The Falcon and the Sparrow (12 page)

“There’s Grafton House, miss.” Larena pointed to a small store several yards ahead and across the street. A wooden sign hanging from an iron post projecting from the front read G
RAFTON
H
OUSE
D
RAPERS
.

Dominique nodded as the rich aroma of roasting coffee filled her nose like sweet nectar, and she glanced back over her shoulder at a quaint café.

“A coffeehouse. They are quite popular now,” Larena said. “Would you care for some?”

“Nay, but it does smell delicious.” No sooner had she said the words than the stench of rot and sewage ripped the succulent aroma from her nose. Coughing, Dominique turned to see a woman emptying a chamber pot from her second-story window into the alleyway below. It splattered onto the street, sending a spray of sludge into the air. Turning her gaze back onto the main street, she pressed forward.

Brave flickers of sunlight broke through the fog, showering the scene with sparkling highlights and brightening Dominque’s spirits along with them. Gentlemen decked in tailored coats and breeches, with flowing silk cravats bunched about their necks and top hats perched on their heads, strolled about with canes in hand as if they owned the world, perusing the females as they passed. Ladies flounced by them in promenade gowns, fluttering fans and parasols through the air—though why they would need either on a day like this, Dominique could not fathom. Yes, this was the season in London about which her mother had always spoken. The time when all the nobility flocked to the city from their country estates to see and be seen.

A tall gentlemen, impeccably dressed, nodded with an approving smile as he passed by on Dominique’s left. Another one, across the street, held a monocle to his eye and studied her as if she were a specimen in a laboratory.

Dominique gritted her teeth. She hated being on display.

“Seems you are drawing a bit of attention this morning, miss.”

“Indeed.” Precisely what she did not want to do, either on the street, in the house, or anywhere in London, for that matter.

“When did you have your coming out?” Larena asked as they wove around three giggling ladies.

“Coming out?”

“Yes, your coming-out party.”

Dominique cringed as memories fell on her like a sudden weight. “Five years ago.” Had it been that long? “I had just turned eighteen.” She remembered the excitement of having her first silk gown tailored, of the maids fawning over her before the event, bedecking her curls with jewels and applying rice powder to her face and salve to her lips, the proud look on her mother’s face, and of course, the attention she received from the young men at the ball.

“You must have been quite a hit.”

“I can’t really say. ’Twas the best and worse evening of my life.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“We received news of my father’s death late that same night.” Dominique sighed as her heart shriveled, reliving the agony. “And my mother moved us back to France within a month.”

“I’m very sorry, miss.” Larena gave Dominique’s arm a gentle squeeze. Her blue eyes warmed in concern. “Perhaps ’tis just as well. By the looks you’re getting today, you’d have been married off your first season, to be sure.”

They passed an art gallery on their right, its windows stuffed with magnificent oil paintings lined in rows next to huge bronze sculptures. Horrified, Dominique tore her gaze from a statue of a naked man. She cleared her throat. “Do you disapprove of marriage?”

“I disapprove of slavery, miss, which is what most marriages are.”

Dominique blinked. She’d heard some women call their marriages drudgery but never slavery. “Is that what you thought of the admiral’s marriage?”

“Nay.” Larena shook her head and stared ahead of them. “I discouraged Melody—I mean Mrs. Randal—from marrying the admiral, but truth be told, they were quite happy together. He loved her very much.”

A strange twinge startled Dominique. Somehow she couldn’t picture the admiral loving anyone—or being happy for that matter.

“Do you never hope to marry, then?”

“I’m already eight and twenty, miss. Well past marrying age
for a woman.” she adjusted her shawl. “Besides, I have more than proven that I can take care of myself. I don’t need a man to rule over me.”

The words shot from Larena’s mouth with such spite that Dominique wondered what had happened to make her so opposed to what most women considered a blessed privilege. Yet her independence ignited envy within Dominique. If she had been able to take care of herself and her brother, they would not have had to depend on Cousin Lucien—and she would not be in this horrid predicament.

“You’re far more courageous than I am,” she admitted as she stopped next to an apple cart and gazed across the busy street, wondering how they would ever cross it safely.

