Falcon and the Sparrow

by M. L. Tyndall

  A chill slithered across Dominique, and she glanced at the admiral, who, with furrowed brow, glared at Lord Markham.

  The servants entered to clear the plates, returning shortly with plum pudding and champagne.

  Mr. Atherton, who poured what Dominique thought was his fourth glass of wine, took a sip and grinned at Lady Irene. “You’re jealous of any woman as attractive as you are.”

  Dominique allowed the compliment to salve her shrinking self-esteem.

  “Why, you insolent fop!” Lady Irene hissed and started to rise, but at a shake of the admiral’s head, she sank back into her chair.

  “He does have a point,” Lord Markham said.

  “Enough!” the admiral barked. “We had need of another female for dinner. Besides, Miss Dawson comes highly recommended. Her mother is of noble heritage, and her father was a great admiral.”

  Dominique’s eyes met the admiral’s. Was he defending her, or was he merely trying to prevent his drunken guests from killing one another? A spark of warmth glimmered in his brown eyes, but a cold sheen quickly smothered it as he shifted his gaze away.

  Lord Markham pointed his spoon at Dominique. “A real lady should not have to work, nor bother herself with intellectual pursuits. You should be under the care of a wealthy gentleman.”

  “Father, I believe you already have enough mistresses to support at the moment.”

  Atherton slapped the grinning Lord Markham on the back. “Quite true, quite true.”

  Everyone but Dominique laughed.

  Mrs. Barton turned toward Dominique. “May I ask who your mother is?”

  Dominique’s palms moistened. “Who she was,” she corrected Katharine and hesitated as she swallowed a knot of fear. Surely mentioning her French heritage would give these people more ammunition against her. It was obvious none of them wanted her here. She scanned each pair of eyes firmly planted on her—including the admiral’s, whose stoic gaze gave her no indication of how best to respond.

  But why should she be ashamed of the most wonderful woman she had ever known? She would not, no matter how frightened she was of the consequences. “Marguerite Jean Denoix, daughter of Edouard, vicomte de Gimois,” she pronounced with authority.

  “French!” Katharine spit out. “I thought I heard the enemy’s putrid tone in her voice.” She slammed down her glass of champagne, tipping its contents onto the white tablecloth in a golden pool.

  Dominique drew a shaky breath.

  “A lovely accent.” Mr. Atherton toasted her with his glass and took another sip.

  “Chase, how could you? How could you bring a Frenchwoman into this house?”

  “For one thing, Katharine, this is my house. And for another, as I have said, her father was Admiral Stuart Dawson, a hero of the battle of the nile.” He rubbed his hands together as if that fact alone would resolve any further conflict.

  “It matters not who her father was,” Katharine shouted, her eyes aflame. “Everyone knows that French deceit and lubricity are passed down through the women.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Dominique rose to her feet.

  “Sit down, Katharine,” Mr. Atherton slurred, flapping his hand in the air. “You obviously mistake her for the French strumpet your husband ran off with.”

  “Percy!” Admiral Randal gave his friend a scorching look, eliciting only an innocent shrug from Percy.

  Lord Markham howled in laughter.

  Dominique began to wonder if she was having a bad dream. She’d never witnessed such crass behavior. She raised her gaze to the admiral’s. Would he defend her honor? but all she saw was a hard, imperious gleam as he shifted his eyes between her and Mrs. Barton. A sudden shiver coiled up Dominique’s back. How much power did the admiral’s sister wield?

  The admiral clenched his jaw as if trying to control himself and faced his sister. “I can assure you, Katharine, her loyalties lie with Britain, and that is the end of it.”

  “I care not where her loyalties lie! ’Tis her morals that concern me, especially around young William.”

  “How dare you!” Tears burned behind Dominique’s eyes.

