Mrs. Barton drew a deep breath, shifted her gaze away, and wrung her hands together, staring out the window. She swallowed as if fighting back some deep emotion. When her eyes met Dominique’s again, a moist sheen covered them.
Dominique approached her. “Something troubles you, Mrs. Barton? Has something happened to the admiral or to William?” She could find no other reason for Mrs. Barton’s distress, or for her presence here, and the thought that some harm had come to either of them sent Dominique’s heart pounding.
“No, my dear. They are well.” She reached out for Dominique’s hands.
Dominique shrank back at first, unsure of the woman’s intentions, but the gentle look in Mrs. Barton’s eyes bade her to comply. Squeezing her hands, Mrs. Barton gave a soft chuckle and shook her head. “You think only of others—even in the face of death.” The seeming kindness pouring from a woman who had done nothing but spit vile lies and insults toward Dominique caused the hairs on her skin to bristle. What was she up to? surely she knew what Dominique was, what she had done.
“I must know,” Mrs. Barton began in a sharp tone. “Why did you steal those documents?”
Dominique withdrew her hands and sighed. Yes, here was the woman she knew so well. “Did the admiral send you?”
“No. It is I who wish to know.” Her brown eyes seemed to pierce through Dominique. “Please, you must tell me.”
“It is as you have been told. I intended to give them to the French.” Dominique moved to the bed and gripped the post, unable to look at the displeasure she was sure burned in Mrs. Barton’s eyes.
“But why?”
“They have my brother. They threatened to kill him if I did not do what they said.”
“Who has your brother?”
“Lucien Bonaparte.”
Mrs. Barton gasped. “Napoleon’s brother?”
“Yes.” Dominique gave a reluctant nod. “By some strange twist of fate, I find we are related—cousins third removed.”
Mrs. Barton walked toward the coal grate and stood staring at it for several seconds.
The silence grated over Dominique. “You have what you came for. You were right about me all along. Now if you would be so kind as to leave.” She nodded toward the door, turned her face away from Mrs. Barton, and then wrapped her arms about her chest. The last thing she needed was to suffer the vainglorious gloating of a woman who despised her.
The silk of Mrs. Barton’s gown shuffled, but the sound grew louder, not softer. “I have come to offer you my apology.”
Dominique snapped her gaze around, wondering whether she had finally lost her mind or perhaps fallen asleep on the floor, her dreams fabricating a lie born of desperation. “I do not understand.”
“I have come to see that I have been wrong about you.” Mrs. Barton patted her cinnamon hair that always reminded Dominique of dark, polished wood. “You made my brother happy, and you loved William as if he were your own son.”
She made the statement matter-of-factly, as if it were the only logical conclusion to a long experiment. Except her experiment had given no quarter for an opinion other than her own—an opinion that had thrashed Dominique with distrust and cruelty.
“Besides,” she added, “you have shown me that character and morality are far more important than title and nationality. In addition”—her tone softened, and there was a slight wobble in her voice—“you have shown me forgiveness, the type of forgiveness that can only come from God.”
“But I am a spy.” Dominique wrinkled her brow, still unable to grasp the change in Mrs. Barton’s attitude.
“With good cause, my dear. It proves you are loyal to your family. This is all I ever wanted for Chase. Someone who will love him, make him happy, and remain loyal to him.” She chuckled, and a faint smile broke onto her lips. “There you were, right under my nose all the time, and I could not see you because of my prejudice.”
Dominique regarded Mrs. Barton, unable to utter a word, unable to make sense of the drastic change in her.
Mrs. Barton withdrew a wad of papers from a pocket in her gown and shoved them toward Dominique. “Here.”
“What are these?” But as soon as Dominique grabbed them, she knew. They were the documents. She shook her head. “What?”
“Go save your brother, mademoiselle.” Mrs. Barton grinned and folded her hands over Dominique’s.
Dominique’s eyes widened. “I do not understand.”
“ ’Tis my fault you are in this mess. I do not want to see you hanged, nor your brother die because of me.”
