough lace to open a shop.”

Elijah puffed on his pipe, then pulled it from his mouth.
“Good thing the rest o’ the crew ain’t with us. They’d be laughin’ their heads
off. ’Twould draw too much attention.”

“Paris is crawling with English just now,” offered Giles,
whose back was to the dandies. “The locals would not consider our presence
strange even if the crew were here laughing above the din.” The sailmaker
brushed his reddish-brown hair off his forehead. “Trust me, the only thing that
stirs the French these days is joy in criticizing their king.”

“Speakin’ of strange,” said Elijah, shifting his attention
from the fops back to Giles, “I thought the meetin’ with the Frenchie’s men
went fine, but that quartermaster of his made me blood run cold. The man looked
like the devil hisself, all dark scowl and frown, like a storm breakin’.”

“I doubt he believed my assurances that Donet’s daughter has
been treated well. I had the impression Émile Bequel
was of a mind to
kill anyone who so much as touched her.”

Elijah sent a puff of smoke into the air, took his pipe from
his mouth and folded his arms over his chest as a picture arose in his mind.
“Not unlike our cap’n. Ye know Powell harbors a fondness fer the demoiselle.”

“Aye. ’Tis obvious as a red sky at morning,” said Giles
downing the last of his claret.

“She’s a match fer ‘im, ’tis certain I am.” Elijah
remembered well her tempest in the cap’n’s cabin and the cap’n’s reaction.
“Fired his blood all right.”

“Aye, but ’tis an unlikely match. Powell would never risk
his men for a bit of French pastry, no matter how enticing.”

Elijah considered the sailmaker’s words. Gesturing with his
pipe stem, he opined, “Mebbe, mebbe not. But mark me words, this one’s
different.”

The effeminate fops paused to speak to some men drinking
nearby. Elijah took in their clothing, all satins and silks with fussy,
embroidered waistcoats and frothy, white lace. Their hair was left hanging in
curls, or done in tortuous, puffed up styles even more exaggerated than the
French aristocrats.

“’Tisn’t proper,” Elijah murmured under his breath.

Giles said nothing but he turned to glance at the fops, his
eyes following them as they resumed their stroll toward the front of the
tavern.

They passed Elijah and he got a whiff of their strong perfume.
It made his eyes smart as the vapors engulfed their table. Even his tobacco
smoke did not hide the strong odor.

Just as the dandies reached the entrance, the rotund
proprietor wiped his hands on his apron and called out, “François!”

One of the fops turned to look back, a young one of slight
frame with long, dark hair hanging loosely to his shoulders.

“
Oui
, Dordogne, I mean you. You have a message here.”
The hefty man picked up an envelope and shoved it forward on the bar.

The dandy ambled his way to the bar, picked up the envelope,
waved to the proprietor and with a “
Merci
,” left with his companions.

Elijah shook his head. “Damn me but those dandies turn me
gizzard sour. Can’t wait to be back in England.” Then returning his gaze to
Giles, he said, “I wonder if the cap’n’s still in London. He’ll be wantin’ to
know the exchange is set for Calais. ’Tis not far off either.”

“We can be in Rye in three days if the weather holds.
That’ll be where he expects to find us.”

Suddenly feeling a need for haste, Elijah rose, settled his
knit cap on his head and dropped some coins on the table. “Aye, ’tis best we be
on our way.”

London

Nervous with anticipation for the evening
ahead, Claire held her hand to her midriff, studying her reflection in the
mirror while Cornelia’s maid pulled the golden gown’s laces tight. This would
be her first soirée
. And likely her last. Since her vow to Élise, she
had never thought to attend one, but Cornelia had insisted.

It might be her only chance to mingle with London’s
beau
monde
. Another adventure before she returned to the convent.
If
she
returned to the convent. Her papa might not allow her that choice. A choice she
was no longer certain she wanted herself.

She straightened the four bows made of gold silk that formed
a column down the front of her bodice to meet the full skirt of the same silk
fabric. The gown was one of those from Mrs. Duval’s, this one copied from the
dress worn by the fashion doll the captain had carried back from Paris. The
sleeves hugged her arms till they flared at her elbows in golden flounces, each
one with several dangling, golden beads. Beneath each flounce was a generous
amount of ivory lace. Never had she worn a gown so fine. At her throat was a
double strand of pearls Cornelia had lent her for the evening.

“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.