  “I will not stand to have this French”—Mrs. Barton spit the word with contempt—“woman near you or near William!” She locked her fierce gaze upon the admiral. “I insist you release her at once!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Gathering her skirts, Dominique rushed up the stairs, heat flushing her cheeks. She had been born and raised here in England just like the admiral, his sister, Lord Markham, and Lady Irene. She was just as much british as they were. Why did a slight accent and a French mother evoke such hatred—especially from Mrs. Barton? Was it true her husband had run away with a Frenchwoman? Even so, what did that have to do with Dominique?

  She reached the top of the stairs and pressed a trembling hand to her full stomach, now groaning and churning its contents into a nervous brew. Why am I so weak? Why didn’t I stand up for myself? she had simply stood there, facing the darts of fury and hatred shooting from Mrs. Barton’s eyes and the priggish look of contempt on Lady Irene’s face, and she hadn’t said a word. To make matters worse, when she had looked to the admiral for the assistance one would expect from a true gentleman, his disapproving glance crushed any hope of a chivalrous rescue.

  She hadn’t even defended her Lord when His name had been defamed. Gripping the baluster, she squeezed the unforgiving iron until her fingers ached.

  The disappointment on the admiral’s face and the censure simmering in his eyes were enough to convince Dominique that he would release her first thing in the morning. He had probably expected someone more like her father—the great Admiral stuart Dawson. Always so strong, so decisive. Oh Lord, what good am I? How will I ever save my brother now?

  Dominique glanced around the gloomy hallway. Closed doors receding into the shadows surrounded her in a gap-toothed leer, all save for the drawing room doors toward the front of the house, under which flowed a glittering lake of light.

  Exhaustion weighed heavy on her eyelids, and she forced them apart. Taking in a deep breath, she flattened her lips in resolve. So she had only tonight to gather what information she could. Perhaps she could obtain something of value that would appease her cousin enough to stay his hand against Marcel—and against her—when she returned.

  Feminine voices filtered up from below, and Dominique spun to see Lady Irene and Mrs. Barton exit the dining room and head for the stairs, cackling like two hens. No doubt they were heading toward the drawing room for after-dinner tea while the men talked politics and war. Politics and war. Dominique bit her lip. That would be a conversation worth listening in on.

  She surveyed the gloomy shadows. There wasn’t time to dart up the next flight of stairs to her room. Dominique swung her gaze below. With each step Lady Irene took up the stairs, the candle in her hand chased away the darkness that shielded Dominique from view.

  Tiptoeing across the wooden floor, Dominique slipped into a hallway to her left and flattened against the wall as a circle of light splashed over where she had just stood. She held her breath. The two ladies reached the top of the stairs and made the turn toward the front of the house.

  “I’ll warrant you’ve nothing more to fear from that French trollop.” Mrs. Barton’s grating voice rang through the hallway. “I’ve no doubt my brother will dismiss her tomorrow.”

  “I do hope you are right. The sea is enough competition for me.” Lady Irene gave a faint sigh.

  “Never you fear, dear. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with a way to force my brother to fall madly in love with you.”

  Both ladies giggled as a flood of light illuminated the staircase for a moment before the darkness overtook it again with the slam of the drawing room doors.

  French trollop, indeed. Dominique peeked around the corner to make sure the women were gone and then emerged from her hiding place. Lady Irene could have the admiral for all she cared. From what she’d seen, they deserved each other. Clutching the ba
nister with one hand and her dress in the other, she inched down the stairs toward the dining room. The admiral’s baritone voice bellowed from within. The other men’s voices seemed muffled in comparison. Dominique searched the entrance hall to make sure no servants were about. Her heart thumped against her ribs as she eased next to the closed doors.

  Chase inhaled a draft from his cigar, savoring the spicy flavor, then pensively blew a circle of smoke into the dining room as the footman poured three glasses of port.

  “That will be all.” He waved the young man away and turned toward his remaining guests. The ladies had finally withdrawn to the drawing room for tea, thus giving him a moment’s reprieve from his sister’s shrewish tongue and Lady Irene’s shameless flirtations.