“But I am trapped here. And the admiral will throw me in prison tonight.”
“I know. That is why I have come. We haven’t a moment to lose.”
“You will help me escape?” Hope began to rise above the despair shrouding Dominique’s heart.
Mrs. Barton nodded, her eyes alight with excitement.
“How will I…I have only a week, and I must find a ship to Lihou. And I have no money.”
“I anticipated that.” Mrs. Barton reached into her pocket and pulled out a velvet satchel clanking with coins. “Take this.”
“I cannot.” Dominique shook her head and backed away.
“Please. I insist.” Mrs. Barton thrust it toward her.
Dominique grabbed the satchel, nearly dropping it for the weight of the coins within. “Does this not make you a spy, as well? How can you betray your country, your brother?”
“Chase will forgive me.” Mrs. Barton shrugged. “You know these skirmishes. Napoleon will never dare attack britain. ’Twould be naught but a fool’s errand, and he knows it. And your brother’s life is far more important.”
Dominique was not as sure about Napoleon’s intentions as her new friend seemed to be. She gazed into Mrs. Barton’s eyes. “I cannot come back. You understand?”
“Yes, I do.” Mrs. Barton swallowed and lowered her gaze. “And it grieves me greatly. I wish with all my heart that you could stay and make my brother happy. But it is not to be.”
Dominique’s heart shrank at the thought she would never see Chase again. “Please take care of him.”
Mrs. Barton squeezed her hand and smiled. “You know I will. But…I believe God is in control.”
Dominique blinked. That made two. Two members of this household, both of whom had previously denied a need for God, now encouraging Dominique in her faith. A tiny burst of joy erupted within her but was quickly smothered by shame at her own weak faith. Hadn’t Rev. Newton encouraged her to believe—to truly believe in the power and presence of God?
“I will return shortly.” Mrs. Barton headed toward the door. “Pack your things.”
“Where are you going?”
“Never you mind that.” Hand on the doorknob, Mrs. Barton turned, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “If what I am about to do does not succeed, then when I return, I intend to break you out of this house.”
CHAPTER 24
Chase sifted through the papers at his desk, their contents—a mass of numbers and charts—blurring before him. It was not the effects of liquor that dazed his focus tonight, but the unsettling events of the day. Ever since the confrontation that morning with his sister and Percy, Chase had been unable to find peace. Then an hour ago, his sister had stormed into his study, offering him a tongue-lashing reminiscent of their childhood days.
Chase shook his head, still bewildered at her change in attitude toward Miss Dawson. When Dominique had been an innocent governess, his sister had hated her. Now that she was deemed a spy, she loved her.
But at the moment, it was neither of these encounters that caused Chase’s empty stomach to convulse. The most harrowing event of the day was yet to come.
The marines were due any moment to take Miss Dawson away. He had no choice. If he waited much longer, he would be arrested for treason himself.
He glanced toward the window. What had begun as a bright, sun-glazed day had soon been shrouded in clouds as dark as coal, a deathly covering that seemed to grow darker as the day progressed. N
ow as early evening snatched what remained of the daylight, rain began to splatter over the panes of his window. At first the streaks were straight and narrow, but soon, as the rain pounded harder, they twisted around one another in chaotic detours of eerie colors cast by the streetlamp.
Tossing his quill pen to the desk, Chase shoved back his chair and stomped across the room. Lifting the lid of a small box atop the mantel, he grabbed a cheroot, then knelt and lit it in the coals of the fire. He knew what he was doing was right. She was a traitor, and traitors must be punished. It was the code by which he lived, the code he’d sworn upon when he had committed his very life to His Majesty’s Royal navy.
Then why did the grinding feeling in his gut tell him he was making a terrible mistake? He tried to shake it off as his own foolish emotions, no doubt caused by his shameful infatuation with the blasted woman, but the words his sister had hammered into his ears not an hour ago rang forth like warning bells.