The maid studied her. “Perhaps you simply have not been given the chance to prove yourself.”

Ah, but she had been given the chance.

And she’d failed miserably.

After her mother had died so suddenly last year, Dominique, who hadn’t a clue how to fend for herself, had been reduced to dragging her brother through the streets of Paris, begging for morsels of food. It had proven to be the most shameful and terrifying time of her life, and she believed they both would be dead—or worse—if Cousin Lucien hadn’t rescued them. No, she had proven herself incapable of being anything like Larena.

Dominique felt a tug on the bottom of her pelisse and looked down to see a young costermonger, a boy no older than William. “Please, miss, would you buy an apple?”

Smudges of dirt marred his pale complexion. His unkempt hair sprouted in all directions. He scratched his chest through a hole in his ragged clothes and swept his bare feet through a puddle, then held the red fruit out to her with an empty, pleading look in his eyes.

Dominique knelt and smiled as her heart split in two. A vision of Marcel as dirty and unkempt as this young lad crept through her mind. He’d been the one who had done most of the begging—especially toward the end when Dominique had all but given up.
“I’d love to buy an apple. How much?”

“Two pence, miss.” He coughed to the side, a raspy, moist cough that sent a chill down Dominique’s spine. He raised his glassy green eyes to hers, a tiny flicker of hope skipping across them.

Dominique opened her purse and dug out a shilling then placed it in the boy’s other hand, closing his fingers around it. When he peeked at the coin, his eyes widened, and his lips parted in a generous smile. “Thank you, miss.”

“And you eat the apple for me, will you?”

“Aye, miss.” Without hesitation, he chomped on the ripe fruit. Juice dripped off his grinning lips before he scampered away.

Dominique rose and scanned the street again. Seeing an opening betwixt phaetons, she grabbed Larena and ventured forth.

“I’ve never seen the likes of that, miss—not from a lady.” Larena shook her head as they skirted around a pile of fly-infested manure.

Dominique tossed her hand to her nose against the putrid smell as they reached the other side and stood in front of Grafton House.

Larena’s brow crinkled, folding her freckles together. “Now you won’t have enough for a decent overskirt.”

“Perhaps not, but that boy and his family will eat tonight.”

Larena’s eyes moistened, and she turned aside as Dominique opened the door to the shop.

After an hour of sifting through a multitude of fabrics and listening to Larena’s endless opinions on the fashions of the day, Dominique finally purchased a lovely maroon satin overskirt, embroidered in golden lace. Since she couldn’t afford a new gown, this would do nicely to dress up one of the gowns the last governess had left. She’d tried it on before they’d left the house that morning, and it fit wonderfully. Although the neckline was a bit lower than she felt comfortable with, it was not as risqué as most of the gowns she’d seen. She certainly didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Even with the new overskirt, it would be a plain dress by comparison to the more expensive gowns, but it suited her, and she hoped she wouldn’t bring shame to the admiral.

When she stepped from the shop, her purchase flung over one arm, she found her mood had vastly improved. Perhaps it was the patches of sun that now lit the bustling street as she and Larena made their way through the crowd.

“Do you know where st. Mary Woolnoth is located?” Dominique scurried beside Larena, who had quickened her pace.

“I believe the church is on Lombard street.” she flashed Dominique a grin. “Not too far from here. I can show you the way another time if you’d like. But we must get home to prepare you for the ball. We haven’t much time.”

Truth be told, Dominique would much prefer a visit to see the Reverend John newton. Although she had met him only once, her father often spoke of him as the man who had “opened the eyes of his soul” to see the truth of God. Her father told her that if she ever found herself in London in need of help, she could always go to Rev. Newton. And Lord knew, she needed help—desperately.

“May I ask why it interests you?”

“My father and the rector were good friends, and I wish to visit him while I’m in town.”

“Well, you shall have plenty of time to do that, miss. I do believe the admiral intends to keep you in his employ. Surely he cannot help but see the change in William already.”

“Truly?” Dominique had no idea if she was benefiting William. The boy seemed to enjoy her company, but then, he would enjoy anyone’s company in light of his father’s continual absence.