  Sauntering toward the marble fireplace, Chase stretched his hands toward the glowing coals, pondering the ghastly behavior of his dinner guests—and of himself. He had not only allowed Miss Dawson to be slandered but had not stepped in to defend her, making himself equally guilty. Why? He supposed he was testing her as he did every new crew member aboard his ship. Weak and skittish behavior would not be tolerated—especially in time of war. Of course, he knew this was a home and not a ship, and she was a woman, not a midshipman, but his son’s upbringing was no less important than the defense of the british Empire.

  Lord Markham took a sip of his port and turned his chair toward the fireplace while Atherton snatched the two remaining glasses and offered one to Chase. “Quite an amusing dinner party, Randal.”

  Chase grunted. “I pray, Atherton, that for once you would control your drinking, along with your tongue.”

  “Pray? To whom do you pray, my dear friend?” Atherton’s eyes glinted with humor. “Yet I believe credit is due your sister for turning the evening on its heel.”

  When Miss Dawson had fled the room, Chase had considered following her, if only to apologize for his sister’s behavior, but then thought better of it. The woman needed to toughen up if she were to survive in London society, not to mention take on the task of instructing his son. Why had she sat there and allowed Lady Irene and his sister to insult her? With her having been born and bred into nobility, he expected more from her. At least she’d been brave enough to admit her mother’s French heritage. Yes, there had been strength smoldering within her fiery eyes when she’d said her mother’s name so assuredly.

  “One never knows what to expect with my sister in the room.” He sampled the port, enjoying the sweet, rich flavor and the warmth as it slid down his throat. “But you didn’t have to ignite her temper with your explosive remarks.”

  “ ’Twas Miss Dawson who ignited my blood.” Percy grinned with a flick of his brows.

  “Ah, yes, a lovely creature.” Lord Markham took a puff from his pipe. “Well chosen, Randal, well chosen.”

  Chase wondered what the source of Lord Markham’s regard was. “For her brains or for her—”

  “Brains? My word!” Lord Markham interrupted with a snort. “Why place your admiration on something so slight when there are far more ample things to admire?”

  Percy chuckled. “Indeed.”

  Shame curdled in Chase’s belly as visions of Miss Dawson’s lovely curves formed in his mind—the same visions he had no doubt his friends were entertaining. “I recommend neither of you waste your attentions, nor your debased affections. I fear I must let her go.”

  “Why would you dismiss such an alluring governess, Randal?” Percy downed his port and grabbed the decanter from the table. “Can’t stand to have a beautiful woman in your house again? Or are you forever under the thumb of your peevish sister?”

  Lord Markham brushed crumbs from his silk coat. “If you insist on releasing her, you might as well have a go with her first.”

  Chase slammed down his glass on the mantel and faced his lordship. “On my word, Markham, have you gone through all the female servants in your own house that you now take liberties with mine? I tell you, I will not stand for it.”

  “Settle down, man. You’ve been far too long at sea.” Markham raised one shoulder and tossed a patronizing look at Chase. “What purpose does an attractive governess serve other than to warm your bed at night?”

  “The purpose for which I hired her—to teach my son.” Chase bunched his fists and began to wonder why he considered this licentious man his friend. Though Miss Dawson did present a tempting bouquet of innocence and charm, he had no intention of bedding her or any other servant. Nor did he intend to ever allow himself the luxury of loving a woman again. He spun around to face the fire, his eyes weary of looking at Lord Markham. “You would do well to curb your appetites, Markham. What kind of example does your philandering provide for your daughter?”

  Lord Markham grunted. “ ’Tis best she learns early on that women are put on this earth for man’s pleasure, and the ones blessed with beauty should use it to secure position and fortune.”

  Percy pulled a chair up to the fire and plopped into it, nursing a new glass of port. “Surely we are no better, strutting our wealth and power like peacocks in an effort to procure the most winsome females.”

  Chase plucked the cigar from his mouth and swung about, pointing it at Lord Markham. “Is that what you’ve put your daughter up to with me?”