She had come crashing into his study without so much as an announcement of her presence, swishing her skirts in an air of puerile determination.
“I have discovered the reason for Miss Dawson’s betrayal.”
“I care not. Go away,” he had retorted.
“I will leave as soon as I have had my say.” She’d drawn her lips into a thin line and planted her hands upon her hips in a way that said she would not entertain any objections.
No amount of demanding or beseeching would persuade her to leave him be, save perhaps physically hauling her from the room— he could have easily done so if he had the heart to care one way or another, but at that time, he did not—so he had crossed his arms over his chest and heard her out. When she informed him that Miss Dawson’s brother was being held captive and would be killed by Napoleon’s men, the news had struck him like a cannonball in the belly, though outwardly he had remained unmoved.
She had continued her tirade, but he heard not another word as the knowledge sped through his mind, adding sense to the myriad of unexplained moments he had spent with Miss Dawson.
Marcel. The few times she had spoken of him had brought her to tears. Of course. Chase chided himself. Why had he not seen it?
Rising from the fireplace, he took a puff of his cheroot, hoping the tobacco would calm his nerves and clear his head.
In the face of his stubborn stance, his sister had finally marched from the room in a huff, leaving him to suffer in a wake of tormenting emotions. Never had he doubted a decision, even one that had cost him dearly.
But now he felt unsure of everything.
Especially Miss Dawson…Dominique. Had her forced deception been the reason for her inability to return his affections? Could she have cared for him, after all? The scar on his cheek began to itch, and Chase rubbed it until it burned. He had thought his first lieutenant—his best friend—had cared for him as well. Until he had stabbed Chase in the back.
Thunder grumbled in the distance, and a gust of wind slid between the loose panes of his window, sending the candle’s flame quivering. He swallowed and glanced upward.
She was upstairs. So close. It would take him only a minute to reach her, to see her, to speak to her and find out for himself. But his pride and the pain grinding through his heart kept him rooted in place. Regardless of her motives, she admitted her treachery. And he had already informed the Admiralty that the spy had been caught. The marines would be here any minute.
The decision was made.
Bang, bang, bang. His thick oak door thundered, and Chase’s heart ceased beating. They had arrived. He tossed the cheroot into the fireplace. Every ounce of his soul seemed to scream in agony as he opened the door, expecting the bright red uniforms of the marines and knowing that when he saw them, Miss Dawson would be lost to him forever.
His heart sparked to life again upon seeing, instead, a white-faced Sebastian in the fierce grip of Midshipman Franklin. He could not find his tongue until Franklin said, “Admiral, may we come in?”
“Of course.” Stepping aside, he allowed them entrance then closed the door. “What is this about, Franklin?”
“Sir.” The man released Sebastian and saluted. “I found your butler down at the Chaucer again.”
The normally rigid Sebastian seemed to shrivel into the wood floor as he took a step back, his eyes darting about the room.
“He had these, Admiral.” Franklin shoved a stack of papers toward Chase, and after a quick perusal, he recognized them as more of the same documents he had planted for the spy—for Dominique.
Franklin eyed Sebastian with disdain. “He was giving them to a group of men.”
Chase rubbed his eyes, his mind reeling. Could he have two spies in his house? Surely not Sebastian, his loyal butler all these years. He turned toward the man who had attended him so faithfully and narrowed his eyes as the pain of yet another betrayal pierced him. “What have you to say about this?”
Sebastian’s lip trembled slightly. He kept his eyes on the ground. Then as if some unseen force surged through him, he lengthened his stance, straightened his coat, and set his gaze firmly upon Chase.
“Do not presume to believe that I have enjoyed polishing your boots, dressing you, managing your home, and attending your every whim all these years,” he began in a loud voice, although Chase detected a quaver in the stern tone. “And for what? A mere forty pounds a year?” He snorted with such rage that there might as well have been fire shooting from his nostrils.
A fire that now burned within Chase. “You said you were content.” He could barely spit out the words between his gritted teeth.
