The Falcon and the Sparrow (29 page)

“Yes, sir. I have never seen the likes of it. She has indeed brought joy back into the house.”

Chase cursed beneath his breath. Sebastian’s opinion of Miss Dawson had only served to endear her more to him. Did the blasted woman ever do anything selfish or deceiving? Egad, what was she, an angel? no wonder his sister could find naught to bring against her.

Confusion curdled in his belly—confusion and terror as the realization struck him that Miss Dawson had most assuredly stolen a piece of his affections. This he could never allow. Already the agony of losing her bared its ugly teeth within him. No. No. No.
She was not right for him. Despite her admirable qualities, she was not Melody and never would be. Weakness, fear, and timidity. These were not the qualities he sought in a wife.
Wife?
What was he thinking? besides, any woman who pursued Percy certainly did not possess the character and intellect of a lady of quality.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Will that be all?”

Chase halted and stared at the butler, suddenly remembering why he had asked him to stay. “Speaking of joy, Sebastian.” Chase skirted his desk and leaned against it. “Are you content here?”

“Sir?” Sebastian blinked.

“Are you happy in my employ, in this house?”

“I am most grateful for the position.” Sebastian lowered his gaze—out of respect or guilt?

“You may speak freely, Sebastian. I truly wish to know.” Even as he said it, he doubted the butler would be forthright. Why would he? Until recently, Chase had barely said anything to the man, save to order him about.

Sebastian’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, Admiral.”

“Are your wages satisfactory?”

“Of course, sir,” Sebastian replied then gave Chase a perplexed look. “May I ask what this is about?”

“It is about loyalty, sebastian,” Chase barked in a voice harsher than he intended. “Loyalty to the Randal home and loyalty to britain.” Frustration stormed through him. He must catch the spy in his midst—if there was one—and be done with this sordid business, or he might never get back to sea.

Sebastian’s lip quivered. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “You have always had my loyalty, Admiral.”

Chase nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Clearly the butler was distraught, but for what reason? “I will not stand for betrayal, not on my ship and not in my home.” Chase took a step toward him. “I would hope, Sebastian, that as my butler all these years, should you come across someone in my employ who proves to be otherwise, you would bring that person to my attention immediately.”

Sebastian nodded, his gaze darting around the room.

“That will be all,” Chase said, and Sebastian bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. Pouring a swig of brandy, Chase tossed it to the back of his mouth as he pondered what to make of Sebastian’s reaction. Either the man was indeed the spy, and his jitters were a result of his fear of being caught, or he was simply distraught at having his master imply the accusation. Either way, time would tell. Either way, Chase would have his spy soon.

Dominique stepped into the entrance hall of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane and was instantly accosted with a thousand sights, sounds, and smells. The haut ton of London, dressed in their finest, floated across the room in a flurry of conversation and high-pitched laughter—the ladies swishing about in their silk gowns, the gentleman sauntering beside them in their fashionable tailcoats. An orchestra played in the distance. Candlelit chandeliers, hanging from a domed ceiling gilded in gold leaf, showered ethereal light over the scene. Adding their sparkling glow, lanterns hung all around them on walls papered in colorful patterns of roses and tiny cherubs.

Dominique thought of the mysterious man who had protected her through the streets of London. He’d looked nothing like the fat little baby angels decorating the walls. Had he really been an angel? Why had she begun to doubt the miracle she had believed so adamantly only a week ago?
Oh Lord, please help my weak faith to grow.

Blasts of French perfume coupled with the reek of strong drink struck her nose as they made their way through the crowd. She gripped Mr. Atherton’s arm a little tighter and took a deep breath. This was her first play. She should be beset with excitement, but despite the splendor, her insides were a jumbled knot. It had been a week since she had given her ultimatum to the Frenchman, and she had not seen him since. With the passing of each day, terror grew like a deadly disease within her, eating away her faith, her hope, and her resolve until she had begun to believe Marcel must truly be dead.

