The Falcon and the Sparrow (15 page)

“Don’t listen to him. He’s done naught but dance with every beautiful lady here and left me quite on my own.” Lady Irene drew her lips into a pout that Chase knew was supposed to captivate him, yet he found his glance angling around her, searching for Miss Dawson.

Percy reached her first. Out on the floor, a scottish reel had begun. “May I have this dance?” He extended his arm toward Miss Dawson. She set down her lemonade and glanced at Chase.

He waved them on, battling a rising fury in his gut.

“Now I can have you all to myself, Admiral.” Lady Irene slid her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, a look of satisfaction on her face. But Chase soon found his gaze locked upon Percy and Miss Dawson. The lecherous man fondled her delicate waist as he led her to the center of the floor.

“Ah, see.” Lady Irene grinned. “They appear well matched, don’t you think?”

Dominique had not danced a reel in years, not since her presentation at court five years earlier. She was amazed that she remembered the steps so well, but perhaps it was Mr. Atherton’s exquisite skill that sent them floating over the floor as if their feet never touched the polished marble beneath them. The handsome member of Parliament curved his lips in a wolfish smile, and she wondered why she felt none of the unease in his presence that she did whenever Lord Markham gave her an equally seductive grin.

“He is quite taken with you, you know.” He managed to shout above the melodious combination of flute, violin, and piano that filled the room.

“I beg your pardon. Of whom do you speak?” Dominique took his hand and pirouetted around him.

“The admiral, of course.”

Dominique drew her lips in a tight line, remembering the abrupt way the admiral had pulled her from the dance floor. She must have insulted him with her impertinent questions, or perhaps he’d grown bored of her company or she’d taken the wrong dance step. Either way, he clearly had no interest in her, especially given the way he’d brushed her off on Mr. Atherton as if he longed to rid himself of her company. Though her heart felt as though it had suffered a blow, ’twas for the better. His attitude certainly helped her to stifle her own wayward emotions and concentrate on the task at hand—getting the key from him. She must do it tonight. “I fear you are mistaken.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the admiral in close conversation with Lady Irene on the outskirts of the dance floor. He laughed and leaned his ear toward her every word. They were suited for one another. Lady Irene’s gold-trimmed ivory gown flowed around her in a sweep of shimmering silk, the jewels hanging from her neck and ears glittering with the same shine as the golden curls framing her face. What did Dominique have to compare with her? besides, Lady Irene had loved the admiral from childhood.

“I’ve known Randal for years, Miss Dawson. I am not mistaken,” Mr. Atherton whispered in her ear.

“I believe ’tis obvious his affections are toward Lady Irene,” she retorted as he guided her through the line of dancers.

“Bosh…pure bosh, Miss Dawson. Look at his face.”

Dominique allowed Mr. Atherton to spin her around until she found the admiral just a few yards from them. Their eyes met. His were ablaze with an emotion that startled her—not a happy emotion, nor an amorous one. It seemed more ravenous than anything.

Mr. Atherton led her away.

“He’s always in a bad humor,” she said.

“Not when he was dancing with you.” He smiled with a lift of his eyebrows.

After the dance finished, Dominique was barely able to catch her breath before another gentleman, a Lord Wilbert Hensley, stepped in for Mr. Atherton. She remembered him as one of the men who had requested a dance earlier that evening. After their dance, several more gentlemen took their turns spinning her around the floor. All the while, she spotted the admiral perched in different spots about the room, glaring at her with the beady eyes of a falcon. She wondered where Lady Irene had gone off to.

Finally, out of breath, she refused the last gentleman and made her way off the floor for some lemonade. The admiral appeared at her side. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, thank you,” she returned, baffled at his accusatory tone. She sipped the cool liquid and tried to avoid the admiral’s gaze as the sour taste puckered her mouth. “And you?” she studied his topcoat pocket, where she believed the key to his study was hidden. She must focus on only that, not on the towering strength of his presence, not on the strong cut of his jaw, and not on the regard that more oft than not flickered across his gaze.

“Truthfully, I hate these affairs.” He glanced across the room. His jaw flexed, sending a ripple over the slight stubble that shadowed it while his mahogany queue brushed the back of his navy jacket. “Would you like to get some air?” He offered his elbow.

Nodding, she set down her glass and took his arm. This might give her the opportunity she had been looking for.

A blast of cool air struck her as they inched through the crowded door and took the stairs down to the courtyard.

Confusion raked over her. “You don’t have to watch over me simply because you are my escort. I am sure you would rather spend your time with some of the other ladies. I see the way they look at you.”

“You do?” He chuckled as he escorted her around a carriage and across the cobblestone street. They came to an iron fence that enclosed a small garden. Dark, fuzzy shadows of trees and bushes stretched before them like sinister watchmen—or spies.

“I am grateful you came, Miss Dawson.” He shifted his boots on the gravel. “What I meant to say, of course, is you have helped me out of a jam with my sister’s matchmaking schemes. Consequently, I do not intend to leave you at the mercy of London’s worst knaves.”

Knaves?
“All the men I danced with appeared to be naught but gentlemen, Admiral.” Was he jealous?

“Yes, they do appear so, do they not? but you are quite naive concerning the ways of London society.”

