The Falcon and the Sparrow (16 page)

“I’m so furious, I could…I could—ah!” Lady Irene clenched her fists until her manicured nails bit into her skin, while managing to smile sweetly at the passing Lord and Lady Hemmings. She turned a cold eye on Mrs. Barton, who stood beside her. “I thought you said I’d have him all to myself tonight.”

“Indeed, that was my plan.” Mrs. Barton patted her pearl-laden coiffure. “How was I to know he would invite that French tart?” she spat through her teeth. “I thought he would have released her by now.”

Lady Irene eyed the petite beauty standing beside the admiral. The young governess smiled at something he said then took another sip of her punch. “My word, but if that girl isn’t always eating or drinking something. She’ll no doubt end up a fat cow someday,” she snickered then moaned in despair. “Look at the way he looks at her.” she allowed her gaze to wander over Chase, the broad
expanse of his shoulders perfectly filling out his gold-embroidered uniform, his handsome Roman face, the commanding way he stood amidst the crowd. Yet he gazed down at that infernal governess as if she were the only woman in the room. A deep yearning consumed Lady Irene. “Why doesn’t he look at me that way? What is she compared with me?”

“You are the most fetching woman here, irene,” Mrs. Barton snapped. “Force his attentions upon you. He’s a man, after all.”

“I have poured every ounce of my charms upon him tonight, but to no avail,” Lady Irene sobbed. “He never even noticed my new gown.” she swirled around, her mood brightening for a second as she delighted in the sweep of ivory silk. “I spent a fortune to have it tailored just for this evening.”

“You mean your father spent a fortune.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes glinted with humor.

“What difference does it make?”

“Never you mind, dear.” Mrs. Barton patted her arm. “Men are such fools. And my brother the chief of them. He does not know his own mind. He will be no happier with her than he would with a common strumpet from the docks.”

Lady Irene snorted. “She is no better than that, to be sure. An orphan with no dowry. A woman who must work to provide for herself. Why, she has no right to even be at this soiree.” A gentleman approached Lady Irene with an expectant gaze, but she waved him off. She had no time for admirers when her very future was at stake.

“She’ll no doubt grow bored and run off with the first man who catches her eye—and break my brother’s heart.” Mrs. Barton’s normally poised face hardened beneath flaming cheeks. “I must do something.” Her fiery gaze shot to Lady Irene’s. “
We
must do something. I will not have my family name sullied by another French miscreant, I tell you. I will not.”

Lady Irene found Mrs. Barton’s fury both contagious and exhilarating, but it did nothing to ease her fears. Where every man swooned over her attentions, the admiral showed no interest. “But what can we do?”

Mrs. Barton tapped her fingers across her chin. “In time she will prove herself every bit the tramp we know she is.” A shrewd grin twisted the corners of her mouth. “We must simply hurry along the inevitable. We must force her to compromise herself in front of the admiral. Then he will see that I have been right all along.”

Lady Irene nodded, not understanding what Chase’s sister had in mind, but a sudden excitement lifted her hopes. “I’m so grateful to have you as my friend, Mrs. Barton.”

“ ’Tis I who should be grateful to you. I know you’ll make a good wife for my brother. We just have to do a bit of orchestrating to help him see that, as well—and before the night is through. Now I have a plan.” She pursed her lips. “We must first speak with Mr. Atherton.” she lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned toward Lady Irene. “This is what you must do.”

Dominique set down the empty glass and glanced at Mrs. Barton beside her. Only minutes earlier, the admiral’s sister had approached them in an agitated flurry, informing the admiral that Vice Admiral Hyde Parker wished to speak to him immediately in the parlor. After excusing himself, the admiral had marched in haste from the room, leaving his sister behind. Dominique couldn’t understand why the woman who hated her so much remained by her side. She wished she could excuse herself, as well, so she could find Mr. Atherton and move forward with her plan to leave the ball. She scanned the room, looking for him, but he was nowhere in sight. Her heart felt as though it would burst through her chest. She had to leave as soon as possible.
Father, please provide a way.
Although she hadn’t truly felt God’s comforting presence since she had arrived in London, she hoped He still heard her prayers. Perhaps He disapproved of her mission. Her heart sank. If God were against her, then surely she would fail.
Lord, please don’t let Marcel die. Please tell me what to do.

“Miss Dawson, I must beg your forgiveness.” Mrs. Barton faced her with what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “My behavior toward you has been most unbecoming.” she coughed
and seemed to be choking on her words. “ ’Tis plain my brother is fond of you, and I hope we can start over and be friends.”

Dominique studied Mrs. Barton’s brown eyes—so much like her brother’s—hoping to find sincerity there. Could it be the woman truly wished to be friends? Dominique had not had a close friend since childhood, and the thought of having one now—of not feeling so alone—brightened her spirits.

“Oh, there is Lady Irene.” Mrs. Barton waved the young beauty over, and Dominique felt a sudden twinge of queasiness. Perhaps Mrs. Barton had overcome her hatred of the French, but Lady Irene? Even as she approached, the forced smile on her lips belied the contempt shooting from her icy blue eyes.

Lady Irene flounced beside Dominique in a puff of French
parfum
that nearly overwhelmed her. “Lovely gown, Miss Dawson,” the woman said without looking at her.

The hairs on the back of Dominique’s neck bristled. “So nice of you to say.”

“The punch must be delicious. I believe you’ve had three glasses, have you not?” She picked up one of her own from the table. “I do so love a sweet wine punch, don’t you?”

Dominique wasn’t sure what to make of Lady Irene’s sudden need for idle conversation—especially when she had barely said a civil word to her since they’d met—so she simply nodded.

After casting a suspicious glance at Mrs. Barton, Lady Irene tipped her glass to her pink lips and grinned as if she knew a big secret.

