The Falcon and the Sparrow (21 page)

To his left, past the stairs, the dark rectangle of Miss Dawson’s door broke through the gloom. Chase rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t seen her since that morning. After she’d returned from church—
late
—he’d remained in his study and had not joined her and William for the noon meal or for supper. Then, after inquiring of sebastian, he’d learned that she’d gone to her room, professing a stomachache, and had not emerged since. ’Twas no wonder with the amount of food she ate. He snickered.

His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with Mr. Atherton earlier that day. The pompous man had paid a call simply to inform Chase of Miss Dawson’s innocence in the scandalous incident at the ball. Chase gritted his teeth as a cord of distress tightened around him. The embarrassing mishap no longer bothered him, for he had already suspected foul play on his sister’s part. What grated him now was that Mr. Atherton had the audacity
to ask Chase for permission to court Miss Dawson. Of course, it was her decision. Chase was not her father. Besides, why should he care whom she bestowed her favors upon?

The
tick-tock
of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall clipped over his nerves. A horse and carriage rumbled by on the street.

Chase blew out a sigh as he remembered the other equally distressing event—the missing Admiralty documents. But he was taking care of that. Yes, that mess would soon be cleared up, and the culprit would be caught and receive his due punishment.

A flutter of soft words floated over him, muted yet melodious and pleading. He shook his head, thinking he’d finally gone mad. Was he now hearing the voice of his dead wife when fully awake? Holding his breath, he listened and turned toward the source. Miss Dawson’s door. The hint of a glow sliced the darkness underneath. He inched forward, cringing at the creaking of the floorboards, and leaned his ear against the oak barricade. Fervent words poured from within. To whom was she talking? Who would dare to be in her chamber at this hour?

Perhaps he had been wrong about her, after all. The bile of jealousy rose in his throat, tempting him to burst into the room and expose the shameless lovers. But if he was wrong, he would risk appearing a complete scatterbrain. Hesitating, he slid his moist hand around the polished handle and eased it down. The latch clicked, but Miss Dawson’s voice did not cease from within. Pushing ever so slightly, he opened the door just a crack. Did he dare peek inside? Surely it was not proper, but he had to know who was in there with her. He peered through the opening.

Miss Dawson knelt beside her bed, hands clasped before her and head bowed. A lustrous glow covered her in golden light, shimmering over her white nightdress and setting her long tresses aflame. Chase swallowed. The light seemed to come from above her, and Chase craned his neck to find its source but could not determine it through the narrow opening. An open book sat upon her fleece coverlet, and she laid one hand upon it as she continued whispering.

Praying.

She was praying. Amazement sped through him, and though he knew he should afford her privacy, he turned an ear toward the opening.

“Father, I seek Your wisdom. I seek Your favor this night. Please reveal Your will to me. Please strengthen me as You did the men of old. Forgive me for my weakness and especially for my lack of faith. If only I could believe…if only I could believe You are with me.” she laid her head into her hands and appeared to be sobbing, and Chase resisted the urge to run in and comfort her. What was distressing her so much?

“Lord, please watch my brother. Please protect him and keep him safe until I can see him again.”

Chase huffed. Her brother. How selfish of Chase not to realize she must miss him terribly.

She gazed up, and the tears slipping down her cheeks sparkled in the light. “Father, please bless little William.”

Chase blinked and tried not to move.

“Help him to grow up loved and nurtured and knowing You. Provide a woman who will love him and fill the gaping hole left by his mother’s death.”

Warm regard and a burgeoning affection burned Chase’s throat. She was praying for his son.

“And the admiral.” she bowed her head once again.

Chase leaned closer.

“Please comfort him in his loss. He seems so…so lonely, so empty, so cold. Help him to open his heart once again to his son and to You.”

Of all the—lonely? Empty? Cold? Chase jerked and accidentally bumped the door. A tiny creak echoed through the darkness. One peek inside told him Miss Dawson had heard it. She stood, wrapped her arms around her chest, and headed his way.

Dominique crept toward the doorway. Had she left it open? Her heart climbed into her throat as she pushed the door aside and
squinted into the shadows of the hallway. Nobody. ’Twas probably just the wind. She closed the door and latched it, then returned to her prayers. Picking up her bible, she read aloud the two verses the Lord had shown her: ‘ “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him,’ ” and her favorite, “ ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.’ ”

She sighed. The promises of God—if only she could believe them. She had been praying for hours but felt no surge of power or strength, and her faith seemed as faulty as ever. She began to shake whenever she thought about the task she must perform the following night.
What kind of spy am I? What kind of Christian am I, Lord?

Closing the Bible, she laid it back on the side table and crawled into bed…and waited. An idea popped into her head from God. At least she thought it was from God; she hoped it was from Him—for it was the only thing she knew to do.

Creeping out of the kitchen door in the basement of the house, Dominique flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and tightened it around her neck. A light mist sprinkled over her, glazing the stairway as she cautiously made her way up to the street. Her heart hammered a vicious beat within her chest. She had never ventured out in public without benefit of escort, and she suddenly felt naked. Even after her mother had died, Marcel had always been by her side. Through the dirty, perilous streets of Paris, he had always been there. But not tonight; tonight she not only must make her way through the dangerous streets of London alone, but also must negotiate with a murderous villain for her brother’s life.

