The Falcon and the Sparrow (36 page)

As she turned back onto the street, a gust of wind slapped her, its inquisitive hands plucking at the hood of her cloak. Thunder growled in the distance, and Dominique wondered if God were answering her. If He was, He sounded angry. A chill tightened across her skin, and she clutched her cloak about her neck and peered into the darkness. Tall black buildings loomed on each side of the street like spectators in some kind of heinous play or perhaps trolls requiring payment or a secret password before they would let her by. The faint sound of an eerie melody, no doubt from some bawdy tavern, snaked around the dark corners, grating her nerves.

Everything within her told her to turn and run back to the safety of the Randal house—the safety of the admiral’s arms—but she kept her feet in place and swallowed hard against the terror and foreboding that threatened to keep her from her task. She must find somewhere to hide the documents before she reached the Strand. Pressing forward, she skirted the corner of Chandois Street and spotted a massive tree. Its roots spread across the ground like an old woman’s bony fingers. After darting a glance around her to ensure nobody was about, Dominique opened her valise, withdrew the documents she had rolled and tied with a string, and knelt down to the roots. She stuffed the scroll into a knothole at the base of the tree, then covered the edge with rocks and loose branches.

The plan had come to her earlier that day. She must have some
leverage—especially with such unscrupulous sorts as these men of Napoleon’s.

Oh Lord, am I dong the right thing?
She glanced up at the dark, fuming clouds. No answer. Just a chill that shot like an icicle through her heart and the distant rumblings of a storm—a storm that threatened to swallow her and Marcel alive.
Where are You, Lord? Why do I not feel You? Why am I still so frightened?

Spinning around, she clenched her jaw, trying to compose herself. How could she face the Frenchman in such a state? She must appear strong, in control, or all would be lost. She marched forward, bracing herself against the increasing wind but hoping it would help to dry her eyes. She turned down Andrews Street.

And froze.

Beneath the overhang of a large mill stood the mysterious man in black. She had once believed he was an angel. Now, in light of her fear and heartache, she couldn’t be sure of anything.

He stepped out from the building. Though a street lantern hung on its post above him, the features of his face were still lost to her beneath his wide hat.

“Who are you?” she yelled above the rising wind.

He tipped his hat in her direction but said nothing, and despite the power that radiated from him like an invisible shield, she found once again that she feared him not.

Grabbing her skirts in one hand, she dashed past him.

Chase snapped the brandy toward the back of his mouth, felt the burning trail down his throat, then tossed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered against the back bricks and then over the coals, the droplets of liquor igniting small pockets of flames. He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration bubbling within him like some vile brew. Perhaps it was the rising storm outside his chamber window, the wind from which sent a loose window pane chattering in a chaotic frenzy; perhaps it was that he hadn’t seen Miss Dawson since the prior night—the night when they had kissed—or perhaps he was just losing his mind, as he’d assumed all along.

Stomping around his bedpost, he grabbed another bottle of brandy, lifted it to his lips, then slammed it down again on his desk. No amount of alcohol could deaden the pain of Dominique’s rejection. Lord knew, he had tried. But had she really rejected him? He rubbed the scar above his right cheek and plodded across the Turkish carpet centered on the floor. Nothing made sense anymore. In the kitchen that night, she had responded to his touch, his kiss. He had felt her desire, her affection, seen it in those glowing amber eyes.

And she had not denied her feelings.

But she had not voiced them, either.

Was it him? Was he too harsh, too cold, too forceful? Did he frighten her? What kept her from him? Why, when he had finally opened his heart to another, did she flee from him like a skittish sparrow?

Stopping, he glanced up at the haunting shapes the candlelight formed on the ceiling.
God, if You’re there, please help me.

It was only the second time he had addressed the Almighty in three years—three years, two weeks, and four days, to be exact, the day Melody had died—so when only silence responded, he was not surprised. Even if God existed, Chase doubted his prayers would be heard. Chase certainly would not accommodate such insubordination and insolence aboard his ship. Why would the Creator of the universe be any less demanding?

A pounding on his door startled him from his musings and brought a much-welcomed interruption, no matter the cause. Tonight, to be left alone with his demons was proving to be unbearable.

Midshipman Franklin stood outside his chamber, his eyes alight with excitement, the heels of his boots tapping the floor in anticipation. He saluted.

Alarm shot through Chase. “Yes, Franklin, what is it?”

“The governess has left, Admiral.”

“Left? Whatever do you mean?”

“You told me to tell you if anyone in your employ left the house. And she did, sir, just a few minutes ago, alone.”

Chase felt his stomach tighten. He had forgotten his additional
orders to Franklin. He still had a spy to catch, after all, a duty he had obviously neglected in light of his overwhelming involvement with Miss Dawson. Cursing his negligence, he grabbed his coat, tossed it over his shoulders, buckled on his belt, and took his sword and pistol—just in case.

What in God’s name was the woman doing out so late at night, and alone? Terror choked his throat, a familiar terror, the terror of losing someone he loved. Or worse. A terror that his sister had been right all along and he had been played for a fool.

“Lead the way, Franklin.”

Dominique rounded the final corner onto Cecil Street. One final glance over her shoulder told her the man—or angel—still followed her.
Lord, I wish I knew for certain if he was Yours. Or am I just dreaming that You are indeed watching over me?

