The Falcon and the Sparrow (22 page)

“Where’d she go?” one man shouted.

“Why, if I’m not the King’s uncle, I ain’t seen that before.”

“She just disappeared.”

“Told ye we shouldn’t ’ave drank that tawdry brew.”

Another laughed. Then one by one, they turned and swaggered away.

The dark-clad man released her arm.

Dominique’s mind scrambled through a thousand explanations for what had just happened but finally settled on a cloud of
impossibility that floated through her mind, leaving her cold.

What did this man intend to do with her now? “I owe you a huge debt, sir. I am most grateful.” she hoped to appease him with her appreciation.

He only nodded.

She should have been frightened, but for some odd reason, she felt more peace than she had all evening.

Flipping her hood back atop her head, she started down the street. He made no move to stop her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Yet one glance behind told her he followed her.

She swung her face forward again. Odd. She did not hear his footsteps—even now.

“There’s no need to follow me, sir. I’m quite all right,” she shouted back at him while continuing to walk.

He said nothing.

“One o’clock on a misty morning and all is well,” a charlie cried in the distance. Where had he been when the band of villains had chased her? Then again, she hadn’t really needed him, had she?

Dominique quickened her pace. She was late. Would the French rat wait for her? Dampness broke out on her palms.

As she neared the strand, the stench of human excrement and rotten fish nearly drowned her. She gagged and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. The Thames. She was almost there. Her breath came in rapid spurts. She turned down Chandois, hoping to avoid the crowds on the strand for as long as possible. No such luck. A phaeton sped by, its iron wheels squealing over the stones. She ducked beneath the overhang of an inn. The large man in black halted on the street. When she proceeded, he fell in behind her.

Why was he still following her? Blood drained from her face. Perhaps he’d been assigned to spy on her. Perhaps the admiral suspected her. Clutching her cloak, she swerved around. “Sir, I beg you. Please leave me be.”

Still he said nothing. But this time he did not stop. With a brief nod, he glided past her and proceeded across Bedford Street up ahead—the same direction she planned on going. Movement caught Dominique’s eye, and she glanced to her right. The shadow
of a man slid into the gloom of a cluster of trees. She swallowed. The night seemed to be crawling with villains. Dominique hastened behind the dark man who had saved her, keeping her distance.

No sooner had she passed over the street than two men appeared out of nowhere, kicking dirt up with their boots. Their chortles rang in the air like sirens. Dominique froze beneath the halo of a streetlamp. She had no time to dash into the shadows. The towering man in black appeared alongside her and stood in silence. How had he retreated so quickly? Dominique gazed up into his shadowed face but still could not make out his features.

As the men passed by, one of them looked straight at Dominique. She returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to pounce on her. He moved so close beside her, she could make out the color of his eyes—ocean blue. But no sooner had their gazes met than he turned to his friend and continued his story as if she weren’t there. Dominique glanced at the large man. Her breath caught in her throat as a warmth that belied the cool night blanketed her. Who was this strange man who cloaked her in invisibility? Why didn’t he speak to her? Why couldn’t she see his face? she pressed a hand over her pounding heart and opened her mouth to ask him, but he proceeded forward in silence.

After turning down southampton, she followed the man across the strand to Cecil. Halfway down the avenue, the Last stop loomed like an eerie fortress. The man in black halted at the foot of the stairs.

How did he know where I was going?

Guttering lantern light cast dark fingers onto the porch and stairway, beckoning poor souls to the debauchery within. To her left, the Thames licked the docks as if anticipating her demise. Movement flashed in the corner of her eye, and she stared down the gloomy street. The dark shadow of another man lumbered toward her then abruptly turned and disappeared across the avenue.

Sucking in her breath, Dominique inched up the steps, casting a glance over her shoulder. The man in black stood like a statue. He wouldn’t go in with her. Why? The sudden loss overwhelmed her and sent her head spinning again. Raising her hand to her
forehead, she shoved herself through the doorway.

The putrid stench of stale alcohol and tobacco struck her, stealing her breath. A rat scampered across the wooden floor and wove around a maze of tables and chairs before disappearing into a dark corner. Dominique tightened her cloak under her chin and scanned the room for the Frenchman. A tall, bony man with huge eyes and a hook nose stood behind a counter, pouring drinks into mugs. Three sailors lined the bar, their backs to her. To her right, two men at a table entangled their arms in a fierce wrestling match as a group formed around them, shouting and thrusting fists in the air. The Frenchman was nowhere in sight. Was she too late? What would happen to Marcel now?

“Scads, gents, ’tis a lady!” a muddied voice blared her way.

All eyes shot to her. Even the two battling men halted, though they did not release their stranglehold on each other’s arms.

The door opened behind her, admitting the stench of the Thames in a chilly blast that fluttered her skirts. One glance over her shoulder told her a willowy man in tan pantaloons and blue topcoat had entered. Ignoring her, he slid into the shadows of the tavern toward the right. Not the Frenchman.

She faced forward, allowing her eyes to search the corners of the tavern one last time.

One of the sailors at the bar sauntered toward her. His brown trousers hung loosely on his thick frame. A red jacket barely covered his stained, checkered shirt. A seaman, not an officer, not a gentleman. But she wouldn’t expect to find a gentleman in such a place. “Can I help ye, missy?” A blob of spittle perched at the corner of his lips like a cannonball ready to fire.