Blood pounded in her ears as she opened the iron gate and stepped onto the street. First things first—making it to the tavern in the middle of the night without being accosted. Then she would worry about her meeting with the French contact. She patted
the documents folded in the pocket of her cloak and heard their reassuring crackle. Hard to believe that a wad of papers could save someone from certain death.

Hugging the iron fences lining the street, Dominique avoided the circles of light cast onto the cobblestones from the brass lanterns. An odd chill crept up the back of her neck, and she stopped and looked behind her. The dark silhouette of a man halted then slid behind a town house across the street. Strange. Perhaps one of her neighbors returning from a soiree. Shaking off her uneasy feelings, she pressed onward. Lights appeared ahead, jostling as if they floated in midair. The clomp of horses’ hooves soon followed, and Dominique dove into the shadow of a bush near the walkway. A carriage ambled by, its passengers blasting a ribald ballad from the windows.
Drunken noblemen.

Resuming her course, she picked up her pace and tried to remember the streets she’d memorized from the map of London Larena had shown her. Dominique had said her interest stemmed purely from curiosity about the layout of the massive city, and the chambermaid had happily complied, pointing out where she grew up near the east docks and where her family now resided and, of course, the Mall, the Queen’s Palace, and Piccadilly.

Sweet Larena, such a strong, independent woman. Dominique wished she could send her on this frightening errand in her place. She’d probably relish the adventure of it, instead of quaking in her shoes like Dominique. Yet Dominique feared for the chambermaid. Larena believed in God, had attended church with Dominique, but she trusted the Almighty no more than she trusted men. Dominique bit her lip. Yet did
she
really trust God? surely the quivering of her knees proved otherwise. How could she be sure God was with her in this traitorous task? Did He care about nations and their wars or only the hearts of men? Confusion stormed through her, multiplying her terror.

Making her way down several small streets, Dominique tried to avoid the larger thoroughfares where people would no doubt still be bustling about, attending soirees and men’s clubs. As she left the quiet neighborhood behind, the city twinkled with lights
as far as she could see. Bursts of laughter and song rose from the distance.

Approaching Broad Street, Dominique hovered beneath a birch tree and waited for two coaches to pass. Several gentlemen decked in black trousers and coattails sauntered her way. Holding her breath, she tried to still her trembling as they passed within twenty feet of where she hid. Memories resurged like demons—memories of her nights spent on the streets of Paris, hiding in the shadows, clinging to Marcel. Finally, their gleeful voices, slurred with alcohol, faded into the night. When no one was in sight, she dashed down the main street for a block then turned down Andrews. She flitted from shadow to shadow as music and laughter from Leicester square, a few blocks to her right, teased her ears, making her feel all the more alone on her treacherous errand. Gathering the collar of her cloak in her moist fist as if it could protect her, she pressed on.

Turning a corner, Dominique kept her gaze downward as she prayed and forced her wobbly legs to keep moving. Coarse voices halted her. A huddle of slovenly men littered the porch of a tavern a few feet ahead. Dominique peered about wildly, looking for an escape. It was too late to turn around. Saying a silent prayer, she inched her way across the street away from the men. But one of them saw her. He elbowed his friend.

“Look what we have here, gents. A lady out for a bit o’ fun.”

The other men turned around and staggered to the edge of the porch. “Where? I don’t see nothing.”

Gathering her skirts, Dominique darted for a cluster of warehouses across the way. Maybe she could hide among them and make her way to the strand through the back alleys.
Oh Lord, protect me. I must live to save Marcel. Please, Father.

“There she goes! Let’s be after her!” Deep voices roared behind her.

The clacking of boots on cobblestone, accompanied by heated grunts, chased her through the night. A cold sweat pricked her skin. Her hood flew off her head and flapped behind her. The misty air struck her face like a slap of death. Vulgar laughter and jests
stabbed her ears. She glanced over her shoulder. The grinning mob closed in on her. Images of another assault—a man in a dark alley in Paris—filled her terror-stricken mind. She could feel his cruel hands upon her, the grip of a madman determined to get what he wanted.

Oh Lord. Not like this.

Dominique dashed forward and slammed into a large man. She bounced off his thick chest as if he were made of brick. Stunned, she shook her head and jerked to the side to weave around him, but he reached out with one hand and held her in place.

Her heart sank. He was with them. She was trapped.

“Let me go!” she screeched and tried to yank loose from his grip, which, although tight, did not pain her arm.

The crunching of boots behind her ceased. Dominique’s breath stuck in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut against an onslaught of dizziness, she awaited her fate.

But instead of anxious voices in pursuit, instead of lewd comments tossed her way, only curses and grunts of disappointment spilled from the mouths of her attackers.

Dominique dared a glance over her shoulder. The odious gang of men scratched their bearded faces and peered into the night as if she did not stand nigh ten feet before them.

She gazed up at the man who held her, wondering how one man could frighten off a band of twenty ruffians. His oversized top hat hid the features of his face beneath its shadow, while black clothing concealed his body. He did not look at her but kept his gaze locked on the drunken men.