What little hope that fought to remain within her now prodded her to keep her eyes alert for the Frenchman’s repugnant face. Despite her terror, she would happily tolerate the sight of him if only he would make contact and confirm their arrangement.

“Quite a splendid affair, wouldn’t you say?” Percy leaned toward her and spoke above the clamor.

“Indeed, yes.” She tried to smile, but everything inside her wanted to scream. Not only for Marcel, not only for her betrayal of her country and friends, but for the man whose footsteps she heard stomping behind her.

The admiral.

He had barely said two words to her all evening, even when she had been forced to endure a dinner with him and his sister. Dominique had expected Mrs. Barton not to speak to her, although the woman’s frequent looks of disdain spoke volumes enough, but the admiral? Perhaps he was still angry about the sword. At least William had been present to offer her some jovial conversation.

And of course, the tension had done little to stop her voracious appetite from consuming everything on her plate and then some. She pressed a hand to her churning stomach, where it seemed those last two helpings of roast beef were beginning to protest.

Adding to this quagmire of stress, Lady Irene and her father, Lord Markham, had joined their party, making any hopes of a pleasant evening nigh impossible. Lord Markham had already spent considerable time allowing his licentious gaze to slither over Dominique as if she were next in a line of tasty treats he had reserved for himself. Lady Irene, a picture of loveliness in her shimmering jewels and flowing lace, had fawned over the admiral all evening. Dominique’s only consolation was seeing the admiral’s face bunch into tiny knots of annoyance at the lady’s constant pufferies.

“Have you ever seen one of Cibber’s plays, Miss Dawson?” Mr. Atherton asked.

“No, I am afraid not.”

“I daresay you are in for a treat.”

“I doubt she has seen any plays, have you, miss?” Lady Irene chirped from behind them.

“Quit being such a shrew,” Mr. Atherton shot over his shoulder, giving Dominique a sly smile. Though she heard no retort, she could just imagine Lady Irene’s face a red mask of fury.

“Ah, there he is. Come, my dear,” Lord Markham announced. “I see Lord Wichshur, the man who asked for an introduction.” He tugged his daughter’s arm from the admiral’s and dragged her off through the crowd toward a particularly handsome man standing off to the side, conversing with two other well-dressed gentlemen.

“I wonder what all the fuss is about.” Mrs. Barton came alongside Mr. Atherton and stared after them.

“No doubt another potential amour, dear sister.” The admiral accidentally brushed against Dominique—or was it an accident? A tingle warmed her arm, and she gazed up at him. His chocolate brown eyes found hers for a moment, and the adoration that glowed within them startled her.

“I know Lady Irene,” Mrs. Barton huffed. “Her heart has always been completely yours, Chase. Never fear.”

“
Fear
is not the term I would use.” The admiral cocked a brow at his sister.

Dominique turned her face away before he could see the smile that unavoidably appeared on her lips.

“I have met the man,” Mr. Atherton announced, still staring at Lady Irene and Lord Markham as they halted before their victim. “He is a duke in possession of a huge estate in Bedfordshire—a massive land holding. Worth quite a bit, from what I hear.”

“You should be jealous, brother.” Mrs. Barton smirked.

“Jealousy is not an emotion I feel very often.” His dark gaze snapped to Dominique and lingered there again, warming her with its intensity.

“Speaking of…” Mr. Atherton tilted his head toward the admiral. “Perhaps you would like to escort Miss Dawson to her seat. I feel the need for some liquid refreshment.”

“Speaking of what, Percy?” The admiral snorted as Mr. Atherton took Dominique’s gloved hand from his arm and placed it onto the admiral’s.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Atherton leaned an ear toward the
admiral. “You really should speak up, Randal. I cannot hear you over the clamor. Nevertheless”—he waved a hand through the air—“if you will excuse me.”

Before the admiral could protest, Mr. Atherton scurried away.