“Quit your slobbering. She’s with me.” The Frenchman emerged from the shadows on her left and took her by the elbow. She winced under his clawlike fingers as he led her to a corner table by the back wall. Grunts of disappointment followed on their heels. Dominique felt as if she’d escaped a pit of vipers only to be thrust into a lions’ den.

“I knew you would come.” He kicked out a chair and plopped down. The light from a lantern perched in the middle of the table
set his features in a sinister glow. Amazingly, he hid his accent well beneath a forced irish brogue.

“Of course, monsieur; you have my brother,” Dominique replied.

“Asseyez-vous.”
He motioned toward a chair beside his. Spilled ale pooled atop the table and dripped over the side. Something brown and crusty oozed over the wooden seat.

“I’ll stand.”

“Do you have the documents?”

“Oui.” She glanced around cautiously, hoping no one had heard her French. “Yes.”

He held out his hand.

Reaching into her cloak, Dominique grabbed them and tossed them his way, praying she had chosen only those papers that gave away the least damaging information. She’d spent an hour sorting through all the documents, carefully choosing these five.

As he perused them, his gleeful expression soured.
“C’est tout?”
He rubbed his lips. “Is this all you have?”

“No, I have more.” Dominique’s knees began to quake. “I have all the information my cousin will ever need to defeat the british at sea.” She clenched her jaw, hoping that wasn’t true, praying she’d never have to give up everything to this slimy rat.

The burly man shot to his feet, plucked a knife from his belt, and stepped toward her.

“It is not with me, sir,” Dominique stuttered, trying to still her pulsating breaths.

He halted, and his dark eyes slithered over her.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, hoping her terror was not as evident to him as it was to her. God had shown her that it would be foolish to give them everything they wanted. As long as she held on to the most vital information, she had the power. But for some reason, as this greasy man eyed her like a snake, she felt as powerless as a mouse caught in a trap.

She swallowed an explosion of fear. “And you will not get the rest of the documents until you bring Marcel to me alive and well.”

“How dare you threaten me?” He booted a chair aside and
shoved his face into hers. The odor of ale and sour meat filled her nostrils and stifled her breath. “I ought to drag you back to His Excellency and let him kill both you and your brother.”

“But then you wouldn’t get the rest of the information you desire, would you?” Her voice came out in cracked pieces, but her intent was clear.

He snarled, and Dominique shrank back, momentarily closing her eyes, expecting him to strike her.

“Lucien will not like this, I assure you.”

“Nevertheless, you will relay to him my terms.”

“He is not a man to take terms, mademoiselle.” The Frenchman took a step back and slid a finger over his oily mustache. “
En fait
, he will most likely kill Marcel and be done with you british dogs.” He spat to the side.

Dominique gasped. Her legs trembled, and she grabbed onto the back of the chair to keep from falling. She must keep her wits. She must maintain her control.
Lord, help me.

“I don’t believe you, sir. Lucien needs information only I can give him. He will do as I say.” She nodded in an assurance that was sorely lacking within her. “You will bring Marcel back to this same spot in two weeks, and I will return with all the information Lucien demands.”

“Who are you to demand anything from His Excellency!” His bark silenced the crowd for a moment before they resumed their carousing. “You,” he continued in a seething whisper, “will bring the rest of the documents to me tomorrow night, or as sure as I stand before you, Marcel will die.”

A
fter Dominique fled the horrible tavern, the man in black led her all the way home, never once looking back. When she arrived at the Randal house, he had simply kept going. She crept to her bedchamber and eased the door shut. Even at nearly two o’clock in the morning, the creak of wooden floorboards echoed through the house. Who would be up at this hour? Leaning against the door, she rubbed her forehead and tried to make sense of an evening that now seemed more like a nightmare than reality.

Tossing off her moist cloak, she fell onto her bed and noticed her open bible upon it. Had she left it there? She couldn’t remember. Lighting a candle, she glanced over the pages. Her eyes latched upon one verse that glowed brighter than the others: “For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.”

Dominique froze. Her hands began to shake. She set the candle down upon the night table and stood beside her bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “Lord, could it be? Did You send an angel to protect me?”

Even as she said the words, all the tears she had withheld during the harrowing evening, all the tears brought on by her fears and heartache, filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. She fell to her knees, trembling, and leaned her head in her hands, humbled by the love of God.

Warmth bathed her as the terror of the night spent itself in
gut-wrenching sobs. She had done it—she had done what she’d set out to do, but she had not been alone. God had been with her. He had protected her. He had sent an angel to watch over her. Why, she could not understand, especially when her task reached beyond legal boundaries.

“I believe You, Father. I believe You are who You say You are. I believe You are all powerful and that You are with me.” She rocked back and forth, praising Him and basking in the knowledge that He loved her and would never leave her.

No sooner had the fearful storm within Dominique begun to quiet than the Frenchman’s threat rose like a black thundercloud upon her peaceful waters. He had said Lucien would kill Marcel if she didn’t bring all the documents to him tomorrow night. But how could she? What motive would they have to keep him alive if she delivered everything they desired?

A knot formed in her throat. Had she not just declared her faith in the power of God? And yet not a second later, she shriveled in fear.

Forgive my weakness, Lord. Please tell me what to do.

But she already knew. She must hold out and stick to her plan. She must remember that now she had a card to play in this treacherous game of life and death. But what she didn’t know was how she would survive the following night—how could she force herself to sit and do nothing, all the while thinking that at that very moment she might be causing Marcel’s death?