“Can you not see it?” Larena’s wide eyes were aglitter. “Why, I’ve not heard that boy laugh in years. And sing?” she shook her head, sending her red curls fluttering in the breeze. “Not since his mother died. You are just what William needs. And it warms my heart, Miss Dawson.” she gave Dominique’s arm a tender squeeze. “Truly I’ve come to love that boy as if he were my own.”

Dominique’s heart felt strangely heavy. As soon as she could get her hands on the information Lucien wanted, she’d have to leave—leave dear sweet William all alone in the world again without a mother, and from what she’d witnessed, without a father, as well. Surely they would find another governess for William, and
no doubt a lady far more suitable than she. She tried to console herself with that thought as they toiled through the crowd. She raised her face to the sun, relishing its warmth while trying to avoid the leering gazes of the men who brushed past her.

The sound of angry male voices up ahead startled her.

“How dare you? I will not stand for such an affront, sir,” one man bellowed.

“You’ll not only stand for it; you’ll take it like the weasel you are and scurry away.”

Someone chuckled, and a crowd began to form around the men, who had obviously carried their altercation out into the street from a club up ahead.

Gentlemen nudged ladies behind them in a protective gesture while inching forward, craning their necks for a better view of a grand diversion in their otherwise humdrum day.

Larena halted, her face pinched in alarm. The crowd pressed in on them. “We should not go any farther until this is settled.” she squeezed in front of Dominique and craned her neck to watch the fisticuffs.

Strong fingers gripped Dominique’s arm.

A short, burly man dressed in a silk overcoat and gaudy purple cravat dragged her away from the mob. Her throat clamped shut. She tried to scream. No sound came from her lips save a few feeble sputters.

The man gave her a stern look before he pushed her down a narrow alleyway. He slammed her trembling body against the cold brick wall. A rough hand that smelled of tobacco and fish stifled her scream under a crushing hold to her mouth. Terror gripped her in a cold sweat.

“Avez-vous les documents?”

Wide-eyed, Dominique shook her head as the man lowered his hand from her mouth. Perspiration trickled down the back of her gown. She could no longer feel her heart beating.

“Pas encore,”
she replied in a squeaky voice. Her gaze darted to the street. People dashed by, rushing to view the altercation. She could still hear the men fighting. Yet she could not call for help.
If she did, this man would surely expose her for the spy she was.

If anyone heard them speaking French, they’d no doubt be brought before the constable.
“En Englais, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.”

He scowled. “Do you have the documents?”

“Not yet,” she repeated in English. “I need more time.” Dominique rubbed her sore arm and met the man’s slick, narrow gaze. His hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders. The stink of human waste rose from the ground around him like a poisonous vapor.

With an evil sneer, the man dropped his other hand from her arm. “You have been here two weeks, mademoiselle.”

“He keeps the documents behind a locked door.”

A rat scampered through the puddles of sludge around their feet, and the man kicked it aside with a fiendish snicker. His sinister gaze locked on her. “Your brother’s blood cries out to you, mademoiselle. Do not forget him.”

“His blood?” Panic pounded in her chest. “Is he all right? is Marcel all right?” she felt light-headed again.
Oh please, Lord. Don’t let me faint. Not here, not with this man.

“For now.” He slid a finger over his oily mustache and sneered at her “You must bring me something to ensure his safety.” He glanced toward the street. “By Monday night.”

“But I cannot.” Dominique sobbed. “That’s only two days. I need more time.” How could she possibly accomplish in two days what she’d not been able to do in two weeks?

“Tuesday morning at the first hour. There’s a tavern, the Last stop, on Cecil street, off strand. Come alone.”

“Miss Dawson.” Larena’s worried voice filtered through the crowd that now seemed to be dispersing.

Dominique’s knees nearly gave out, and she gripped the wall behind her lest she topple to the ground. The cold, moist brick bit into her hands like sharpened gravel. “But, monsieur, I cannot possibly get away that late at night.”

“J’en ai assez!”
he barked. “If you do not come with something we can use, your brother will pay for your disloyalty with his blood.”