To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (14 page)

“Besides, Claire, I want to have a soirée for you and a
worthy gown is needed.”

Claire suddenly felt anxious.
A soirée?

Cornelia must have read her thoughts. “The English admire
much about the French, Claire—their food, their dances, their fashion. Deep
down they know they are poorly garbed compared to the people of Paris. That is
why they ape your fashion. Why, they even teach French to their children! The
war has changed none of that. Do not fret. Our friends will be delighted to
meet you.”

The butler entered carrying the package the captain had
given him earlier. “My lady, Captain Powell has gone to Whitehall to meet with
his lordship. He left this for you.”

The baroness accepted the package wrapped in brown paper,
nearly two feet long, her eyes glistening as she perused it. “I wonder,” she
said. “It’s just about the right size.” Retreating to the bed, she carefully
laid the package on the silk counterpane and removed the wrapping. Her smile
beamed her pleasure. “It is! It’s one of those fashion dolls I asked Simon to
bring me from Paris. My modiste will be thrilled.”

The doll that held Cornelia in rapt attention was quite
amazing. Its head, which appeared to be plaster with glass eyes and painted
features, was exquisitely fashioned. The hair, which was auburn like Cornelia’s,
could have been real. The costume was elaborate, a miniature version of the
gowns Claire had seen on the ladies who’d attended the masquerade two years ago
in Saint-Denis. A gold silk skirt peeked out of a red velvet pelisse trimmed in
what looked like Russian sable.

Cornelia squealed in delight, “Is it not wonderful?”

“It is one of the nicest I have ever seen,” Claire
responded. She had seen several in one of her shopping trips with her papa, but
never one as well made as this one.

When Cornelia removed the pelisse, the gown was revealed in
all its glory. Every detail was perfect, every stitch neatly done. Delicate
lace circled the doll’s neck and hung in two layers from the gold sleeves that
stopped at the doll’s elbow.

“I had heard that, despite the war, English dressmakers sent
their employees to Paris to receive training in the latest fashions,” said
Claire, “but I did not realize the English used the dolls as well.”

Still stroking the doll’s gown, Cornelia said, “The dolls
help our modistes see what the finished gowns should look like. Wisely, the
government has exempted them from embargo. No matter we are at war, we women
must have our fashion!”

Claire awoke the next morning, tired from a night spent
tossing and turning. No longer did she have the soft voices of the nuns singing
at Compline to help her fall asleep. And the nightmares still plagued her.

As she slipped from the bed to her knees to say her morning
prayers, she wondered if the Reverend Mother and Sister Angélique missed her as
she missed them. She had often found convent life confining, yet the sisters
and the other students had been her family for a very long time.

Determined not to let her fatigue spoil her day with the
baroness, she rose, confident a loving God would forgive her failure to attend
Mass, for the lack of it was not of her doing.

Once dressed in her new gown, helped by Cornelia’s maid, she
joined her new friend for breakfast. “Such a fine array of fruit!” she
exclaimed, seeing the large platter of artfully arranged peaches, pears and
figs topped with delectable black grapes. “Wherever do they come from?”

“The Kentish orchards grow many fruits for the London
markets but we also have friends whose extensive kitchen gardens at their
country houses keep us well supplied, and the quality of that is the best.”

“We had very large gardens at the convent,” Claire said
wistfully.

“Do you miss the convent?” the baroness asked, her concern
evident in her russet eyes.

“Sometimes, I do. But ’tis more like a childhood memory.
Though my abduction was not one of them, I’ve had many wonderful experiences
since leaving.” Knowing Simon Powell was their friend, Claire declined to
elaborate on the manner in which she had come to be in England.

“Well, you shall have other memories from your time here,
good memories that will hopefully make you want to stay.”

Stay?
Did she want to stay? At the moment, Claire was
torn. She had a vow to fulfill but her attraction for the English captain was
pulling her farther from France.

Claire smiled at her hostess and selected some fruit and a
warm roll. Not quite the brioche she had eaten on the ship but still very
enjoyable in Cornelia’s company. And the coffee was much needed if she were to
remain alert.

“I’ve still to tell you about our friends invited to the
soirée,” remarked Cornelia.

Cornelia must have been busy if she’d already
been preparing a list of guests. Claire furrowed her brow as she set down her
coffee. Despite Cornelia’s kind words, she was worried the English would not
embrace a French woman among them when their countries were hardly friends.

Cornelia must have observed her reticence. “Do
not fret, Claire. They will adore you. And I haven’t even mentioned the men who
I expect will be gawking at you and the lovely gown you shall wear. Mrs.
Duval’s shop awaits!”

Claire was cheered by her new friend’s assurance the English
would accept her and for Cornelia’s enthusiasm for the day ahead. She’d never
had a woman friend with whom she could shop for ladies’ frippery. On her night
adventures, Élise had been more like a younger sister, someone Claire had to
watch over. A day of shopping with Cornelia would suit her just fine.

Late that morning, they departed for Oxford Street in a
yellow and black landau carriage. Being a pleasant day, Cornelia instructed the
driver to leave the top down. With the driver in front and two footmen standing
on the shelf behind them, they moved along smartly. To Claire, it seemed the
grandest way to travel.

They arrived to find Oxford Street already bustling with
people and carriages. Following her hostess, Claire stepped onto the stone walk
in front of the shops. She had never been able to stroll along a street and
take her time peering into shop windows, except in Saint-Denis, and that was
only a village. When she’d been with her papa in Paris, he was always in a
hurry, in and out of a shop in a minute with no time to peruse the goods on
display. But today, she and Cornelia took their time, strolling along at a
leisurely pace, sharing their delight at all they saw. Claire thought the shops
even more splendid than those in Paris.

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.”

Claire had to confess that Cornelia was probably right. “I
suppose to flee by myself with no idea of where to go would not be wise.”

“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.”