“Content?” Sebastian tossed his chin in the air. “To be ignored? Treated as if I were born only to wait on you? As if I were not human, not even a man?”
“So you resort to this?” Chase thrust the documents in the air. “Betraying not only me, but your country?”
“I have no country. England has done naught for me.”
Chase took a step toward the man, his fist itching to strike him in the jaw. Sebastian flinched but held his ground. How could Chase have been so unaware of the butler’s dissatisfaction and defiance? He clenched his jaw as he scanned through the memories of the past seven years—the times he had been home. Truth be told, he hardly remembered his dealings with Sebastian. Perhaps that alone proved he had valued him as no more than an object of service.
With a grunt, Chase faced Franklin. “What happened to the men he intended to pass these to?”
“We lost them, sir.”
“Who were these men?” Chase shoved his face toward the butler.
“Men who were to pay me a great deal of money.”
Clutching Sebastian’s collar, Chase lifted him off his feet as a loud thump on his door halted him.
“Enter.” Chase commanded as he dropped Sebastian with a snort. The butler tumbled backward, arms flailing, but managed to remain upright.
In walked two marines, their scarlet coats bright against their white facing and breeches. The man on the left stepped toward Chase and saluted. Two leather straps crossed his chest, joined in the center by the marines’ badge, one of the straps housing a service bayonet. “Lieutenant Wilkins to pick up the prisoner, sir.”
Chase returned his salute. The prisoner. He glanced at Sebastian, whose courageous facade had suddenly melted into a pool of quivering flesh in the presence of the marines. Only one prisoner was to be escorted to Newgate, but suddenly he found himself with two.
Chase stood at the bow of a frigate, crossing his arms over his chest. A numinous wind played with his loose hair. Before him, the sea churned in white, frothy swells as the ship sliced through the dark waters. Strangely, he could not remember how he had gotten here. He didn’t care. He was back at sea. And the nightmare of the past few months loomed behind him. Bracing his boots against the sodden planks, he gripped the railing as the ship rose and plunged over another mighty wave. Water sprayed his face, and he took a deep breath of the salty air, an elixir that sparked every fiber within him back to lif
e. He lifted his face, offering thanks to God for somehow bringing him back to sea—where he belonged.
It was then that he noticed the unusual color of the sky. Massive ribbons of violet and red wine swirled in a chaotic dance above the tumultuous indigo waters, making it seem as if the sky were a moving, breathing, living thing. Burgundy clouds hovered over the horizon, shielding the bright orange of a setting sun and blanketing the scene with an eerie mauve. Was it an incoming storm, perchance? Not like any he had ever seen.
Something else was amiss. He closed his eyes. Where was the creak of wood, the flap of sails, the snap of the rigging? No sounds of the ship reached his ears, only the crashing of waves against her hull.
He spun on his heels, intending to inquire from his officers their exact location, but not a soul was in sight, not a sailor in the yards above, nor on the deck, nor even manning the wheel.
Instantly the ship slowed. The winds lessened until not a whisper of a breeze stirred past his ears. He gazed across the ocean. The sea became a mirror of dark glass.
“Chase.”
The sound of the familiar voice melted over him. He turned. Melody stood before him. Though the wind had ceased, her white silk nightdress billowed behind her like a creamy wake. The final rays of the sun, piercing the dark clouds, set her golden hair aglow.
His heart swelled to near bursting. Had he died and gone to heaven? Dismissing that thought as highly improbable, he simply smiled. “My love.”
She returned his smile, her blue eyes sparkling.
“How…” He reached out to embrace her, but she shook her head and took his hand instead. Her fingers gripped his with a firmness and warmth that took him by surprise.
Disappointment stifled his elation as the realization hit him. “I am dreaming again, aren’t I?”
She nodded and tilted her head slightly, giving him that “It will be all right” grin that always eased his agitated soul.
“Let us stay in this dream forever.” He swallowed and brushed his fingers through her hair. “Please don’t leave me again. I cannot bear it.”
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 28