She glanced up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. He stared out across the darkness as if searching for something. Music drifted over the town house, along with bursts of laughter and voices raised in chaotic banter. Above the admiral’s tall frame, inky blackness blanketed the sky. She tried to envision her hand sliding up his chest, searching for the key to his study, and shivered.

He finally faced her. “Are you cold, Miss Dawson?”

“No.” An idea sped through her mind. “I mean yes, I am a bit.” she rubbed her shoulders.

The admiral unbuttoned his topcoat and slipped it from his shoulders. “This will have to do. I have left my frock inside.”

The warmth from his body poured from his coat over her arms and down her back like hot bathwater, sending a tingling through her legs. Spices and cigar smoke swirled around her, intoxicating her with his scent. She tugged the coat over her chest and ran her fingers
over the pocket, feeling the lump within. She must pull it from its hiding place before she gave the coat back to him. But how?

She darted her eyes wildly about. Her nerves coiled together in frozen thickets. A crazy idea popped into her head.

“Upon my word, look, a shooting star!” she pointed at the sky behind him, and as soon as he turned, she plunged her hand into his pocket, groping for the cool feel of a silver chain. Her finger entangled in a loose thread. She tugged on it, but the fiber seemed to wrap around her like a spider’s web ensnaring its prey. The more she pulled, the more entwined she became.

The admiral spun back around.

T
error spiked through Dominique. The admiral’s eyes narrowed in confusion. With her hand still entangled in his topcoat pocket, she twisted and bent over, forcing herself to cough as vigorously as she could. With continued hacks and barks that she prayed sounded authentic, she stumbled toward the fence. Her searching fingers touched the chain. Cold silver circled around her hand. She yanked it from the pocket, ripping the fabric. Had he heard the ripping sound? Clenching the prize, she blundered forward. What should she do with it? He would surely see it in her hand.

“Miss Dawson, are you all right?” His concerned voice sounded behind her.

Boot steps crunched the gravel. Dominique leaned one hand on the cold iron fence and did the only thing she could think to do. She stuffed the pocket watch and key down the front of her gown. The icy metal snaked behind her petticoats and in between her breasts, sending a chill through her. She spun to face him, holding a hand to her mouth.

Skepticism coursed through his eyes. “Are you ill?”

“Nay, forgive me, Admiral. I am not sure what came over me.” Her breathing came out hard and ragged.

“Perhaps ’twas this fanciful star you saw?” He lifted a mocking brow. “A shooting star, Miss Dawson? in London? We are lucky to see the sun during the day, let alone a star at night.”

She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead “On my
word, I could have sworn I saw something.” she sighed, hoping to divert the cause of her obvious fear. “It frightened me.”

He enfolded her hand in his. Warmth spread through her gloves and up her arms. The chain shifted and slid beneath her stays, jangling as loudly as a gong. But he did not seem to hear it. “You are quite safe, I assure you.” He gave her a reassuring smile that stole the remaining breath from her.

Her gaze flickered between his chocolate brown eyes, and she wished with everything in her that what he said were true.

“You appear to be coming down with something. Perhaps we should venture in from the cold?”

She nodded, distracted by a myriad of thoughts as she plotted her next step. She must somehow leave the ball without the admiral and make her way home. If they left together, he would surely take notice of the missing key, and once they were home, she’d have no opportunity to search his study. Even at night, the admiral never seemed to sleep. And his unexpected roaming through the house would not afford her the time she required.

“I must admit, I am feeling suddenly weak,” she said as they braided their way through the crowd and climbed the stairs to the house. She wasn’t lying. The close proximity of the admiral and the taut feel of his muscles beneath her hand had a dizzying effect upon her.

“Perhaps I should escort you home, Miss Dawson.” He halted and started to turn around. “Frankly, I have no desire to remain any longer.”

Alarm pricked her heart. “No…no.” she tugged on him. “ ’Tis far too early, and you promised your sister, remember?”

He groaned in acquiescence.

“Perhaps I simply need some refreshment.”

“Yes. I daresay ’tis been at least an hour since you last ate.” He chuckled and gave her a sly look.

Dominique gritted her teeth as a flush of embarrassment flooded her face. Squinting against the bright candlelight, she squeezed through the door as the admiral bowed right and left to acquaintances who addressed him. Music and laughter wove
among the aromas of strong perfumes and sweet cakes. Slipping off the coat, she handed it back to the admiral with a smile. His gaze wandered over her in a tender caress, giving her pause. Wasn’t it only a few hours ago that he had abruptly dismissed her to dance with Mr. Atherton?

Donning his topcoat, he led the way to the buffet against the far wall, and Dominique prayed he would not notice the missing watch and key. Plucking a glass of punch from the table, she scanned the sea of dancers flowing back and forth in waves of sparkling colors.

Mr. Atherton stood across the way, drink in hand, leaning against a door frame with one booted foot crossed over the other. Though favoring the lady who addressed him with an occasional nod or smile, it was obvious his interest lay elsewhere. Dominique felt sorry for the woman, who seemed to be trying her best to attract the handsome member of Parliament. His gaze locked upon Dominique’s, and he smiled. Perhaps she could feign a sudden illness and convince Mr. Atherton to escort her home. She glanced up at the admiral. A scowl twisted his features as he noticed their exchange.