Dominique spotted Mr. Atherton by the door. “If you will excuse me.” she nodded at both Lady Irene and Mrs. Barton, thankful she had a reason to escape the awkward situation.

“But, Miss Dawson.” Lady Irene suddenly shifted and bumped into Dominique, leaning her full weight against her.

Dominique struggled to keep from falling while the blond beauty continued to bumble forward.

“I must tell you…I must…” Lady Irene stuttered.

Before Dominique realized what she was doing, Lady Irene barreled into her again and tipped her glass onto Dominique’s gown.
Maroon liquid slid down the silky fabric, the stain expanding as it went. The crowd of people around them ceased conversing and pointed with stifled gasps.

Lady Irene covered her mouth. With wide, laughing eyes, she stared at Dominique.

Mrs. Barton nudged Lady Irene aside. “How could you?” she retrieved a cloth from the table and patted Dominique’s gown. “How clumsy of you. Look what you have done. Oh, you poor dear. I know just what to do. Follow me.”

Still in shock from the assault, Dominique stared at Lady Irene as Mrs. Barton escorted her from the room into an entrance hall, then up a flight of marble stairs and into a small chamber on the second floor. “Lady billingsworth has prepared this lovely room just for such emergencies,” she prattled.

Dominique gazed over the room. A pine dressing chest with swing mirror stood against the far wall, and two porcelain washbasins sat atop marble consoles to her left. A leather chaise sat in the center of the room along with two high-backed sofas.

“Take off your gown, and I will use this water to clean it.” Mrs. Barton gestured toward the carved oak screen perched next to another door on her right. “Never fear, I’ll have it as good as new.”

Dominique’s stomach tightened. “Why are you being so kind? You’ve made your feelings toward me quite clear.”

“As I told you, I wish to make amends, my dear.”

“Please do not take me for a fool.” Dominique clasped her hands together. “Lady Irene’s mishap was obviously deliberate.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was. My apologies for her behavior. I’m afraid her jealousy gets the best of her at times.”

“And you did not put her up to it?”

Mrs. Barton’s jaw dropped. “Of course not. What purpose would that serve?”

“Why, to be rid of me for the evening, of course.”

“Then do not leave.” Mrs. Barton shrugged and waved her gloved hand through the air. “I will clean your dress, and I assure you it will be fit enough to return to dance. Or perhaps I could ask Lady Billingsworth if she has a spare gown in case of such an accident.”
She smiled. “I am sure she has. She thinks of everything.”

Dominique studied Mrs. Barton. Perhaps she was trying to help. Her smile and mannerism seemed sincere, but something in her eyes gave Dominique pause. She sighed. She was so out of practice in society, she could hardly tell when someone lied to her.

“I do appreciate it, Mrs. Barton, but I should go home.” Dominique blinked and lowered her gaze, still confused by the woman’s sudden kindness. “I know you wish your brother to remain. Won’t you ask Mr. Atherton if he’ll be so kind as to escort me?” Although Dominique was certain Lady Irene had soiled her gown on purpose, she perceived it as a blessing in disguise, for she now had a perfect excuse to leave the ball.

“Perhaps ’tis best, my dear. But please, allow me to scrub your dress before the stain sets in. It would be a shame to ruin your new gown.”

Dominique reluctantly slid behind the dressing screen and removed her dress, handing it to Mrs. Barton.

She heard the click of the woman’s mules over the floor and then a splash of water. More clicking. Dominique hugged herself against the sudden chill creeping over her bare arms and glanced down at her petticoats. Pristine white and fluffy lace. At least the punch had not soaked through her dress. Pressing her fingers over her rigid stays, she felt the key still snug within.

Silence enveloped the room. No sound of water, no click of heels, and no more of Mrs. Barton’s incessant sighs.

“Mrs. Barton?”

Nothing.

Dominique peeked out from behind the dressing screen and allowed her gaze to drift over the room. No movement. No sound. “Mrs. Barton?” She eased from behind the screen and inched toward the center of the room, peering into the dark corners. A chill struck her.

Mrs. Barton was gone—and so was her dress.

With a crash, the door beside the dressing screen burst open and in flew Mr. Atherton, tottering across the floor with a drink in hand.

Horrified, Dominique froze and stared at the young member of Parliament who stood between her and the dressing screen. A rush of shame heated her, and she flung her hands up to cover her chest and arms.

Mr. Atherton instantly sobered. His jaw dropped, and he gaped at her as if he’d never seen petticoats before.

“How dare you?” Dominique finally managed to say, her eyes darting to the dressing screen.

“My apologies, miss.” His look of shock dissolved into one of roguish cupidity. “I was told I would find a collection of exotic liquors in here, but I believe I have discovered something even more tantalizing.”

“You will avert your eyes this instant, Mr. Atherton,” Dominique stormed, her chest heaving.

“Alas, I cannot.” He grinned and took a slow sip of his drink. “I fear the good Lord has graced me with very little self-control.” He sauntered toward her.

Dominique took a trembling step back.

Mr. Atherton raised his handsome brow. “But since we find ourselves alone, and you”—he took her in with a sweep of his sultry gaze—“already without your clothes.” He shrugged playfully. “Why waste the moment?”

As he continued his approach, Dominique saw no maliciousness in his eyes, and her fears subsided. “The moment you seek will never occur, Mr. Atherton.” She nodded toward the open door behind him. “Now if you will please leave.”

He spanned the distance between them and gave her a crooked grin. “Of course. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“On the contrary, I believe you rather enjoyed doing just that.” He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed an innocent kiss upon it.

The other door squeaked on its hinges. Dominique released a huge sigh. Mrs. Barton must be returning with her dress—finally. She tugged on her hand, but Mr. Atherton would not release it.

Admiral Randal, hand on the hilt of his sword, marched into the room.