“Very well, then, ladies, shall we?” The admiral offered his other arm to his sister.

Without looking at Dominique or saying another word, he led her and his sister up a curved staircase and down a hallway, nodding at acquaintances along the way. Then, brushing aside a set of heavy velvet curtains, he ushered them into a first-level seating box, as yet devoid of any patrons.

Dominique smiled at him as he escorted her to a chair toward the front, but he did not return her regard, and she found herself hungering for another glance from those deep brown eyes. She quickly chastised herself for the desire.

Instead of sitting, the admiral moved to the wooden railing and gazed down upon the milling crowd below. A large, curtained stage spanned the end of the massive room toward Dominique’s right, and across the way, four long rows of seating boxes stacked one upon the other reached all the way to the arched ceilings above. People began filling them, some taking their seats while others hung over the edge, waving at acquaintances below. Dominique carefully scanned the crowd for any sign of the Frenchman.

“I wonder where Lady Irene and Lord Markham are,” Mrs. Barton said to no one in particular just as Mr. Atherton stumbled in, drink in hand. He winked at the admiral and took a seat beside Dominique, then ran a hand through the stylish tawny curls at his collar. The admiral’s gaze scoured over them before he stomped out of the box.

“Now where is he off to?” Mrs. Barton said.

Dominique cringed at the look of pain she’d seen on the admiral’s face. Was she the cause? Was it Mr. Atherton’s silly game? No, she did not wish to believe that, for then she would have to admit the admiral was indeed jealous, and if he was jealous, that meant he must harbor some affection for her. Dominique threw a hand to her chest. Why did her heart leap at the thought? Perhaps she should ease
his pain by disclosing the true nature of Mr. Atherton’s flirtation. But no, if she did, and the admiral did care for her, then he would be free to pursue her, and she could not allow that to happen—she could not allow it because deep down she feared she would not be able to resist him. Besides, how could she entangle herself with a man she intended to betray? it would only cause both of them pain and end in disaster. And the admiral had suffered enough in his life. Dominique would not be the cause of more pain than she was forced to inflict upon him by her deception.

As soon as she exchanged the documents for Marcel, she and her brother must leave London and start a life somewhere else—far away from the admiral and far away from William. Just the thought of it made her heart shrivel, but she had no choice.

The curtains parted, admitting Lady Irene and Lord Markham. Dropping into her chair, Lady Irene let out a dreamy sigh and smiled as she withdrew her fan and waved it over her flushed face.

“Whatever is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Barton leaned over the seat between them and placed a hand on her arm.

“Why, nothing is the matter. Nothing save I have just been introduced to the handsomest, wealthiest, and most eligible man.” Her blue eyes sparkled like the sea on a sunny day.

Katharine gave an unladylike snort, pursed her lips, and snapped her hand back. “What is he to you? What of my brother?”

“He is trying to arrange it so he can sit with us. Is that not marvelous?” Lady Irene replied as if she had not heard Mrs. Barton at all.

“Yes, marvelous.” Mrs. Barton withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her neck.

That Lady Irene had switched her affections so easily did not surprise Dominique nearly so much as it seemed to shock Mrs. Barton. Perhaps now the two of them would cease their conniving matchmaking and their continual assaults on Dominique’s character.

With a grunt, Lord Markham squeezed past Mrs. Barton and slid into the chair on the other side of Dominique. She faced forward, her heart dropping into her stomach, only further agitating the
moiling caldron within. She had hoped the admiral would sit beside her, for no other reason than that she always felt safe by his side—and tonight she needed to feel safe. Lord Markham, however, had the opposite effect. He brushed his leg against her skirts, sending an icy chill over her. “You are truly a bright rose among many weeds, Miss Dawson.”

She smiled, nearly choking on the bile rising in her throat, and turned to Mr. Atherton for protection, but the young member of Parliament was absorbed in a flirtatious exchange with a lady in the seats below them.