A gust of wind blew her hood from her head, tousling her hair over her face. She smelled the Thames long before she heard the lap of its rancid waters. Not far from shore, a small, single-masted ship lolled in the high tide, ghostly light winking at her from one of its windows.

She halted before the tavern and examined the name painted on a sign above the door: T
HE
L
AST
S
TOP
. Dominique sighed. Indeed. Her last stop. Her last chance to save Marcel. Off-key fiddle music scraped against her ears, and she forced her chattering teeth to be still, thankful that her tears had ceased. Perhaps she had no more to shed. Or maybe they had succumbed to the horror that now forced all her blood in a mad dash to her head.

If she could trust the Frenchman’s word, then Marcel was inside this tavern. That thought alone sufficed to give her the strength to proceed up the stairs.

A blast of cheap liquor, vomit, and sweat slammed into her as she opened the door. Salacious grins widened upon filthy faces from every dark corner as her eyes adjusted to the glare of lantern light and candlelight scattered throughout the room. The music stopped, and Dominique’s heart along with it.

“Well, call me a cuckolded squid if that ain’t a lady.” A slurred voice slithered over her from her right. “Lookin’ for a real man, perchance,
milady
?”

Dominique dared a glance in the direction of the voice as the other men in the room joined in a deep guffaw.

Nothing but formless dark shapes appeared before her eyes, like specters from hell. The flickering lights began to spin around her. Dominique coughed, searching for a breath of fresh air. She scanned the room, peering into the same dark corner where the Frenchman had been before. A buxom red-haired woman sat upon a man’s lap, laughing so hard her bosom shook like enormous bowls of jelly. The man was far too scrawny to either hold the large woman or be the Frenchman.

Dominique felt the blood that had pooled in her head turn to ice. Had he changed his mind? Was her brother already lost?
Oh God.
Her stomach cramped, nearly toppling her. She gripped the valise with both hands until her fingers ached.

A man emerged from the shadows, kicking aside a chair with a curse. He focused his red-rimmed, lifeless eyes upon her. The top of his balding head gleamed as he passed beneath a lantern. What remained of his brown hair dangled to his shoulders like dried seaweed.

She tried to move her feet, tried to turn and run, but every muscle within her froze as if in protest that her body had reached its limit of terror for the evening.

So this was it. She would die here and never know what happened to Marcel or the admiral or sweet William.

A wall of cold air struck her from behind. A burning spasm shot through her right arm as strong fingers grabbed her and dragged her from the tavern. She went tumbling down the steps, slipped, and fell. A jolt of pain shot through her knees as they struck the hard wood.

“Vite. Levez-vous.”
The man yanked on her arm so hard, she felt it would separate from her body. Shards of agony shot into her shoulder and down her back as the man lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the dirt road.

“Please, you are hurting me.”

“Oh,
pardonnez-moi
,” the man barked as he hauled her down the street. Dominique glanced over her shoulder for the man in black. He stood across the road beside a brick building, arms at his sides, watching her.

But making no move to come to her aid.

Before she could yell to him for help, two other men emerged seemingly from nowhere and fell in line behind them. The man yanked her down an alleyway beside a small warehouse to their left. He flung her around to face him.

The Frenchman.

“
Vous m’avez trompé.
You tricked me,” he snapped between gritted teeth and squeezed her arm tighter.

Dominique winced. His spit splattered over her face, dousing her with the scent of fish and tobacco. He glanced toward the street, flinging his greasy hair behind him.

The beef she had eaten for dinner soured in her stomach and started to rise. “Whatever do you mean? I have brought the information you want.” She glanced down at the valise crushed against her chest. “I have not deceived you.”

“You told someone.”

“
Non, je promets.
I did not.” What was he talking about? What kind of game was he playing? Her mind sifted through a thousand possibilities.
Oh God, what am I to do now?

One of the men chuckled and spit a black glob onto the hard dirt. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance.

“My men tell me you have been followed.”

Followed?
Who would follow her? Did they mean the man in black? “I swear to you I told no one. Where is Marcel? Is he here?” She started to push past him, but he gripped her shoulders and hurled her against the brick wall. Her head snapped onto the hard stone. Something warm and moist oozed from beneath her hair.

“Oui, we have kept our bargain. Unfortunately, you have not kept yours.”

Dominique tried to focus on the Frenchman as he spoke, but his face blurred into a nondescript, oscillating mass before her. Only
the line of his slick mustache as it moved up and down remained tauntingly clear.

Lightning cracked the midnight sky, outlining the villains with an eerie glow before drowning them in darkness once again. Thunder roared an angry growl. The building behind Dominique quaked.

The Frenchman grunted, glared up at the sky, a boiling mass of dark clouds, then gripped Dominique’s arm again and dragged her back onto the street.

“Le marché est rompu.”
He released her and turned away, heading toward the river. She stumbled back and fell to her knees in the dirt.

No. The deal couldn’t be off. He had said Marcel was here. Where were they going?

The ship.

“Wait!” Dominique shrieked, her voice cracking. “I have what you want.” Dropping her valise to the ground, she tore it open and felt inside for the stack of papers she had kept separate from the others. Where were they? Groping madly through her things, she took a deep breath, trying to keep her focus. Finally, she felt them, stood, and held them out before her.
“Les voici.”