  “Nay,” Markham guffawed. “Begging your pardon, but there are far more influential and wealthy men a lady of her appearance and breeding could attract. You know as well as I, she’s had her eye on you since you were children.” He leaned back in his chair with a smug look. “I’ve told her to quit throwing herself at you, but she seems confident she’ll make the catch someday.”

  “Nothing against your charming daughter, but I had a wife once, and I don’t intend to take another.” Chase laid an arm atop the mantel and gazed into the fire.

  Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “I daresay, Randal, you must get over Melody. ’Tis been three years, for God’s sake. Surely you have needs.”

  The sound of his wife’s name blasted through the room with the force of a cannonball before crashing into his heart, pulverizing it once again. Chase bit down on his cigar against the pain.

  “I’m not suggesting you marry the woman, just enjoy her whilst she is here,” Percy continued.

  Lord Markham straightened in his chair, his face purpling. “What are you saying, Atherton?” he demanded with a scowl.

  “I was referring to the governess, not Lady Irene.” Percy raised a palm to ward off Markham’s fury.

  “She is too timid,” Chase offered, trying to scatter the memories of his wife. Melody had been so strong, much stronger than Chase ever was and much stronger than this new governess.

  “I’ll agree she seems a bit shy and reserved, but, egad, seducing her would be most enjoyable nonetheless,” Lord Markham added with a salacious grin.

  “Enough talk of this! I’ve made up my mind. The woman goes.”

  The last thing Chase needed was further complication in his life. After all, he hoped to be relieved of his duty on the Admiralty board soon and return to sea. And he didn’t want to leave a fainthearted governess in charge of William, especially one to whom his sister was so opposed. The sooner he found a suitable governess and the sooner sir Thomas Troubridge recovered to resume his place on the board, the sooner Chase could pursue his career in His Majesty’s navy—and leave this house. Visions of Melody plagued him from every corner, from every room. Even the walls echoed with the sound of her laughter, joyous sounds at first, but soon they transformed into the tormenting screams that had haunted the house as she lay in her bed and died in agony.

  He could not sleep, he could not eat, and worst of all, he drank too much. Then there was William, the spitting image of his mother. Chase could barely tolerate the boy’s presence, and he hated himself for it. Yes, Chase had to leave this house as soon as possible.

  Percy let out a sigh then tightened the corners of his mouth. “I still say ’tis a waste to let her go.”

  Lord Markham sipped his port. “Perhaps I coul
d use a governess.”

  “You have no young children.”

  “And your point?” A twisted grin alighted upon Lord Markham’s lips.

  Chase shook his head. “I daresay you are indeed the scoundrel your reputation warns. I suppose I must have her whisked away before you have the opportunity to dishonor her good name.” As a vision of the alluring governess filled his mind, Chase realized it might be best for everyone concerned that she leave as soon as possible.

  Markham laughed and tipped his pipe over a plate, tapping out the ashes.

  Tossing his half-smoked cigar into the fire, Chase headed toward the door. “Shall we join the ladies in the drawing room?”

  As he reached the entrance hall, a shadow flashed in the corner of his eye and disappeared into the darkness with a swish of silk. He rubbed his eyes. Too much port, no doubt.

  Dominique’s pulse battered her ears. She dashed around the marble statue at the bottom of the stairs just as heavy boots hammered into the hall. Squinting against the darkness, she rushed into the cover of the murky shadows toward the back of the house, praying no one had seen her. Soon, however, the men’s boots echoed like claps of thunder up the stairs as they went to join the ladies. Letting out a sigh, she leaned against a set of thick double doors and laid a hand upon her heaving chest. Lord, I can’t even listen in on a conversation without being petrified to death. What kind of spy am I?

  But what a conversation she had heard! Certainly not the political and military secrets she had hoped for. Heat flooded her face at the remembrance of what the men preferred to do with their governesses and her in particular. Thanks be to God, the admiral did not seem to harbor their same sentiments. And what they thought of women—’twas scandalous. Why, she’d never heard such depravity among gentlemen. Perhaps she’d been too sheltered most of her life. But she had found out one thing. The admiral did indeed intend to dismiss her.